Wildfire in His Arms by Johanna Lindsey
Luella looked over at Big Al, the man who had whistled at her. He was out early, sweeping the porch of his saloon across the street. He was one of her regulars and had always treated her with a gentle hand. She’d actually been considering him as a potential husband until the night Max had rescued her and she had fallen instantly in love. So dumb for someone like her to succumb to that emotion.
But with Big Al’s being a landowner and a businessman, and single, he was still an option. His saloon was one of many in town that never closed its doors. Luella’s place of business never closed either. Josephine Airey, or Chicago Joe as most people called her, owned the bordello and many others like it. Quite the landowner, their madam was, and she believed a man who wasn’t put on a time schedule—at least when satisfying his amorous needs—was a happy man.
Big Al was giving Luella a cheeky grin now—and not watching where he was sweeping. Dust flew toward one of his customers who was leaning against the porch post, drink in hand. The man, a fancy dresser, was probably a businessman, she thought, until she saw the gun on his hip and quickly took her eyes off him. She figured Big Al must be wary of him, too, if he’d let him take a drink outside to the porch. Big Al never allowed that. Sheriff’s orders, no drinking allowed in the streets. Now Al rushed back inside his establishment before the man noticed the dust on the back of his polished boots.
Luella didn’t like gunfighters, though Lord knew she’d bedded a lot of them. Gunfighters frightened her because they didn’t throw punches when they got mad; they drew guns instead. Max probably did, too, but Max was different. And what wasn’t to like about Max Dawson?
“See you next week, Luella!” Max shouted up at her now.
“Sure thing, honey,” Luella called back, and waved, but Max was already galloping out of town.
She closed her window and went back to bed. She hoped the gunslinger hadn’t noticed her and wouldn’t be paying her a visit.
Chapter Three
DEGAN WATCHED THE KID race out of town. He’d watched him exit the brothel, too. Anyone departing that quickly through a window usually meant someone else would soon appear with a gun in hand and start shooting, but that didn’t happen. Instead a pretty blonde in her undergarments had appeared at the window to say good-bye.
The little scene was unusual enough that Degan took in more details than he normally would. Not that he wasn’t always aware of what was going on around him. He was, but he usually only focused on what he sensed could be dangerous. The long coat the kid was wearing over black pants and shirt wasn’t a typical rain slicker but an expensive garment made of soft doeskin. His tan, wide-brimmed hat was either new or well cared for because it hadn’t been dented yet. Light brown boots that were scuffed all to hell and a white bandanna revealed that the boy had no sense of style. He had dark eyes, short white-blond hair under the hat, and a baby face. Another boy so young that he hadn’t grown hair on his face yet, but was sporting a gun on his hip. Why did they court violence at such a young age?
But this one appeared to have a love of life. Degan had seen it in the kid’s expression as he’d hopped onto his horse and heard it in the laughter that trailed after him as he raced away. A good night with a comely woman could do that, Degan supposed—or young love. And then one of those details he’d only vaguely noticed surfaced in his mind and he stepped back and stared at the wanted poster tacked to the post he’d been leaning against.
He’d seen it earlier, just hadn’t paid attention to it. Whoever had drawn the picture must have known the outlaw because the likeness was uncanny. An outlaw visits a brothel across the street from his wanted poster that offers $1,000 for his capture? Degan shook his head. Boys were far too daring these days. But this one was none of his concern. His gun was for hire but he wasn’t about to do the sheriff’s job for him.
Degan took his empty glass back into the saloon and stopped at the bar. The only other customer in the room had been sleeping with his head down on a table and still was. Degan wouldn’t even have stopped at the saloon if he hadn’t ridden all night to get to Helena and the saloon hadn’t been the first place he’d passed that was open at this hour. He deplored camping in the wilderness and only did it when he was too far between towns. He didn’t like traveling at night either, but he hadn’t been tired enough to stop last night, and the lure of a bed and a hot bath had kept him going.
“I’ll take a bottle of your finest to go—and a rag for my boots.”
The rag was quickly shoved across the bar as the barkeep’s face turned red. The bottle had to be searched for. When the man returned, he said hesitantly, “I should warn you, there’s a law here ’bout drinking in the streets.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” Degan paid up, then added, “I don’t consider your porch the street.”
“Fair ’nough.” The man relaxed now that Degan hadn’t taken offense.
“Best hotel in town?”
“That’d probably be the International. Big brick building. Hard to miss if you keep heading into town. So you just rode in?”
Degan didn’t answer. It annoyed him that one question from him tended to open the floodgates to his getting questioned in return. He understood it was a nervous reaction of intimidated people who hoped that if he was talking, he wouldn’t be shooting. He grabbed the bottle and headed to the door.
The barkeep called after him, “You might check with our sheriff if you’re looking for work, mister. Folks bring their troubles to him first, but he don’t always have the time to help them all, even with eight deputies. This is a big town. Plenty folks round here could use a hired gun—if that’s what you are.”
Degan tipped his wide-brimmed hat at the man, but kept on walking. He wasn’t looking for work yet. He had made enough money in the West that he could retire for the next ten years if he wanted to. But to do what? He’d been groomed to take over an empire, but he’d turned his back on that.
This town was far too big for his liking, he realized, as he continued through it. He preferred small towns, where you could see trouble coming from a mile away. But he was just here for a bath, a bed, and a meal before he continued on to California, which is where he’d been headed when Zachary Callahan had tracked him down and offered him too much money to refuse merely to keep the peace for a few weeks.
It wasn’t the first time he’d been overpaid. In fact, it happened more often than not. It was one of the benefits of having a reputation that preceded him. The only other benefit of that reputation was that he could get a job done without bloodshed.
It used to bother him, a lot, that he made people so nervous. He used to assure people that they didn’t need to be afraid of him. That assurance only worked until they saw him draw his gun. And rarely could he pass through a town where he didn’t need to draw it for one reason or another—if people discovered who he was. So he’d stopped being sociable, stopped talking to people if he didn’t have to, stopped volunteering his name. Hell, half the time it didn’t matter if they knew who he was. He couldn’t even walk into a bank without all those in it dropping to the floor, thinking they were about to be robbed. Now that was annoying. Maybe it was time to go back East—just not home.
Degan found the International Hotel easy enough, but he certainly wasn’t expecting to run into anyone he knew in the lobby.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, Degan Grant!”
Degan winced, hearing his name spoken so loudly. “Keep your voice down,” he said as he turned, but then he actually smiled.
He hadn’t made many friends in the West, but he could count John Hayes as one of them. John was in his midforties now, but Degan had met him not long after he’d first come West five years ago.
“What brings you this far north, Sheriff?”
“It’s US Marshal now.” John grinned.
Degan raised a brow. “Does that warrant congratulations?”
“It’s letting me see more of the country than I ever thought I would, but, no, I wasn’t hankering fo
“I just finished a peacekeeping job in the territory.”
“Then you aren’t currently employed?”
“No.”
“Damn, that’s a relief.”
Degan was amused. “I still abide by the law, John. Did you really think you would need to arrest me?”
“No, course not. But since you’re between jobs, I’d like to call in that favor you owe me.”
“What favor?”
“For saving your life.”
Degan snorted. “I was on the mend. You didn’t need to drag me to a doctor.”
“You were half-dead and still bleeding.”
John had been the sheriff in a town where Degan had been shot. A trio of bank robbers had been trying to shoot their way out of town after the alarm was raised. A lot of people had been on the streets that day. Degan had pitched in to prevent innocent people from getting killed and had ended up catching a stray bullet himself. He’d ridden out of that town wounded. John had tracked him down.
If he cared to admit it, he supposed he could have died that day if he had continued on his way. The wound hadn’t hurt that much—yet. So he hadn’t known he was bleeding so much he’d been leaving a trail of blood behind him.
“I’ll allow your doctor did a good job of stitching,” Degan said. “It left barely a scar. What favor do you need?”
“It will just be temporary, mind you. I need at least three outlaws on my long list brought in over the next couple months. I haven’t just been tasked with cleaning up the West, I’ve been told to do it on a damn time schedule.”
Degan was a little more than surprised. “You want to turn me into a bounty hunter? I’m not a tracker.”
“You don’t need to be. Most of these boys hide in plain sight in crowded towns like this one, or ones too small to have good sheriffs in them. The pay is good and two of the wanted men have been seen in the area. A third was last seen in Wyoming. If you prefer, you can take your pick of who you want to go after. As I said, I have a long list.”
“And why aren’t you after them?”
“Because my ma is dying. I got the telegram yesterday. Already bought our stage tickets to leave today.”
“Our?”
“My wife and daughters are here with me.”
“I didn’t know you were married.”
John grinned and boasted, “Happily for almost ten years now. Our girls are six and seven, and my Meg is expecting another. Because I have to travel so much these days, whenever I know I’m going to be in one place for a while, I take my family with me. The railroads’ extending as far west as they do now makes that possible. This trip to Virginia could take me a couple months because I have to get my mother’s estate settled. That could cost me my job if I can’t cross off at least three outlaws from my list during that time.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.”
John nodded. “I knew she was sick, I just didn’t know it was this bad.”
“I assume you already asked the local sheriff for assistance?”
“Talked to him yesterday, but he’s too busy, and I’m not surprised. Hell, who would think you could find a town this big in Montana, which isn’t even a state yet.”
“Gold does that.”
“It surely does,” John agreed. “So, can you help me out, Degan? I only need three wanted men captured in the next two months. If you finish sooner than that, you can continue on your way. But I will need to make you a deputy marshal while you’re acting on my behalf.”
“Oh, hell no. If I do this, I won’t be wearing a lawman’s badge.”
John grinned. “You don’t need to mention it to anyone if you think it will tarnish your reputation. It would just be in case you need to verify that you have jurisdiction, which knowing you, you probably won’t have to do. You’ll get to keep the rewards being offered. Some might be more lucrative than your usual jobs.”
“I doubt that.”
“Well, they will be when you add them up. And it won’t be that difficult to find these men. I’ve gathered a lot of information on these miscreants that I’ll turn over to you, much more than is mentioned on their posters—known friends and family members, everywhere they’ve broken the law, any associates they might have, or if they’re loners. I’ve kept a lot of notes, and I’ve been doing this for a couple years now. I would just ask that you telegraph me in Virginia each time you bring one of them in, so I can let my superiors know that even while I’m taking care of family matters, I’m still keeping to my schedule.”
Degan nodded. “As long as your superiors don’t track me down afterward to try and talk me into continuing in that line of work.”
John chuckled. “I’ll keep your name out of it.”
Chapter Four
THE LEATHER SATCHEL JOHN Hayes had given Degan resembled a small, thin valise without a handle, but it had a lock and key. Degan didn’t open it when he got to his hotel room after bidding John good-bye. He merely dropped it on the floor with his saddlebags and his own valise. Sleep was his first order of business. But when he lay down on the bed, he didn’t drift off right away.
The words lawman and bounty hunter kept running through his mind. Neither occupation suited his temperament, yet he’d still agreed to the job. Because a friend had asked. No, because while he’d never admit it to anyone, he actually liked helping people. It gave a sense of purpose to his wandering. And John Hayes was good people.
When Degan woke it was midafternoon, too early for dinner, too late for lunch, but he was hungry. He continued to ignore John’s leather satchel and went downstairs and found the hotel dining room closed just as he’d expected.
The same clerk in the lobby who had checked Degan in gave him the names of restaurants nearby, although he wasn’t sure if they were open either. Degan’s scowl had the clerk quickly adding, “But if you will wait in the dining room, I will have something brought to you.”
“To my room instead?”
“Certainly, sir. Immediately.”
Degan went back upstairs. His room was nicely appointed, finer than any of the other hotel rooms he’d stayed in since coming West, so he wouldn’t mind spending a few days here if he had to. Being able to eat in his room was a nice bonus. The less time he spent in public, the better. He hoped the barkeep he’d met that morning wasn’t a gossip. If he was, the sheriff would know by now that Degan was in town. Even though the sheriff wouldn’t know his name, that wouldn’t necessarily stop him from seeking Degan out.
He stood at the window for a few minutes. It provided a panoramic view of Helena, which was spread out over the low hills that circled the downtown area. The streets, and there were many of them, reminded him of home because they were so crowded in the late afternoon. The West had always been a place where people could start fresh. But much of the region still wasn’t safe for settlers. Soon it would be. John’s mission to round up the outlaws who preyed on settlers was important. Progress, real progress, was coming to the West with the railroads.
Still waiting for his food, Degan opened John’s satchel and spread out the papers on his bed. He counted twenty wanted posters. Each of them had a page or two of John’s scrawled notes attached to it. One poster featured Big Jim Mosley. That was convenient. Degan only had to capture two outlaws now. He could cross Mosley off John’s list since Degan had killed the man last year in Wyoming. He hadn’t known Mosley was wanted for murder, but since the man had tried to shoot him in the back, he wasn’t surprised. Apparently the sheriff of that town hadn’t been able to confirm his identity either, which was why Mosley was still wanted by the law. It made Degan wonder how many others on John’s list of twenty names might alre
Baby-faced Max Dawson wasn’t dead and would be an easy find, considering Degan had seen him at the brothel this morning. Kid Cade, another on the list, Degan had also crossed paths with in Wyoming. In his late thirties, the kid was no kid any longer and had steered clear of him, so Degan didn’t figure him to be a gunfighter, just a thief. John’s notes mentioned Cade had tried claim jumping unsuccessfully, stage robbing successfully, and a bank robbery that nearly got him killed when he tried to pull it off alone. He’d avoided getting caught for that, as well as numerous other robberies in which he’d been identified as the thief. He had last been seen in the area of Butte, to the southwest, a few months ago.
Degan didn’t need to read any further. He had intentionally avoided Butte and ridden north to Helena thanks to the miners in Butte who had let it be known that Degan was in the area. He wasn’t partial to backtracking, but Cade and Dawson were likely the two wanted men John had said were in the area, and the two Degan could apprehend most quickly. He might just be back on his way to California in a week or two.
But then another poster caught his eye, the only other one besides Max Dawson’s that offered a $1,000 reward. John’s notes explained why. Charles Bixford, alias Red Charley, was known to have killed three women, two children, and fifteen men when he blew up a town hall in Nebraska because his wife was in it. She was one of the women he’d killed, and the two children had been his. But that was only the start of his killing spree, which continued across Nebraska, into Colorado, and ended in Utah, where he’d last been seen. Bixford wasn’t known to be crazy, yet he’d murdered innocents for no apparent reason. He’d also killed a US marshal along the way who’d tried to apprehend him and had wounded the next one who’d tried.
And John needed to catch this killer? John, who was married with kids of his own? What sort of favor would Degan be doing for John if he only captured the less dangerous outlaws on the list? He decided to grab the two who were nearby and throw in Bixford as a bonus before going on to California.