The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption. Janet Dean

       Copyright

       Chapter One

      Gnaw Bone, Indiana, March 1898

      A woman should mourn the loss of her husband. Or so Carly Richards once believed.

      No doubt she looked the part of the grieving widow as she stood alongside Max’s grave clothed in black, her gloved palm resting on her young son, unnaturally quiet and still beside her. Yet the eyes Carly bowed shed no tears. In her chest, her thudding heart beat to a steady tempo of relief.

      A fearsome man to live with when he chose to make an appearance, Max had destroyed her love for him years ago.

      She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed the square of linen to her nose. Though the air carried the scent of mowed grass, spring flowers and fresh-turned dirt, the vile odors that had clung to Max filled her nostrils still, as if he stood at her side, not laid out at her feet. Stale tobacco, fresh moonshine, foul breath, permeated with the odor of sweat.

      Sweat of a hardworking man, Carly admired. Sweat of a man coming off a three-day drunk roiled her stomach.

      She’d never again endure the man’s stench or his unpredictable temper. That knowledge purged her, freed her, promised her better days ahead.

      Carly bent, cuddling her seven-year-old son close. Henry smelled of soap, innocence, the hope of new beginnings.

      Across the way neighbors and members of her church had gathered to see Max into the ground. The tension that had been tangible whenever Max had been around was gone, buried with him. Now no one need keep an eye peeled for an unreasonable man itching for a fight.

      Pastor Koontz closed his Bible, offered a prayer for Max’s soul and then eyed his parishioners. “Thank you all for coming on this somber day.” He turned to her. “God bless you and your son, Mrs. Richards,” he said and then stepped aside.

      Folks edged toward her, giving her and Henry a hug, mumbling condolences, avoiding her gaze, then hurried toward the wrought iron gate in quiet groups of three and four, eager to escape. Not a single soul grieved Max. He had no family. No friends. At least none Carly knew of.

      Henry, his dark brown hair lifting in the gentle breeze, pointed to the hole in the ground. “Is Pa staying in there?”

      Carly met his troubled eyes; eyes far too old for one so young. “Yes. Your pa’s passed on.”

      “Like our old hound dog? Pa ain’t coming back?”

      “That’s right.”

      Her son gave a nod, then stepped to the dirt piled at the edge of the grave and stomped the soil with his scuff-toed shoe.

      Once. Twice. Three times.

      Henry pivoted back to her, lips quivering, eyes welling with tears. “He can’t hurt you now, Mama.”

      The heartbreaking truth sank to Carly’s belly like a stone. Henry had not forgotten the last time his father had returned home. The first time Max had slapped her with more than words. The force of the blow had knocked her to the floor, terrifying her son.

      Oh, Lord, why didn’t I take Henry and leave long ago?

      Fear.

      Always imprisoned with the certainty that if she fled, Max would do as he’d threatened. Track her down, catch her unaware and kill her, leaving her precious boy at his mercy. Mercy wasn’t a notion Max understood.

      Nor evidently had his killer, a bounty hunter who’d come to take Max to Kentucky to stand trial for murder. Carly hadn’t known Max was wanted by the law. But she hadn’t found the news surprising. After almost eight years of marriage to the man, nothing surprised her.

      Until now.

      Even with all the prayers she’d uttered, asking God to protect her and Henry, even with abundant evidence God had protected them in countless ways, she’d never expected Max would be the one laid out in the ground instead of her.

      An oppressive weight slid from her shoulders. She’d no longer dread Max’s footfalls after weeks of unexplained absences. She’d no longer dread that every word out of her mouth could trigger his fiery temper. She’d no longer dread what the next day, the next week, the next month would bring.

      A knot of remorse tightened around Carly’s heart and squeezed. Forgive me, Lord. What kind of a woman found comfort in the death of anyone, much less the father of her child?

      Had Max been cut down by a bullet before he’d had a chance to ask God’s forgiveness for the blackness in his life? Had he gotten a moment to repent, a moment to prepare to meet his Maker? She hoped he had.

      Whatever awaited Max, his eternal future was up to God. She would take care of herself and Henry. She’d run the shop. Earn a living. What she’d always done. Perhaps one day she could afford to hire another seamstress, opening more time to spend with her son.

      Not that Max’s death changed her finances. He hadn’t supplied much except trouble. Still, she was grateful for his mother’s shop and would never regret a marriage that had blessed her with this child.

      Nevertheless, she’d learned a valuable lesson. She’d been a fool to hitch herself to Max Richards. She’d never trust a man again.

      Never.

      Carly grasped Henry’s hand and then, with one last glance at the grave, at the overall-clad men already covering the casket with shovelfuls of dirt, stepped away from her past.

      * * *

      A woman stood between Nate Sergeant and a young boy like a petite, beautiful fortress. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, her fair complexion in sharp contrast to her coal-black hair, the delicate female couldn’t outweigh a hundred-pound bag of grain. Under slashing brows, dazzling blue eyes met his, sizing him up, her expression wary, alert.

      Those penetrating eyes ripped the air out of his lungs like an uppercut to the gut. “Didn’t mean to scare you, ma’am,” he said, doffing his hat. “I’m Nate Sergeant—”

      “I’m not scared.” Those cornflower blue eyes turned steely, confirming her claim. “And I know who you are.”

      How could she know his identity? Nate hadn’t seen her before today.

      Out front, a sign shot full of holes read Lillian’s Alterations and Dressmaking. Lillian Richards was dead. Who was this woman? “Do you work here?”

      She ignored his question and gathered the boy to her. As she ruffled her fingertips through his hair, dark like hers, her eyes softened like melted butter. “While you were in school, I made cookies. Go to the kitchen and have a couple while I talk with Mr. Sergeant.”

      The boy turned curiosity-filled eyes on Nate. A gentle nudge from his mother and he trudged toward the rear of the shop. At the doorway he stopped, his gaze traveling between Nate and his mother. As if he picked up on the tension in the room, his brow furrowed in a pint-size warning to treat his mother right.

      In that boy Nate saw himself as a youngster. Whether he believed it or not, Nate knew the lad was far too young to wear the breeches in the family.

      “Go on,” his mother murmured, then watched until he disappeared into the back. With her son out of earshot, Mrs. Richards’s gaze traveled to the pistol strapped on Nate’s thigh. “You’re the bounty hunter who killed my husband.”

      A chill slid through Nate, pebbling the skin on his forearms. When he’d shot Max Richards, he’d made this woman a widow and her young son fatherless. Nate had been fifteen when he’d lost his parents in a train holdup. The boy must be less than half that age.

      “I’m sorry it came to that, ma’am.” Nate rubbed a hand over his nape, taut as a stick of timber. “How’d you know me?”