The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption. Janet Dean

      “No moral right.” The sheriff rubbed his nape. “Not sure about his legal right.”

      “Are you saying I could lose the shop?” Carly shoved each shaky word from her mouth, barely louder than a whisper.

      “No point borrowing trouble. Time will tell.”

      Easy for the sheriff to say. “I have no legal recourse?”

      “If you were asking about horse stealing, I’d know the law. Property rights ain’t my specialty.”

      The door to the sheriff’s office opened. Nate Sergeant stood in the opening. Tall, broad-shouldered, a six-shooter strapped to his hip. Even from across the room, Carly could feel the power radiating from him.

      He removed his Stetson and gave Carly a nod. “Sheriff, I suppose Mrs. Richards has explained the situation.”

      “She has.”

      “I’ll be bringing my sister to Gnaw Bone tomorrow, along with the deed to Mrs. Richards’s shop.”

      “If you’ve got that deed, I’d like to see it. Better yet, I’d like to keep it here in my safe until the circuit judge can straighten out this mess.”

      Nate Sergeant gave a nod. “Any idea when that will be?”

      “Depends on the number of cases he’s hearing.”

      “Sheriff,” Carly said, “can you check his itinerary?”

      “I’ll send a wire and see what I can find out, Mrs. Richards.”

      “Thank you.”

      Carly said goodbye, then strode toward the exit. Sheriff Truitt had been no help. She heaved a sigh. The sheriff wasn’t the troublemaker in town. That label belonged to Nate Sergeant, the man holding the door for her as she strode through, and then followed her out.

      “Mrs. Richards...” he said.

      Carly stopped and turned toward him, steeling her spine against whatever he had to say.

      His gaze was surprisingly soft, gentle. “I’ve brought harm to way too many. I surely don’t want to hurt you,” he said, his eyes filling with despair so wretched Carly couldn’t look away. “I wish things were different, ma’am.”

      Carly had an urge to try to ease his torment, to offer absolution. She reached a tentative hand toward his jaw. Close enough to feel the warmth from his skin.

      At the gesture, his pupils flared into smoldering pools of black.

      Carly’s breath caught. She jerked her hand away.

      Without a word he turned on booted heel, strode to the wagon out front and clamored aboard.

      As she watched him drive off, her stomach tumbled. How could she have connected with a man determined to ruin their lives? Nate Sergeant might regret harming her, but that wouldn’t stop this driven man accustomed to getting his way.

      Inside her gloves, Carly’s hands chilled. He had appeared confident, as if he’d known the law was on his side and she was destined to lose her shop. If the judge agreed, she’d have to move, start over. Leave everything she’d worked hard to build.

      Lord, why did You allow a new threat? Hasn’t my son been through enough? Why?

      Well, she would handle this. Henry would be home from school soon. No time to search. After she tucked him in tonight, she’d look for that deed, proving the bounty hunter was lying through his even, white teeth.

      * * *

      Carly sat on her son’s bed. Across from her Henry tugged his muslin nightshirt to his knees, his head bent low, revealing his slender nape and the curve of his velvety cheek.

      With a grin Henry scrambled up beside her and cuddled close, gazing up at her. “Mama, is that nice man coming back?”

      “What nice man?”

      “The man that promised to help you. When you was asleep.”

      Henry thought that bounty hunter was nice? Nate Sergeant would most likely show up tomorrow with his sister in tow and try to toss them out.

      Well, she wouldn’t budge. “I expect he will.” I expect he will help us to the street. But she couldn’t say that without scaring her son.

      She gazed into his guileless blue eyes. “Why do you call Mr. Sergeant nice?”

      “You fell down and he caught you. He looked scared. Not scary like Pa.”

      Uninvited images surfaced in Carly’s mind, of a full head of dark hair, the shadow of beard along his chiseled jaw, gray eyes laced with regret, the pupils rimmed in charcoal. Those pupils had enlarged, and she’d felt the strangest pull.

      Ridiculous.

      Nate Sergeant might be handsome, manly, even uneasy about snatching her shop, but that wouldn’t stop him.

      “I thought you was dead, Mama. I was afraid.”

      “Oh, sweet boy, I’m sorry I frightened you.”

      His chin trembling, Henry clutched her arm. “Are you sick?”

      “No, I’m healthy and strong. Why, I could wrestle a grizzly bear and win.” Carly tugged him onto her lap.

      He smiled up at her, his fear forgotten. “I’m strong, too,” he said, fisting his right hand and gazing at the tiny swell beneath his sleeve. “See my muscle?”

      “You are strong. Now climb into bed, my little monkey.”

      Henry grabbed the stuffed elephant she’d made for him, its trunk bent and droopy, and scrambled under the covers, pulling them up until only his eyebrows stuck above the quilt. “I’m sleepin’, Mama.”

      “Is that so?” Carly leaned forward and peeled back the edge of the blanket with one finger. “Well, I don’t see a sleeping boy. I see a pretending boy.” She leaned in, pressed a kiss to Henry’s forehead, pausing long enough to inhale his sweet, innocent fragrance. He filled her heart with joy, made her world complete. “I expect a story will make you sleepy.”

      The blanket inched down until she could see mischievous blue eyes, an impish grin. “I love stories.”

      Book in hand, Carly slid into the space beside her son. “That’s good, because I love reading you stories.”

      Head cradled on his hands, Henry curved toward her, a sixty-pound bundle of energy that brought infinite happiness to her life. Moments like these were what mattered. Moments like these filled her life with meaning. Moments like these had gotten her through the worst days with Max and had her counting her blessings twice over.

      Henry listened intently to every word, only interrupting to mimic the sounds made by the animals in the story.

      Carly tucked the book on the nightstand. “Time for our bedtime song.” The nighttime ritual reminded Carly of her mother’s faith and the memories of the happy times they’d shared.

      Carly cupped her son’s cheek in her palm, and then sang, “Father, we thank Thee for the night and for the blessed morning light. For food and rest and loving care and all that makes the day so fair.”

      Lying back on the pillow, his features sweeter than a rosy-cheeked cupid on a postcard Valentine, Henry tilted his face to the ceiling, as if singing for God Himself. “Help me do the things I should and be to others kind and good. In all I do in work or play to grow more loving every day.”

      Henry rolled his head toward her and smiled. “Does Grandma hear us singing?”

      “She might. If she does, she’s proud of her grandson.”

      “She’s proud of you, too, Mama.”

      What had Carly ever done to deserve this precious boy? Her throat knotted. She was all that stood between Henry