Bounty Hunter's Bride

by Carol Finch

  Assuming Hanna was hoping for nearby protection, James smiled, then glanced over her head to note the raft of men who were hovering in the doorway to cast their eyes on the attractive new arrival. “He’ll be right across the hall from you. He’s not one for idle chitchat, but if trouble arises, he’s the man you’ll want on your side.”

  Mrs. Cale Elliot, she mused. That had a nice ring to it….

  A worrisome thought furrowed her brows. What if Mr. Elliot was already married? Perhaps he had a wife who lived in the Cherokee Nation.

  Don’t go borrowing complications, she chastised herself as she accepted the key from James. Hanna decided to approach Mr. Elliot with her proposition as soon as she had time to freshen up. If he was married he might be able to recommend another deputy marshal who would suit her purposes just as well.

  “You won’t have to walk far to enjoy a fine meal,” James informed her, nodding his bald head toward the adjoining restaurant. “My wife and her sister are fine cooks. Best in town, in fact. You’ve come to the right place for a clean, tidy room and mouthwatering meals.”

  “Thank you, sir. I’m sure the room will be splendid and the meals exceptional,” Hanna replied as she hoisted up her satchels, then headed for the steps.

  “I’ll call one of the servants to carry your bags,” James offered.

  “No need for that. I’ll manage on my own.” From now on Hanna intended to be self-reliant. It was her luggage, after all, and she’d carry it herself.

  She could feel male eyes boring into her back as she climbed the creaking staircase. For once the tiresome attention of men didn’t annoy her. She was too preoccupied with the prospect of locating a suitable husband. She had important matters on her mind and was one step closer to the protection granted by marriage, to enjoying independence, freedom and living her life how and where she chose. Soon she’d have the opportunity to explore her hidden talents, to discover what she excelled at, rather than being stifled by her father’s demands and expectations.

  Did she have a knack for writing? A talent for painting? Could she become a noted clothing designer and seamstress? An actress or singer? The possibilities shimmered before her like a pot of gold at the end of her personal rainbow.

  She’d head west to find herself, to find her own niche. Without her family’s well-known name to raise eyebrows and attract the attention of opportunists itching to latch on to an heiress, she could be herself for once in her life. Hanna doubted she’d discover love somewhere beyond the notorious Indian Territory. As far as she could tell, love didn’t exist. It was a whimsical notion and she obviously didn’t possess lovable qualities. If she had, her own father would have cared deeply for her. But no matter what, she would not become a trophy wife, the window dressing for Louis Beauchamp—a man who thought and behaved like a younger version of her father. A man who wanted her only for her looks, social prestige and wealth, not for the person she was inside.

  Hanna halted on the landing to catch her breath, and took note of the sign that read No Animals Allowed. She hiked up the second set of steps and veered right. She sincerely hoped her quest for the perfect husband took her no farther than across the hall.

  After the ceremony she would wire the family lawyer to announce she’d met the necessary requirements to take control of the trust fund her mother had bequeathed to her—money her father and Louis Beauchamp couldn’t touch or control. She’d take a stagecoach to cross Indian Territory, then Texas—and beyond. She wouldn’t look back. Instead she’d look forward, with great anticipation, to her freedom and her future.

  Cale Elliot draped his saddlebags over the back of a chair, then picked up the whiskey bottle from the table. James Jensen never failed to have a room ready and waiting when news arrived that he and his prisoners had returned to Fort Smith. After he had saved James from a vicious beating, the man had become his instant and steadfast friend. Which was a good thing, because Cale didn’t have many of them. His line of work alienated folks on both sides of the law, and his tumbleweed lifestyle provoked wary speculation rather than friendship.

  Cale tossed down a drink, feeling the whiskey burn from his gullet to his empty belly. Since this was a private celebration of sorts, Cale helped himself to another gulp. After five frustrating years of posing questions and following leads, he’d learned the whereabouts of the man who’d killed his half brother and sister-in-law. Cale had finally stumbled onto the vital information, and feelings of long-awaited revenge roiled inside him.

  Although Joe Horton had dropped out of sight in Kansas, Arkansas and Indian Territory, he’d apparently resurfaced in Texas, using the assumed name of Otis Pryor. One of the fugitives Cale had interrogated during the trek back to Fort Smith had supplied the information in exchange for leniency. Of course, Cale would’ve offered the outlaw the moon to entice him to spill his guts about Otis Pryor. And indeed, Cale would have a word with Judge Parker before Wilbur Burton went on trial, as promised. But Cale’s “word” wouldn’t be a kind one. The ruthless son of a bitch had murdered two elderly Cherokees and stolen their livestock. The only message Cale intended to give the judge was that justice damn well better prevail.

  Cale set the bottle down with a soft thunk, then scrubbed his hand over his bearded jaw. He desperately needed a hot, soaking bath and two days of uninterrupted sleep. The three cutthroats he’d hauled to justice had done their damnedest to outrun him and the best tracking dog west of the Mississippi—maybe even the best in these entire United States. Cale and Skeet had run themselves ragged for three weeks, searching for clues and questioning witnesses about the crimes of murder and robbery.

  It had taken a hair-raising firefight and a knock-down-drag-out brawl to convince the fugitives to surrender. In the end, Cale had manacled his prisoners and delivered them to the jail in one piece—more or less. But he’d come damn close to having his head blown off by the blast of a sawed-off shotgun. His own bullets had been aimed to slow down his assailants, not kill them outright. Judge Parker preferred to have criminals brought to trial. Sometimes Cale had little choice and was forced to return with his fugitives jackknifed over the backs of horses. But he had no intention of showing any mercy when he encountered Otis Pryor. An eye for an eye, he mused bitterly.

  Unfortunately, the scuttlebutt was that Otis had surrounded himself with a small army of hired guns and had forced out the previous owners of a ranch with death threats. He’d used the money he’d stolen from Cale’s half brother, Gray Cloud, and several other hapless victims to stock his ranch with stolen cattle and horses, and regularly sent out his gang of thieves to steal more livestock to increase the herds.

  Cale couldn’t storm the fortress with pistols blazing. No, he had to devise an ingenious scheme to avenge the deaths that had taken all that was left of his family. For years, Cale had been fighting other men’s battles for them, righting wrongs that had gone too long unpunished. Now it was his turn, his time to seek personal justice. But first he needed an effective plan to infiltrate Otis Pryor’s stronghold and sneak past the corrupt law officers that were in that bastard’s pocket.

  Skeet’s quiet growl put Cale’s senses on high alert. The dog had been catching a nap under the table. Suddenly, Skeet laid back his ears and bared his teeth. Cale reflexively slid his Colt from its holster and inched silently toward the door to pounce on whoever thought to pounce on him unaware.

  This wouldn’t be the first time someone tried to sneak up and blow him to kingdom come. That adage about outlaws being thick as thieves was right on the mark. Cale had lost track of the number of times some hooligan tried to bushwhack him for jailing a fellow gang member. He couldn’t recall the number of death threats against him.

  In fact, less than a year earlier, a vengeful gang member had broken down the door of this very room and tried to shoot Cale while he was lounging in his tub. Cale couldn’t even enjoy a leisurely bath without some spiteful son of a bitch attacking with a pistol or dagger.

  When Skeet bolted to his feet, p
repared to bound toward the door, Cale signaled for the burly beast to hold his ground. Cale positioned himself beside the door and listened to the faint rap. Before the unwanted visitor had time to react, Cale jerked open the door, wrapped his arm diagonally across the intruder’s chest and rammed the pistol barrel beneath his chin.

  Only it wasn’t a man; it was a woman.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she squawked in surprise.

  “What the hell…?” Cale croaked as he appraised the shapely bundle of womanly curves and soft flesh that he held clamped in his arms.

  Chapter Two

  Cale was so shocked by the unexpected sight and feel of the female pressed up against him that he stood immobilized, his arm crushed to her heaving bosom, his pistol still crammed against her throat. He couldn’t say he’d been surprised often in his thirty-two years of hard living. But the woman’s unexpected arrival at his door sure ’nuff stunned the hell out of him.

  Her fresh clean scent infiltrated his nostrils, and he had to try hard not to breathe her in. The feel of her lush body clasped familiarly to his was a vivid reminder that he hadn’t been with a woman since he couldn’t remember when.

  He would have predicted that this refined, delicate-looking female would keel over and faint dead away—or at the very least, wail, whimper and beg for release. But she didn’t. The lady obviously had a stronger constitution than he would have presumed. He liked that about her, among other things—like the way she felt in his arms. But she was either amazingly courageous for coming here, or incredibly foolish. He didn’t know which.

  Although the woman looked as harmless as a fly, he didn’t release her. She could be the distraction that preceded the springing of a trap. Some sneaky weasel could be lurking in the hall, waiting to blow Cale to smithereens.

  “Skeet,” Cale whispered, then angled his head toward the partially opened door.

  The dog trotted across the room and cut around the corner so sharply that he slammed into the woman’s legs before searching out trouble in the hall. A moment later he returned to sniff at the woman’s skirts.

  No doubt Skeet was as unfamiliar with the perfumed scent of a citified woman as Cale was. Usually Cale’s reputation and profession worked as effectively as repellent to send decent women running in the opposite direction—often screaming. He was, after all, a hired gun, the circling vulture of Judge Parker’s brand of justice, and a half-breed to boot. Although the Cherokee had been labeled as one of the five civilized tribes in Indian Territory, most folks regarded all Indians—himself included—as heathens to be avoided and confined to reservations.

  Which made it all the more baffling as to why this lovely, obviously well-bred woman was here.

  “Whaddaya want, lady?” Cale growled menacingly.

  She appeared so badly shaken that he figured he’d scared the wits clean out of her. Well, good. If she didn’t have more sense than to come knocking on the door of a man of his reputation, she needed a good scaring.

  “I—I…have a p-proposition for you, sir,” she panted.

  Thick Louisiana accent, he noted. He wondered if this little Southern belle realized she was way out of her league when dealing with him. If she didn’t know it yet, she would soon. Even he knew it was taboo for gently bred ladies of quality to consort with men like him. If she wanted to keep her reputation intact she needed to get the hell away from him—fast.

  When it finally dawned on Cale what she’d said he glanced down into her pale face—and nearly drowned in the depths of the most remarkable violet eyes he’d ever seen. A thick fan of curly lashes framed those spellbinding pools, which sparkled as if lit from within. Her peaches-and-cream skin was blotched with color—an outward manifestation of the fear that was streaming through her. ‘Course, he could feel her heartbeat hammering like a tomtom against his forearm, so there was no question that he’d frightened her badly.

  “Proposition?” he echoed. “What the hell kind of proposition?”

  She gulped audibly and tried to force a smile, but he noticed the expression wobbled on the corners of her Cupid’s-bow lips. And damn, what a sweet, inviting, sensuous mouth she had, too. He was tempted to steal a taste while he had the chance. For sure, this was likely the one time in his life he’d ever be this close to sophisticated feminine perfection.

  This little bundle of lavender satin and lace had it all—the delicate skin and bone structure, the curvaceous body, the beguiling face and a coil of silver-blond hair that reminded Cale of trapped moonbeams. His rough handling had caused one side of her coiffure to come unwound, leaving two thick, curly strands dangling on his shoulder—just close enough for him to get a whiff of their clean scent.

  Why had the personification of every man’s sweetest dream rapped on his door, offering him a proposition? What the hell was this? Some kind of cruel joke? Hadn’t he been ridiculed because of his mixed heritage often enough without her showing up to remind him of who and what he was?

  Suspicion clouded Cale’s mind again. He wondered if some spiteful renegade who wanted to launch him to hell had paid her to set him up. “Skeet, guard the door,” he ordered gruffly.

  With ears laid back and an unwelcoming snarl, the dog obeyed instantly, sinking down on his haunches in the hallway. Cale kicked the door shut with the heel of his boot. When he shifted to pat the woman down, ensuring that she wasn’t packing hardware, she squawked in offended dignity.

  “Now see here, sir! There is no call to manhandle me! I only came for a chat. Any fool can see I’m not the slightest threat to you.”

  “Where’re you from, princess?” he asked as he slid his hand beneath the hem of her gown to check for stashed weapons in her soft kid boots. Again she squealed indignantly when his hand touched her leg. He ignored her and completed his search. When he was assured she was hiding nothing but her seductively curvaceous body, he dropped the pistol still trained on her and slid it into its holster.

  She made a big production of fluffing the wrinkles—caused by his manhandling—from the sleeve of her gown. Then she looked down that pert little nose at him. “I swear, I’ve never met a more suspicious man. Do you greet all your guests with a gun to the chin and a swift frisk?” she asked with a huff.

  “I don’t usually have guests, only intruders,” he reported as he motioned for her to take a chair at the table. “I asked where you hail from.”

  “N’Awlins, though I don’t see that it matters,” she said snippily.

  “Figured as much. That drawl is unmistakable.”

  Hanna took a seat, noting Cale Elliot didn’t do her the courtesy of pulling out her chair the way most gentlemen would. But what did she expect? This rough-edged bounty hunter knew nothing about polished manners and etiquette. Not that she held it against him. She’d had her fill of haughty aristocrats who showered her with effusive flattery and fawned over her in hopes of drawing the interest of a wealthy shipping heiress.

  When Cale straddled a chair—backward—and stared warily at her from beneath his furrowed brow, she realized this was a novel experience for her. He was a novel experience. This brawny bounty hunter, who dressed in worn buckskin, was absolutely nothing like the stuffy gentlemen her father had tossed in her path since she’d blossomed into a woman. There was a wild, dynamic presence about this man that intrigued her.

  Eyes as dark as midnight, surrounded by a hedge of coal-black lashes, bore into her, as if searching out the hidden secrets in her soul. A leather band at the base of his neck anchored his long glossy hair—hair as black and shiny as a raven’s wings. He looked as if he hadn’t been within a mile of a razor in weeks. His dark beard and mustache gave him a most formidable appearance.

  Hanna was certain that even her father might be just a tad intimidated by this ominous-looking creature. She knew for a fact that Cale Elliot was a solid, muscular six-foot-two and two hundred plus pounds, because she’d been plastered up against his rock-solid body. He was hard-edged, tough and suspicious. Not to mention that only
God knew how much blood he had on his hands. This, she predicted, was the last man on earth her father would want her to marry—which was one more reason why Cale Elliot was positively perfect for her.

  “Are you married?” she blurted out, then bit her lip and cursed her lack of finesse.

  Two black eyebrows shot up to his hairline. “What the hell kind of question is that?” he said, then snorted.

  “A straightforward one,” she replied, marshaling her nerve and her resolve. “Are you married or not?”

  “No. Are you?” he retorted in the same gruff tone he’d employed since the moment he yanked her up against him and jammed his pistol to her throat.

  “Not yet, but I plan to be very soon,” she replied resolutely.

  Cale frowned, bemused. “Why are we having this conversation and who are you?”

  Hanna overlooked his rude manner and defiantly ignored his question. With each passing second she became increasingly confident that this was the man she needed to ensure her independence from her father. Cale Elliot was hard as nails, formidable and abrupt. His reputation and occupation warned most people away. Most people, but not Hanna Malloy. She’d marry him on the spot if there were a clergyman or justice of the peace present.

  “All right, Miz N’Awlins,” he drawled, mocking her Southern accent. “What’s this business about a proposition? I’ve had a long three weeks and I’m ready for a bath, a nap and a hearty meal. You’re keeping me from them. What the hell do you want with me?”

  Hanna lifted her chin and met his piercing stare. Fleetingly she wondered if the devil himself had eyes this deep and black and penetrating.

  “Well? Spit it out,” he snapped impatiently. “Your time’s almost up. I don’t like conversations that last more than a minute.”

  Hanna flinched at his razor-sharp tone. She had to get up her nerve all over again. Since Cale Elliot apparently preferred straightforward and right-to-the-point dialogue, she’d accommodate him.