The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption. Janet Dean
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Nate looped Maverick’s reins to the rail. A hand-painted for-sale sign caught his eye. If the lettering over the doors meant anything, how did the proprietor, Morris Mood, hope to sell this run-down property?
Hmm, the small print indicated the sale included a vacant house. If it was habitable, perhaps Nate could work out a deal with the owner. Now that he’d met the pretty widow and her small son, he couldn’t stomach the idea of evicting them from their home.
Inside the stable, he inhaled the scent of hay, leather and manure; heard the soft whinnying of horses, easing the tension in his neck and zipping him back to the time he’d wrangled horses on a Texas ranch. The pay had been lousy. Not nearly enough money to provide for Anna, but that year had taught him plenty about horses.
Maybe, just maybe, he could do this: run a livery and settle in one place. He tamped down the silly notion. He was not good at staying put, but he was good at his job.
Still, with Walt dead, Anna had no one to look after her but him. He couldn’t ride off as he’d done many times before, leaving his sister behind with the hope his inept brother-in-law would make a decent living. This time he had to stay long enough to see Anna find her place in the community. Once she was settled in the rooms behind the seamstress shop, he’d be on his way.
He strolled down the aisle between the stalls, studying the horses. Unlike the dilapidated barn, the animals looked healthy, their coats groomed, their bedding clean, water buckets full. Clearly the owner cared about his horses.
Nate passed the tack room, then stopped outside the door leading into the office. A stoop-shouldered man with grizzled hair hunched over a ledger, his spectacles sliding down his nose. A broken bit and two shabby halters lay scattered on the desk, alongside a tattered saddle cinch and a rusty horseshoe. The owner and his office looked as frayed as his business.
“Mr. Mood?”
With a startled squeak, the elderly gentleman jerked up his head and then staggered to his feet, his face tinged with pink. “Didn’t know anyone was about. Need a horse? Rig?”
“A wagon.” He motioned toward the entrance. “And information about that sign out front.”
“You’re new in town.” The old gent tugged at his suspenders. “Looking to buy this place?”
Why would Nate do that? “Nope, don’t have the money. But in exchange for a place to live, I could work here.”
The owner chuckled. “I don’t have the money to pay you a wage, neither. Reckon that makes us even.” He pointed to a bale of straw. “Take the weight off,” he said, plopping into his desk chair with a sigh. “I wouldn’t be looking to sell, exceptin’ my wife needs a dry climate. If I can find a buyer, I’d take Betsy to Arizona. Good weather for consumption.”
“I’m sorry your wife’s sick.” Nate sat, his gaze roaming his surroundings. “I could restore the place. Make the livery more attractive to a buyer.”
“I can’t keep up with repairs. Reckon it’s as run-down as I am.” He drummed knobby fingers on the desk. “All that hammering and sawing could spook my horses. You know how to handle ’em?”
“I spent a year as wrangler on a spread in Texas.”
“That don’t mean you’ll treat ’em right.”
“I’d never mistreat a horse—any animal.”
Yet only minutes before, Nate had mistreated a woman. The truth of that gnawed at him. No matter how tough she’d tried to appear, he’d seen the fear beneath Mrs. Richards’s bluster. She’d reminded him of an abused horse, alert and skittish, ready to rear and kick, expecting trouble, prepared for battle. His stomach clenched. Had Richards abused his wife?
“I’ll tell you what,” Mr. Mood said. “I could use the help, but as I said, I can’t afford to pay a wage. What if I applied what you should earn toward buying the place?” He pointed over his shoulder. “And throw in the living quarters behind the livery? Me and the missus live a few miles out now, so the house sits empty. Has two bedrooms, kitchen, small parlor—nothing fancy but it’s livable and furnished.”
“I’m not interested in buying the livery, but I’m moving my sister to Gnaw Bone. We’ll need a place to bunk.” His gaze roamed the cobwebbed corners, the glass in the window caked with dirt. “Anna is, uh, persnickety.”
“The house is in better condition than the stable. I’ll spiff the place up, if that’s what’s worrying you.”
Mood’s plan didn’t fence Nate in. He could make improvements until the judge settled the shop ownership. Nate offered his hand. “I’m willing to try each other out, see if the arrangement fits.”
The old codger reached a blue-veined hand and shook, his grip surprisingly strong. “Gives us both time. You might like working here and change your mind.” He gave a nod. “If I like you, trust you with my horses, you could finish buying the livery on contract, a set amount each month.”
Nate wouldn’t be changing his mind. He had no interest in staying in this two-bit town tethered to a livery and half a dozen horses. Nate had spent much of his adult life wandering. He had no idea how to handle that kind of permanence. The one time he’d tried to settle down had ended in disaster. A moving target was safer for everyone.
Nate paid the rate for a wagon and team. “I’ll return the rig tomorrow,” he said, following Mood toward the stalls.
Anna wanted him nearby. Nate would give her that for now. He had enough money to ignore the wanted posters in his saddlebags. If the circuit judge ruled in Anna’s favor, as Nate expected, she’d have a solid income to handle her bills. Then he would leave the good folks of Gnaw Bone before Stogsdill came looking for revenge and someone got hurt.
Mood tramped toward him, leading two draft horses. Nate joined him and they moseyed to the open end of the livery where a wagon waited, its green paint peeling. While in Gnaw Bone, Nate would scrape and repaint that wagon.
Perhaps if he kept busy enough, he could hold memories at bay.
A yellow, shaggy dog crawled out from under the wagon, his tail giving a slow wag.
Mood reached a hand. The dog stepped into his touch. “She’s got me pegged as a softy.” He raised the dog’s chin. “Soon as I get this team hitched, I’ll share my lunch. But I’ll be moving West, too far a trip for you.” Mood glanced over his shoulder at Nate. “She’d make a fine watchdog, if you’ve a mind to keep her.”
The mutt couldn’t harm a flea. “I’ll be moving on, too.”
“She’d be good company for your sister.”
A dog underfoot might trip Anna. Mood would see that soon enough.
With slow, patient motions and gentle words to the horses, the old man hitched the team to the wagon. “This here is Mark. The other is Matthew. Named ’em after the Gospel writers. Feed, water and rub them down tonight.”
As if Nate hadn’t the faintest idea how to care for horses. “Yes, sir.” Nate tied Maverick to the rear of the wagon. “Once we’re settled in, I’ll start making repairs.”
“Your coming proves the Good Lord is watching over me and Betsy, that’s sure.”
Mood wouldn’t believe Nate was the answer to his prayer if he knew the trouble he was bringing Widow Richards.
With a nod, Nate climbed into the wagon, released the brake, and drove down the alley behind the livery, passing the cabin where he and Anna would live.
Across the alley, what had to be the backside of the seamstress shop, a female dashed out the door and across the yard as if chased by a pack of rabid dogs.
Ah, Mrs. Richards. Where was she going in such an all-fire hurry? She caught sight of him, slowed and dropped her skirts, then strode on, her mouth set in a grim line.
He hauled back on the reins.