The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption. Janet Dean
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parents’ grave. Weeds grew at the base, tangling up and onto the engraved surface.
He knelt, ripped out the vines and tossed them aside.
“Who’ll do this when we’re not here?” Anna said, her voice as bleak as the black she wore.
“We’ll get back.”
Though he saw the doubt in her eyes, she gave a nod, then gathered the weeds and carried them to the compost.
As she walked on to Walt’s grave, seeking a private moment with her husband, Nate sat back on his heels at their parents’ headstone.
He traced the inscription, his fingers slipping over crevices forming the names Ephraim and Victoria Sergeant. Beloved parents. Good, hardworking, God-fearing people. They’d taken the first trip of their lives to visit Ma’s sister in Kansas. They’d never made it. Outlaws robbed the train, killing four passengers, his parents among the dead.
For what? A few dollars and a paltry sack of jewelry.
Shifty Stogsdill had been the leader of the gang.
Nate saw Stogsdill’s face in every fugitive he tracked down.
Before his parents had left, they’d asked him to look after Anna, always concerned someone would take advantage of her sweet, giving nature.
He’d tried. With everything in him, he’d tried.
A gust of air heaved from his chest. In truth, the very day Anna married Walt, Nate had left home, compelled to bring Stogsdill to justice. More than once, he’d come close to capturing the villain. But somehow Stogsdill had managed to slip away.
Then he’d met Rachel, a pastor’s daughter, a sweet, gentle young woman, and he’d gotten complacent, thinking he could trade the life of a bounty hunter for a small-town sheriff’s badge.
Until the day Stogsdill had come to Rachel’s hometown, gunning for Nate. As they’d crossed the street, Rachel had been chattering about their upcoming nuptials.
The thud of pounding hooves raised the hair on his nape. Drawing his gun, Nate whirled toward the road.
A flash of red, the glint of metal from Stogsdill’s hand.
A blast.
Nate fired just as a bullet whizzed past.
Rachel tumbled. Down, down, down.
Stogsdill’s aim had been off, a few inches to the right, and Rachel, an innocent young woman, lay on the street, her shirtwaist oozing red as life seeped out of her.
Tears stung his eyes. He’d been a fool to put aside the life of a bounty hunter for a sheriff’s job, enabling Stogsdill to track him to Rachel’s hometown. Even four years later, Nate could barely live with his failure to avenge her death.
If it was the last thing he did, Nate would see that Stogsdill got what he deserved. He couldn’t expect God to help him. Not when he had blood on his hands and vengeance in his heart.
A gentle hand pressed into his shoulder. “You okay?”
Nate slowed his breathing. “I’m fine.” He forced a smile. “And eager to see your handiwork walking the streets of Gnaw Bone.”
“Walking dresses?” Anna laughed. “That’s something I’ve got to see.”
The jingle of the horses’ harness brought Nate to his feet. “We’d better get going if we hope to reach Gnaw Bone by supper.”
As they walked to the wagon, a blue jay squawked from a tree branch overhead. Puffy clouds inched across the topaz sky. In this peaceful moment, the earth had righted on its axis.
Yet, out there somewhere, Stogsdill waited. Armed and dangerous. Nate had given up normalcy, peace, to protect the defenseless.
His grip on Anna’s arm tightened.
“Is something wrong?” Anna said.
“Everything’s fine.”
Or would be. Once Nate saw Stogsdill rot in jail or buried six feet under.
The grand dame of Gnaw Bone, all three of her stacked chins quivering with intensity, leaned toward Carly. “Surely you can handle my daughter’s wedding gown and trousseau. I’ll pay you well. More money than you can earn in six months or more,” Mrs. Schwartz said, her no-nonsense tone carrying an edge.
An edge that held a warning Carly couldn’t miss.
The wealthiest family in town, the Schwartz women gave Carly considerable business. Business she welcomed and appreciated. But the sketch of an elaborate creation Mrs. Schwartz had laid on the counter wasn’t just any dress that could be whipped up in a couple of days. This confection was to be Vivian Schwartz’s wedding gown.
A spoiled young woman accustomed to the finest. In Vivian’s estimation, the finest wedding gown could only be created in Paris, France. Not Gnaw Bone, Indiana. Vivian had made that abundantly clear—twice—in today’s meeting.
The bride’s glum expression conveyed her resentment of turning to a small-town seamstress. A miscommunication with the French fashion designer meant the gown and trousseau would arrive long after the ceremony. Telegrams back and forth had riled the designer, who’d refused to rush the order. Apparently the matriarch of Gnaw Bone was no match for a Paris modiste.
Her auburn hair and pale green eyes partially hidden by a flower-festooned hat, turned up in the back and held in place by two hat pins, Vivian jabbed a manicured nail at the front and back sketches on the counter. “Can you reproduce this dress exactly as you see it here?” she said, her young voice rising to an unladylike shrill. “And I mean exactly, down to the last button.”
Carly forced a patient smile. “With less than a month till your wedding, there’s no time to send for the exact lace and silk you specify.”
“Gracious,” Mrs. Schwartz said, her ample bosom heaving, setting the ostrich plumes on her hat in motion. “We would have told you sooner if we’d known about this debacle. Surely you have something similar. At least you had a decent array of imported lace and fabric when I made the selections for my dress.”
A dress that was almost completed. Almost. And now adding a large complicated order to an already tight schedule...
Carly’s smile wobbled. “I’m sure I can duplicate the Paris design. I have a bolt of white silk and several options for lace. Would you care to look, Miss Vivian?”
“Is there no other choice?” Vivian turned to her mother, as if she expected to be whisked off to Paris that very afternoon.
The melodramatic sigh sliding from Vivian’s lips had Carly wondering if this young woman was mature enough to handle life’s disappointments, much less enter a marriage.
For Carly they’d been one and the same.
Would things have been different if she’d waited, been older, more sure of herself and her place in the world? As she was now. She would have seen Max for what he was—a man with no sense of right and wrong—and would have known to refuse his proposal.
She didn’t plan to marry again, but if she did, she’d marry a man of faith who shared her values.
Well, that thought was foolish. Besides, no such man was available.
Nate Sergeant is available.
Absurd. The bounty hunter was another Max—violent, unreliable and chasing after trouble.
“Well, are you going to show us the options?” Mrs. Schwartz asked, jerking Carly back to the task at hand.
“I’m sorry, of course.”
“Mother...” Vivian whined. “Do I have to?”
Mrs.