The Gallows' Bounty (West of Second Chances) (6 page)

“You haven’t listened to all the tales about the great Butcher Boden, have you?  He may hunt down the criminals like they are animals, but he has a soft spot for the weak and defenseless.  He’ll most likely treat the woman like gold, you fool,” the Boss explained, appearing a tall silhouette against the night sky.

“She’ll be taken care of, Butcher Boden or no,” the sheriff asserted, finding some of his backbone.  “You’ll get just what you wanted either way.”

“You’d better hope so, French, or I’ll be gunnin’ for you next.”  French thought the Boss smiled, for there was a flash of white in the darkness.

The sheriff stood.  “Sure wish I knew why you’re going through all this trouble just to kill a woman.”

“If I’d wanted you to know, I’d have told you, but as it stands, you’ll just take my money and do as I say.”

“So, what should I do now?” Sheriff French asked.

“Lay low for now.  I’ll let you know what to do when the time comes.  I may be hiring myself some reinforcements.”  There was a pause, and then, “It’ll take more than a two-bit sheriff to kill a woman the Butcher’s protectin’.”

“I ain’t no two-bit sheriff,” French spat back, refusing to back down.

“You’re not?”  the Boss asked derisively.

The Boss left then, leaving behind a fuming Sheriff French.

B
ODEN AWOKE SOMEWHERE AROUND
midnight.  He turned from his side to his back and stretched.  Sleeping on the floor was even more uncomfortable than he remembered.  He wasn’t sure if his awkward position had awakened him or if it had been something else altogether. Sleeping lightly was often essential to his survival, and tonight concern made him more alert than usual. Perhaps Willow had made a noise.

He listened for any sound from the bed, but heard nothing besides the gentle rain hitting the roof and windows.  Reassured that he’d only awakened because of the kink in his back, he still couldn’t return to sleep.  He decided to check on
Willow while he was awake.  The floorboards and his knees creaked as he rose to his feet.  He took the last few steps to the bed and bent over the sleeping form of his wife.

His bride.

He was married, and he wasn’t even sure he was the marrying kind.  He liked his solitary life.  Its routine offered him a sense of security he’d not had in years, but he knew it was more than that.  Out here he couldn’t hurt anyone, or for that matter, be hurt by anyone.  He was alone on the Box B.

You’re not alone anymore
, he reminded himself.  He had family now.  It didn’t matter that he knew so little of said family, that he had met her on the gallows, that she had struck him over the head.  He’d promised to take care of her, and Ezra Boden took his promises seriously.

He stretched out his hand and rested it gently on her forehead.  She was burning up.  What was he to do about that?

A cold cloth.

His mother had always put a cold cloth on his fevered brow.  He walked into the kitchen and dipped a clean towel into a bucket of well water before walking back to the bedroom.

He folded the cloth and laid it across Willow’s forehead.  He couldn’t see much of her in the darkness.  He lit a lamp and turned it low.  The paleness of her skin and the unhealthy flush of her cheeks struck him first.  The second thing he noticed was that the sheet had fallen low on her body.  He couldn’t help thinking that she looked a bit like a calico kitten, defenseless as she was and with all those bruises.  He covered her up and Boden promised himself she’d never bear the mark of his hand.

She shifted restlessly to her side, her hair spreading across the pillow.  Where it touched her skin, her hair was damp.  Moving to his dresser he retrieved a length of string from its top drawer.  Back at the bed, he gathered her hair and smoothed it back before tying it clumsily at the nape of her neck.

He lifted the cloth from her forehead only to discover it was hot to the touch.  He refolded the cloth and replaced it.  After that, there wasn’t much more he could do for her.

He blew out the lamp and returned to his place on the floor.  He’d barely settled beneath his covers when a shout came from the bed.

“Get away!”

He turned the lamp up as quickly as he’d turned it down and placed a hand around her flailing wrist.  “Shh…It’s all right.  No one’s bothering you.”

“Brett, no!”  she struggled harder against his grip.

“It’s Boden, not Brett.”

She wasn’t hearing a word he said. The utter fear in her voice told him more than anything he'd heard before that Brett Roberts had indeed been one mean bastard.

“Please, God, no!” she shouted again.

He held on as she flailed and cried out.

If he let her go in this state, she was bound to hurt herself.  Knowing her restlessness wouldn’t end soon, Boden decided he’d join her in the bed.  Of course, he was climbing into the bed to keep her from hurting herself and not because the floor had his body in pain.  Boden held both of her hands in one of his and climbed over the top of her.  He settled on his side, facing her back, and draped an arm over her, effectively stilling her.

He worried for the woman he’d made his wife.  He tried not to imagine all of the horrible things that fueled her nightmares.  They only fueled his anger.

SUN STREAMED INTO THE
room and gently awakened Willow.  She sat up slowly and massaged her temples.  Her head and her whole body ached.  Her eyes were gritty, and her mouth felt decidedly unpleasant.  A slight breeze coming through the window cooled her naked back.

Naked back?  Where was she and why was she naked?

Her memory came back in flashes.  The continual rain, the flooded creek, jumping off the horse, the kick to the chest, and fading into unconsciousness.  That still didn’t answer why she sat holding a crisp white sheet over her bare body.

“I see you’re awake,” a quiet, masculine voice spoke from the doorway.

Willow looked up and up into a pair of brown eyes.  She had to think a moment before she remembered who stood before her.  It was her husband, but he looked different to her somehow.  And then it dawned on her; he no longer wore a beard.  What had hidden behind that beard had her tongue-tied.  The man was handsome.  Truly handsome. Definitely too young to possess the notoriety of a name like Butcher Boden.

But his eyes were not those of a boy.  Their depths demonstrated that he was all man.

“I–” She cleared her dry throat and tried to speak, but the attempt brought on a fit of dry coughing.

“Here,” he said a moment later.  His strong hands held a glass to her dry lips, and she drank greedily.

When she finished with the glass, she found that she could speak.  “Thank you.”

“I’m just glad you’re awake,” he said, sitting himself on the edge of the bed.

She held the sheet higher and tried to scoot her naked back against the headboard.  He had undressed her, seen her bruises and her body.  She tried to force down her embarrassment and her fear.  Had he done anything else to her while she’d been unable to defend herself?

He caught her gaze.  “You were soaking wet and burning up with fever when we got home.”

He answered her question as if she had spoken it aloud.  Unnerved, she looked away from him and out the window.  What she saw comforted her.  She wasn’t sure why it did.  Maybe it was the cleanliness of the barnyard, the tall cottonwood providing shade, the foal frolicking alongside its mother in the corral.  Then she realized that he obviously took care of what was his.  And maybe, just maybe that same care would extend to her.  In ways, it already had.

He’s nicknamed the Butcher for a reason
, she reminded herself even as she asked, “How long have we been here?”

“We’ve been home about three days now,” he said.

“I see.”  She paused before continuing, “What’s the name of your ranch again?”

“The Box B,” he informed her.

Willow wanted to ask him more about his ranch, but the attention he was paying the bruises on her neck made the questions die in her throat.  Embarrassed by his quiet scrutiny, a hand fluttered up to shield the bruises from his gaze.

He cleared his throat, and looked away, saying, “You’ll most likely want to freshen up.”

She longed for a bath.  How was she going to get one, though?  She reckoned herself too weak to carry any amount of water, not to mention buckets of it.

“I’ll get the tub,” he said as he stood and walked out of the room.  “I’ve already heated some water.”

He’d anticipated her need for a bath?  Not only did he get her the tub, he filled it as well.  All she could do was watch him silently.  With every step and straining of his arms, untold muscles corded and bunched.  Power radiated from his body.  He was the first person in a long time to use his strength for her instead of against her.

“I’ll be in the kitchen getting supper ready, so make sure you holler if you need anything.”  He stopped and turned to face her at the doorway.  “If you can’t make it to the tub on your own, don’t overdo it.  I’ll help you if you call.”

He left then.

She didn’t think she’d have any trouble making it to the tub.  He’d set it as close to the end of the bed as he could.  She dropped her legs over the edge of the mattress and waited for the black lights to stop shooting across her vision.

Maybe she would have some trouble making it to the tub.

She sat there a moment before noticing the item on the nightstand–her gun, the one he had given her.  She reached forward and lifted it with a weak, shaking hand.  Apparently he had cleaned it after its dunking in the creek.  She checked the chamber.  It was loaded.

She began to trust him.

Holding the firearm, she walked the few feet to the bathtub.  Cold sweat beaded on her brow with every step.  She placed the gun on the floor next to the tub and stepped carefully into the steaming water.

She sank slowly into the water and laid her head against the back of the tub.  Her eyes drooped, and she drifted off to sleep even though she kept reminding herself to stay awake.

BODEN WAS GROWING NERVOUS
.  Willow hadn’t joined him in the dining room, and it was silent in the bedroom.  Had she fallen asleep in the tub?  Sneaked out the window?  He didn’t want to barge in and disturb her and lose any of the trust he was forming with her, but if he didn’t do something, he may regret it.

He knocked on the door and called, “Mrs. Roberts, supper’s ready.”

He waited.  No splashing, no answer came from the other side of the door.  The time had come to check on her.

He opened the door and stepped quietly inside.  He looked immediately to the bathtub. She was sound asleep, her head thankfully above water.

She looked so peaceful that he hated to wake her.  Her long neck was exposed and with it the fading bruises.  Elbows rested on the edge of the tub and her arms sloped downward to shield her breasts. The woman was beautiful, alone, and defenseless.  How could anyone hurt her?

And how could anyone resist her?

He turned away from the beautiful sight she made and slammed the door behind himself to wake her, denying himself the opportunity to place his hands on her very feminine shoulders and shake her awake.

He heard splashing as she resumed bathing.  He walked quietly back into the kitchen and out the front door.  Now seemed like a good time to make sure the packs he’d brought home made it into the house. 

WILLOW
FINISHED HER BATH
quickly.  She couldn’t believe she’d fallen asleep.  Good thing something had awakened her or she may have drowned where she sat in the tub.  She scanned the room for her clothes.

Spotting them, she stood and steadied herself with one hand on the edge of the bed.  Black dots harassed her vision again.  She stilled until the dizziness passed, then slipped the red dress over her head.  Willow’s tensions rose as the fabric settled about her shoulders.

Roberts had given the dress to her, demanded she wear it, and attacked her while she wore it.  She’d killed him with the skirt of the dress tangled about her legs.

She had killed him. The reminder hit her like an unexpected right to the jaw.

She’d hated Roberts, hated him even now, and she hated his damned red dress about as much.  It constricted her breathing.  She lifted it over her head and flung it away.

Anger swiftly turned to tears as the horror of the last few days sank into her consciousness.  Willow hit her knees.  Sobs overtook her and she cried.

She cried not for Roberts, but for what he had made her and for what he had made her do.  Even if Boden turned out to be a kind man, she couldn’t let her defenses down.  She had been used one too many times.  No good man would want her or deserve her.  Her head in her hands, she let the anger, frustration, and fear escape with her tears.

A while later a soft knock sounded. “Everything all right?”

Willow stood and reached for a sheet off of the bed and the gun.  She wrapped the sheet about herself.  An elbow pressed to her side held it in place while she gripped the gun in one hand and swiped at her eyes with the other.

“Yes, everything’s fine,” she lied.

“May I come in?”  Boden asked a beat before he opened the door.  His head was down, affording her the privacy of an averted gaze.

She smiled despite her trepidation.  He looked like a naughty schoolboy, and it had been so long since she had been afforded the courtesy of a downcast gaze.  “I’m covered.”

He looked up and appeared surprised to see her wrapped in a sheet.

“I can’t wear that dress,” she explained.  She pointed to where it lay rumpled on the floor.

“I did that bad a job of cleaning and mending it?” he questioned.  “I must admit my straight stitch isn’t what it should be.”

Willow
supposed he was kidding with her, but his face remained straight.

“No, that isn’t it,” she said, but said nothing more.  She didn’t want to reveal her childish problem to this man.

“You wear that sheet well,” he said.  “But I believe I’ve got something that’ll look better on you.”

He drew a package from under his arm, and her hand tensed on the pistol she held.  He eyed the gun as he straightened his arm and handed the package to her.

“I tried them on earlier, but they didn’t fit quite right. I reckon Kern included these for you.”