The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances) (3 page)

The preacher stepped forward and locked eyes with French. “It’s about time someone did right by this woman.”  He gestured at Willow.

French cast the preacher an annoyed glance before turning to Boden.  “You can’t marry her, mister. She’s a murderer.  I never meant for anyone to take her to wife, just for them to have a bit of fun with her.”

“I don’t think so,” Boden challenged, his left hand hovering over his holster.  “I plan on doing right by the lady.”

“I doubt you need to do that,” French asserted.  “She ain’t no lady.”

“I don’t think the two of you have been introduced, Sheriff French,” Kern interjected, coming up from behind the lawman.  The old coot should have stayed safe in his store.  Now Boden had one more person to keep an eye out for.

“Kern, keep out of my business.” French turned to face the older man.  The lawman held himself with authority, his chest puffed out, his hands on his narrow hips.  The thing was, his stance failed to impress anyone present.  The preacher even looked like he wouldn’t mind taking the man down a notch or two.

“I just thought you’d like to know who the man is, that’s all,” Kern said, appearing to all that didn’t know him to be sincere.  As it was, Boden fought a smile.  The shopkeeper was manipulating the sheriff as well as he’d manipulated him earlier.

“And just who might he be?”  French jerked a thumb at Boden.

“Butcher Boden.  The bounty hunter with the record for bringing in the most criminals, dead or alive.  The man with connections to influential judges and marshals across the territory.  The man who—”

French’s upheld hand interrupted Kern’s little speech.  “I get your point.”

French turned his attention back to Boden.  “Always the hero, aren’t we, Butcher?  I heard you lived in these parts.  Nice to finally meet you.”  French extended a hand Boden ignored.

Matter of fact, Boden ignored him altogether and turned back to the preacher.  “Marry us, Reverend,” Boden commanded.

The preacher nodded.  “I much prefer weddings to funerals.”

“By the time he's through with you,” French began, eyeing Willow, “you'll be wishing for the funeral.”

Boden turned his gaze from French, nodding his go ahead to the preacher.  The preacher shifted his weight to block the sheriff’s view of the proceedings.  Boden figured then that the man had more spunk than he’d ever given him credit for.

Despite the preacher’s maneuvering, the sheriff dared to taunt Willow, “You realize you’re about to marry Butcher Boden,
Willow?  You should be frightened.  He’s known throughout the territory for his ruthlessness.  He’s killed so many people the legends have lost count.  Grown men shiver when they run across him.”

Boden's anger grew as he felt
Willow tremble at French’s words.  If the man didn't watch himself, he'd be staring down the barrel of his six-shooter right soon.  He looked down at Willow’s face to gauge her reaction.  She trembled with trepidation, but none of her fear showed on her face.  Inexplicably, her control made Boden proud.

Her coolness angered French, however.  French stepped forward, his hand raised.  “No one ignores me.”

“And no one touches her.” Boden caught French’s hand in his larger one as it descended toward Willow’s face. He applied crushing force to the man’s thin fingers.  “Unless he wants to be the second person I kill today.”

“I reckon we should discuss that very thing,” French said. “I should lock you up.”

“You’re welcome to try,” Boden returned.  His other hand rested on his gun.

French took a step back.  The preacher smirked into his Bible. Kern rocked on his heels.  Willow shifted further from his side. Boden drew her close again.

“I thought not.”  Boden turned back to the reverend, disappointed at French’s retreat.  While he hated taking a life, the sheriff might look just right with an extra hole in him.  “Let’s get started.”

At that, the reverend cleared his throat and finally began the wedding ceremony.

Ezra took the woman’s cold hand in his own.  It trembled as the reverend married them before a group of rowdy settlers who’d come to see a hanging.

“Repeat after me,” the reverend instructed. “I,
Willow, take this man…”

Soon, Ezra’s turn came to pledge his life to hers.  He said his vows gladly, knowing he did the right thing by the woman.  This one had spirit.  It may take him a while to prove to her that he was not the man everyone believed him to be, but Boden had a feeling her trust would be worth the wait.

His instincts had rarely steered him wrong.

FEAR CRAWLED UP WILLOW’S
spine
as Butcher Boden spoke his vows. She shivered because, despite what she knew, she was coming to like the tall man just a bit.  She figured hope was the curse of humanity.  It teased and deceived.  It promised good times that never came, and yet so many held it close.  She was just another fool among thousands.

She'd learned from experience that trusting a man could be deadly, and here she was hoping this man was unlike the others.

It would be a whole lot harder to protect herself from his beatings.  This man looked to be ten times stronger than any man she’d ever met. Though tempted to like him, to trust him, she reminded herself that he would mistreat her.  They all did.  Brett Roberts had, his friends had, and now this man would, too.

She looked at him and tried to discern the expression hidden by his low hat and beard.  Nothing, not a flash of any emotion crossed his face, his eyes.  She’d bide her time, wait for Butcher Boden to let his guard down, then be on her way.  She couldn’t take a chance on him.

Her husband-to-be tucked her closer and drew her farther from French.  The gesture may have protected her from French’s touch, but it did little to shield her from the cold.  Water dripped from her hair and rivulets mixed with the mud on her cheeks.

As a young girl, she’d imagined being a bride, and her imaginings had never drawn close to this wedding day.  In her dreams, she’d been in white, a true symbol of purity.  Today she wore red, and she could feel no more sinful than if she, like Hester Prynne, wore a scarlet letter on her chest.

Unlike Nathaniel Hawthorne’s heroine, Willow had possessed little choice in her fall from grace.  God had to forgive her, didn’t He?

She shivered again, but stilled when Boden shifted next to her.  He drew his coat open and pulled her into his side, gathering the slicker as far around her as he could.  She sucked in a breath as his solid, muscled frame touched her soft one.  She held her breath, expecting him to smell as bad as the other men she’d been close to.  Lack of oxygen finally forced her to breathe and she braced herself for his odor.

He smelled.

Of soap and fresh rain, that is.  It appeared the Butcher actually bathed.  And he was oh so warm.

The wedding—her wedding—ended as quickly as it began, and Willow sighed.

She’d finally escaped Roberts only to end up the wife of Butcher Boden days later. Her head merely reached somewhere between his shoulder and elbow.  He stood a muscled and broad six and a half feet tall, dwarfing her five foot six inch frame.

His gentle grip claimed her elbow in stark contrast to French’s earlier hold, and Boden guided her off the boardwalk. Willow walked with Boden to a pair of horses she figured were his.  They were a fine pair.  Roberts would have stolen them in a heartbeat.

“If you get tired of her, mister, send her my way,” someone taunted from the boardwalk.

Willow’s new husband stiffened and pulled her closer to his side.  The man was possessive.

A few steps later everything was a blur of motion.  One moment she walked beside him and the next he had turned and tucked her to his back, his gun drawn.  The Butcher faced a man ten or so feet away.  Willow hadn’t seen or heard him.  How had Boden?

A smidgen of respect for him grew within her; he had definitely earned his notorious moniker.  He appeared so young that at first she hadn't believed he could have built such a reputation for himself.  Now she believed and was terrified.

“What do you want?” Butcher Boden spoke to the man who trailed them.

She stood behind the Butcher’s broad back, his arm holding her behind him.  Willow peeked around his shoulder and saw that he held a gun on the man.  The man was no stranger; it was the saloon operator, Brady Jenkins.  She knew him well, too well.   Near Boden, the other man didn’t look as intimidating as she remembered.

“She owes me,” Brady asserted.

“Owes you for what?” Butcher Boden asked in a steely voice.

“Her man’s bar tab.  She usually paid me with the pleasure of her company,” Brady’s words carried a meaning her new husband couldn’t possibly mistake.  Willow wished she could disappear.  “Despite what she’s done, I’m willing to let the arrangement stand.”

“She no longer pays whiskey tabs.” The Butcher’s voice translated even and cool.

Brady took a step forward, refusing to back down or be impressed by Boden’s height and strength.  “Who’s going to pay up then?”

“What’d Roberts owe you?” Boden questioned.

Perhaps he would hand her over to the barkeeper after all.  Willow tried to back away from the Butcher, but his long arm still bound her to him.

Brady slung his rifle over his shoulder and extended a hand.  “He owed me ten fifty.”

Willow
’s jaw nearly dropped as Boden withdrew the aforementioned amount from his pockets. 

“That’s quite a tab,” he said as he handed the money over.

“And she’s quite a woman,” Brady challenged.  The men who’d gathered around Brady guffawed at the barkeep’s words.

Boden glared at the man, and Jenkins skulked back into the safety of his bar.  Boden turned then and lead
Willow toward the tallest horse she had ever seen.  Once he reached the animal, Boden placed his foot in the stirrup and smoothly mounted the horse.  Glancing down at her, he reached out a hand.  She took it, and with little effort, he swung her up behind him.

As they rode out of town, Willow hoped she hadn’t left Devils Lake behind only to face hell itself.  Butcher Boden certainly couldn’t offer her heaven.

B
UTCHER BODEN'S HORSE STRUGGLED
to pull its hooves out of the deep mud, and Willow held tightly to that man’s waist.  She felt uncomfortable placing her hands on him and gladly removed them once his horse carried them safely across the water and up the creek bed.  The heavily loaded packhorse stepped confidently up just behind them. The man could definitely pick sure-footed horseflesh.

“Good work, Beast,” Boden praised as he patted his animal’s neck.

If only men treated their women as kindly
, Willow thought.  Her bitterness threatened to choke her, and she fought it down.  Not all men were like Brett Roberts and his friends, she reminded herself.  Neither her father nor his ranch hands had been.  But the safety she had felt with those men then was so very hard to remember now.

Boden pulled first their mount and then the packhorse to a stop, interrupting her thoughts.  “We’ll rest here for a minute.  Looks like the rough ride jostled some of the packs loose.”

Willow put her left foot in the stirrup to dismount.  Butcher Boden reached out a hand to steady her.  Once her feet hit the ground, Willow tugged free of his hold.

He slid easily to the ground after her, immediately stretching his long body.  She looked away from him and fought the urge to shiver.  He was such a large man.  If he decided to take her, she would be defenseless.

However, if she escaped him before he could do her harm, she had a chance of surviving.

Now that thought held merit.  But how did she manage to escape Butcher Boden, the legendary bounty hunter?  He had already proven his prowess in town.  She looked to where he stood straightening the packages on the back of his packhorse.

He spoke then, his back still to her, “We’re not far from my ranch, the Box B.  It should only take us an hour or so longer to get there.”

With his back to her, she had a chance. If she planned to act, it must be now. The long, thick stick resting only a few feet from her caught her eye. She picked it up.  The weight of it felt perfect in her hands.

She wasn’t going to kill him.  She had to hurt him, though, and she balked at the idea. 
Get a hold of yourself, ninny.  He’s probably been hit over the head before.  He’ll be fine.  Strike him before he strikes you.

He stood downhill from her, giving her the added height she needed for leverage.  Her courage gathered she stepped quietly up behind him.  Willow lifted the makeshift club high and brought it down on the back of his head as hard as she could muster.  The wood cracked; a surprised grunt escaped his lips before his body hit the ground.

A second of jubilation ensued.  Evidently the feared bounty hunter hadn't expected her to try anything.  Perhaps he had assumed she was weak because of her femininity.  Well, he was wrong.  She glanced down at his prone body and felt the excitement dissolve within her.  He looked dead and well, helpless.  Her heart softened.  Damn her heart!

“Oh, please, don’t be dead,” she murmured as she leaned over his body.  His chest rose and fell and her nervous heartbeat slowed a bit.

She turned away, then turned back.  What if he was bleeding?  What if he bled to death?  Still clutching the stick, she approached his prone body.  Carefully, she turned his head and studied the back of his skull.  A little blood and a growing bump were the only signs of her attack.  A sigh of relief whispered past her lips.

She climbed atop Beast, untethering and leaving the packhorse behind.  She dug her heels into the horse’s flanks, stuck the saddle when the stallion reared, and rode away without a backward glance.  The large animal’s hooves dug deep into the damp earth, flinging chunks of dirt into the air.

Each stretch of the stallion’s legs bore her closer to freedom, or so she hoped.

EZRA HADN'T AWAKENED WITH
a headache this big since Carter Boden had taken his son to the saloon.  His father had insisted that drinking whiskey and being with a woman were the only ways to become a real man.  Ezra drank a lot of whiskey that night, because he figured if he got drunk enough, he wouldn’t have to be with any of the used  women at Berdette’s Bawdy House.  He’d been right, and his pa had been too embarrassed of his son to ever take him along again.

Well, his pa had been out of his life a good many years, and Ezra knew the man wasn’t responsible for his current throbbing head.  She was.

Damn that woman.

Damn him.

A drop of something wet and cool hit his forehead then and he opened his eyes. The skies had grown darker since he’d been out.  It looked like he was in for some heavy rain.

Boden stood, but quickly hunched and placed his hands on his knees when his stomach rolled. He blamed its churning on his throbbing head even though he knew it was the killing making him sick.  His stomach always rebelled afterward.  At one point, he’d hoped the feeling would go away, then he’d realized if he felt nothing afterwards, he’d be as hard and uncaring as the criminals he fought.

He reminded himself he’d had little choice in killing the man who’d attacked Willow Roberts.  He’d gone a bit insane when he’d seen that man lift her skirts, and there was no way he could have made it to her side in time.

Boden stood to his full height, his stomach having quieted.  He’d hop on Beast and beat the worst of the coming storm home.

He looked about for his dark bay quarter horse.  Beast was aptly named.  The animal was sixteen hands high, thick-legged with a rough exterior and a determined heart.  No one could call the horse an equine masterpiece, but he embodied everything Boden could have asked for in a horse and more.  Why, he’d never owned a more stable, intelligent animal in his life. The animal loved hard work almost as much as he did.

Except Beast wasn’t there.

Now, why couldn’t she have taken his packhorse?  Big John he could have parted with, but Beast was another matter altogether.

He looked to Big John, who was a small horse despite his big attitude, and Boden cursed his stupidity yet again.  The horse seemed to sense his owner’s displeasure and chose that moment to strike out on his own.  The damned animal was no doubt headed home.

Boden should head there himself, but not before he ascertained the direction his bride had gone.  Deep horse tracks spaced a ways apart indicated that she’d headed east, away from town and away from his ranch.

“Smart woman, anyway,” he said by way of comforting himself.  “It’ll be the last time she outsmarts me, though.”

With a bruised ego and a throbbing head, he headed homeward, cursing his new wife, a horse named Big John, and his own tender heart.

THE MOON CLIMBED HIGH
in the night sky before Ezra walked into the barnyard of the Box B.  Two small shadows strode his way from the porch of his house.  The two figures were Marshall and Benjamin, his foreman’s sons.

A youthful voice belonging to the younger Taylor, Benjamin, greeted him from the darkness.  “We was gettin’ worried about you.”

The older Taylor, Marshall, his voice calm and even, added, “Big John came home a few hours ago.  We was about to send out a search party. Figured you run into some trouble.”  This Taylor was practicing at being a man and that meant one didn’t get worried or excited.

I ran into trouble all right
, Ezra thought. 
Long-legged, dark-haired, blue-eyed trouble
.  But he said, “Didn’t run into much trouble at all.  Where’s your pa?”

“Checkin’ the cattle up north.  Said he’s been havin’ trouble with strays wanderin’ off.”

Ezra smiled at the pair.  These two boys had been in on Ezra’s secret since he’d saved them from drowning a few years ago.  They both knew his gun was legendary, but his heart was mush.  “Nate leave you two to watch out for the place?”

The pair nodded in unison.

“Pa told us to keep an eye out for you in case you be needin’ our help.  Do you need it?”  Marshall asked.

“I do.”  Ezra knew Nathan had to be proud of this pair.  They were eager to be men and were already making themselves useful.

The boys smiled wide.  Benjamin revealed a smile too big for his face.

Ezra gave some directions over his shoulder as he headed to his home. “You boys saddle up Kitty for me.  I’ll be grabbin’ a bite to eat and headin’ back out again.”

Some of his nine-year-old fear shining through, Benjamin asked, “It’s kind of dark, ain’t it?”

“It is, but this business can’t wait.”

And Ezra didn’t wait.  After he ate his fill and changed into dry clothes, he mounted up and headed out.  Warm and dry in his slicker, Boden couldn’t help thinking of Willow Roberts’ empty stomach and wet clothes.  Once again his reputation had gotten in the way.  Tonight it had a woman out in the cold, running from the man the West thought him to be.

He would have waited for the morning to continue his search, but he didn’t want to press his luck more than he had already.  Rain fell full force, and he didn’t want to lose the trail. If he didn’t tail
Willow now, he was sure to lose her to the wild Dakota Territory.

Boden followed the deep tracks Beast’s heavy walk left behind for little over an hour before the rain managed to wash them away completely.  From then on he guessed at the general direction his bride had taken.  His guess had landed him the big reward money more than once, making him a man with deep pockets.

Rain dripped from the brim of his hat, and he hunkered lower in his slicker.  Damn, he hated being wet.  That woman had to be freezing.

She’d made a gutsy move, hitting him over the head as she had, and Ezra felt respect taking the place of the anger he had experienced earlier.  According to Kern, the woman had been sorely used.   If that were true, it was no wonder she preferred facing life on her own rather than with him, especially after he’d killed that man before her eyes.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d underestimated someone.  He’d figured she was just a woman.  And surely a woman couldn’t harm him.  He’d been wrong. And he was grateful she wasn’t the heartless killer French claimed her to be.

She could have killed him and she hadn’t.

AFTER A RESTLESS NIGHT
in the saddle, Ezra picked up Willow’s trail again early the next day.  The clouds cleared, the sun shining down on the wet land, increasing the humidity of the day.  The entire morning passed, and he still hadn’t run across his bride.  It appeared she hadn’t bothered stopping for the night either.

And she didn’t stop at all that day.

Her tenacity surprised him.  She’d freed herself from him and escaped on his horse, a horse that let precious few ride him. The tracks suggested she’d given Beast a rest and led him for a while.  Thankfully, she knew how to take care of a horse.

She’d also evaded him much longer than most of the outlaws he’d tracked. She took to creek beds when she could and backtracked to make her tracks harder to follow.  Some of her attempts to throw Boden off of her trail even worked for a while. It became obvious she didn’t want to be caught, and he almost wished he didn’t have to catch her, but she’d gone and taken his favorite horse, leaving him no choice but to follow.

He’d find her, get his horse, and be on his way.  She wanted her freedom, and he would let her have it.  If he didn’t, he’d be no better than the other men of Devils Lake.

Late in the afternoon, another set of thunderheads blew in from the north, and this set didn’t look quite as friendly as the last.  These were dark with a greenish tint.  He and
Willow could be in for some hail and strong winds.  And she was out there alone and probably soaked to the bone.

He kicked his horse into a run as the wind licked at his back.

He needed to find her before the storm let loose.

BODY ACHING, EYES GRITTY
, Willow couldn’t make it another mile.  Not to mention that her hands were stiff and swollen from the various splinters imbedded in her hands.  The force she had used to strike the Butcher in the head had lodged them deep into her palms.

Once she and Beast reached higher ground,
Willow unsaddled him and staked him out.  A search through Boden’s saddlebags produced a blanket.  She spread it on the driest bit of ground she could find, grabbed Boden’s rifle, and laid down to rest.  It wasn’t long before her heavy eyes closed in slumber.

And it wasn’t long before they opened wide again.  Long ago she had learned to sleep lightly; it had become a matter of survival. She heard a rider approaching, and she stood quickly to her feet.

Hide or ride?

She wasn’t sure what to do.  The way her body protested, she’d probably fall right out of the saddle, but hiding was chancy as well.  Her ammunition was minimal, and she wasn’t sure if she could focus her tired eyes enough to take a good shot.  And she didn’t think she could shoot him.  He may be the Butcher, but he hadn’t yet hurt her.  Then again, it may not even be Butcher Boden.  She hoped that was the case.  For some reason, she really didn’t want to shoot him.

She’d have to hide.

With careful steps, she positioned herself behind a large, fallen tree.  Willow snuggled herself against the decaying burr oak.  Her back to the trunk, her body tucked into the space between the fallen tree and the ground, she waited.