How could Bart escape in broad daylight?

      He’d be spotted immediately. But how could he stay in her room for the rest of the day?

      Someone would find out for sure.

      What if his fever grew worse? She listened for moans. But the silence was almost worse than the anticipation of noise.

      What if Bart died? She wrung her clasped hands.

      If he died, she would never have the chance to chew him out the way she’d always intended!

      She’d never learn why he had followed her from Kansas City, or how he had fallen in with Jesse James and his gang.

      More important, she wouldn’t be able to tell him how miserable her life had been after he went away….

      CATHERINE PALMER

      The author of more than fifty novels with more than two million copies sold, Catherine Palmer is a Christy Award-winner for outstanding Christian romance fiction. Catherine’s numerous awards include Best Historical Romance, Best Contemporary Romance, Best of Romance from Southwest Writers Workshop and Most Exotic Historical Romance Novel from RT Book Reviews. She is also an RT Book Reviews Career Achievement Award winner.

      Catherine grew up in Bangladesh and Kenya, and she now makes her home in Georgia. She and her husband of thirty years have two sons. A graduate of Southwest Baptist University, she also holds a master’s degree from Baylor University.

      The Gunman’s Bride

      Catherine Palmer

      Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done. Then you will experience God’s peace, which exceeds anything we can understand. His peace will guard your hearts and minds as you live in Christ Jesus.

      —Philippians 4:6-7

      To my faithful readers who bring me such joy.

       I thank you for all your years of loyalty.

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Author’s Note

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      April 1883

       Raton, New Mexico Territory

      Keeping his six-shooter aimed at the sheriff, Bart Kingsley crouched at the corner of a white picket fence. He was bleeding bad. The bullet that caught him in the side hurt something awful. But Bart knew he couldn’t let pain overcome him. He was on a mission to find the woman he loved.

      Laura Rose Vermillion’s window stood out as a black patch on the dull gray wall of the dormitory just over the fence. Bart knew it was Rosie’s window because he had caught sight of her shaking out a pink rug that morning. His Rosie…his beautiful Rosie.

      “Kingsley!” a voice echoed through the darkness. “Kingsley, I know I winged you, boy. Come on out like a man and maybe the doc can save your sorry hide.”

      Bart gritted his teeth. He was too close. Too near Rosie now to let a bullet stop him. Hiding in some shrubs near the depot, he had waited all day until the sun went down and the last train left town. But when he made his move, Sheriff Mason T. Bowman had appeared out of nowhere.

      “I’ve got help, Kingsley,” the lawman called out now. “The Pinkerton National Detective Agency out of New York City sent their best man after you. You ain’t never going to get away. Not with a Pinkerton detective on your trail. You know that, boy. So, put your hands up nice and slow, and we’ll hold our fire.”

      Bart grimaced. A Pinkerton man? Now that was serious business. Those fellows could track outlaws better than a pack of hound dogs. The damp blood on his buckskin jacket told Bart he was leaving a trail nobody could miss.

      But he couldn’t be captured now. Not this close to his Rosie. Bart tugged the kerchief loose from his neck and pressed it against the bullet wound. He set his gun on the ground and worked his jacket’s buttons into place to hold the kerchief tight.

      Taking up his pistol, he began to creep along the boards of the fence. The dormitory housed young women who worked as waitresses for Fred Harvey’s famous railway restaurant. Bart surmised that a fence built to keep eager young bucks away from the pretty females inside it would have a gap or two.

      “Kingsley, we’ve got every street blocked!” Bowman barked. “You’ll never leave Raton alive unless you surrender now. Come on out, boy!”

      Bart pushed against the pickets as he inched toward Rosie’s window. Aha. A loose board swung outward, leaving just enough room for a man to slip through the fence. Bart edged himself between the securely nailed pickets, then reached back and eased the loose board back into place.

      “Look at this!” a deep voice called out. “You plugged him all right, sheriff. There’s blood right here by this fence. Good shot. He won’t get far.”

      The Pinkerton detective, Bart guessed. He touched his jacket and prayed the kerchief would hold. Slinking across the grass, Bart tried to think about Rosie. Beautiful Rosie with long brown hair and pretty little ankles. Six years had passed since he’d seen her, but Bart knew he would always love her.

      “The blood trail stops at the corner,” the Pinkerton man announced. “He’s close.”

      Bowman shouted into the night. “Men, search under every woodpile and behind every fence. Shoot him if he runs.”

      Bart pushed himself up against the rough stone wall of the dormitory until he was standing. Dark mists swirled before his eyes. Don’t faint. Not now.

      He reached up and caught the edge of a protruding stone. Then he lifted one leg and found a foothold. Rosie, he reminded himself. Overhead was Rosie’s window.

      “’Spose he could have gotten over the Harvey girls’ fence?” someone asked.

      Bart pulled himself upward until he found another stone ledge to grab.

      “Nah, the sheriff pegged him good,” came the response. “If he ain’t dead already, it won’t be long.”

      Now Bart ran his fingertips along Rosie’s wood windowsill. He set his foot on a protruding metal pipe. As he placed his weight on it, the pipe cracked.

      “You hear that?”

      “Sounded like it came from the dormitory!”

      “Who’s got a light? Sheriff, over here! Bring a lantern!”

      Bart had slipped down a good two feet, scraping