The Bounty Hunter's Bride. Victoria Bylin
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seen him since.”
“Anyone with him?”
“Two men.”
“What did they look like?”
“I didn’t pay much attention. I noticed Johnson because of his nose.” The barkeep set down the glass and held out his hand. “I’m Wallace O’Day. I run a clean business.”
Beau shook the man’s hand. “Beau Morgan.”
“Bounty hunter?”
“I’m not in it for the money.”
Wallace picked up another glass. “This Johnson fellow. Is he wanted?”
“Yes.” By Beau for Lucy’s murder and the U.S. government for stealing horses. Of the two, the government would be kinder.
The barkeep glanced at the dregs in Beau’s cup. “Want some more?”
“No, thanks.” Beau slapped down a sawbuck. “If you hear anything about Johnson, remember it.”
Wallace folded the money. “How do I find you?”
“I’ll be back.”
Beau left the saloon with thoughts of Johnson rattling like broken glass. He saw Lucy again, felt the wetness of her bodice and smelled the blood. He blinked the picture away, but the rage stayed in his blood, swimming like a thousand fish. Needing to get rid of the slithering, he walked two blocks to an emporium where he bought fresh clothes, then headed back to the bathhouse across from the Silver River.
As he neared the splintery building, one of the oldest in Castle Rock, he smelled steam, soap and dirt. The mix reminded him of a simple truth. He could get clean on the outside, but the inside was another matter. Until Clay Johnson met his end, Beau’s hate would grow with every breath he took.
Weary to the bone, he stepped into a drafty building with a high ceiling. He paid a Chinese man to fill a tub, then undressed and slipped into the hot water. As he dunked his head, Beau thought about Clay Johnson. They’d been playing this game for a long time now. At first, Clay had run hard and far. Beau had nearly trapped him in Durango, but he’d fled to the Colorado Plateau and into the desert. Beau had picked up the man’s trail later in Raton but had lost him near Cimarron. A year had passed before he’d gotten word of an outlaw gang raiding ranches in Wyoming.
Beau had taken a train to Laramie. He’d arrived in time for a trial that didn’t include Johnson. In exchange for prison in place of the gallows, one of Clay’s cohorts had told the authorities where to find him. Beau had ridden out that day, but Clay had already vanished into the mountains.
With the memory haunting him, Beau raised his head out of the water and wiped his face. He’d been so close. A day sooner and his search would have ended. Instead, Clay had gotten word of Beau’s presence and left him a message at the local saloon.
It should have been you, Sheriff. You know it. Leave me alone.
Beau had that note in his saddlebag. He had other things, too. A bullet etched with an M for Morgan, presumably from Johnson’s gun belt. Other notes. Other tokens. Every time Beau got close, the outlaw taunted him but didn’t stand and fight.
Beau wondered why.
What stopped Johnson from setting up an ambush? For five years, Beau had slept with one eye open and for good reason. In a game of cat and mouse, no man liked being the mouse. Someday Johnson would be sick of the chase and become the cat. The man would show himself and Beau would be ready. Dunking back into the scalding water, he hoped that day would come soon.
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