The Bounty Hunter Read online

  “Toss your gun down real slow,” Lily said.

  Nate was faster, but in the struggle he soon had his arms wrapped around her as he fought to keep her from shooting. In moments he’d taken the gun away.

  The next thing his brain registered was that he was holding her near-naked body pressed against him. She was soft, warm and feminine.

  “Sheriff?” The question came out as a breathless discovery. “Did you follow me?”

  “Had to see what you were up to.”

  “And what business is that of yours?”

  “It’s my business if you’re in trouble—or if you’re not safe.”

  “It’s a hot night, and I came to swim. And if you’ve seen enough, I intend to do just that.”

  The bushes rustled as she headed to the stream. His imagination went wild.

  Lily Divine naked in the moonlight.

  Nate realized he still held her Colt in his hand. Against his better judgment he followed the path she’d taken.

  A peacemaker, a romantic, an idealist and a discouraged perfectionist are the words that Cheryl uses to describe herself. The author of both historical and contemporary novels says she’s been told that she is painfully honest.

  Cheryl admits to being an avid collector who collects everything from teapots, cups and saucers and pitchers, to Depression glass, dolls and tin advertising signs. She and her husband love to browse antiques and collectibles shops.

  She says that knowing her stories bring hope and pleasure to readers is one of the best parts of being a writer. The other wonderful part is being able to set her own schedule and work around her family and church. Working in her jammies ain’t half bad, either!

  Cheryl loves to hear from readers. You can write her at P.O. Box 24732, Omaha, NE 68124, or e-mail [email protected].

  THE BOUNTY HUNTER

  CHERYL ST. JOHN

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  Montana, Spring 1890

  “‘ONWARD CHRISTIAN SOLDIERS, marching as to war! With the cross of Je-e-sus going on before’!”

  “It’s the Bible thumpers again.” Annoyance tapped a cadence along Lily Divine’s nerve endings and raised her temperature a degree. She set aside the freshly washed and dried glasses she’d been stacking behind the bar and stepped around Old Jess to plant herself in the open doorway of her half-filled saloon. The light from the interior spilled out and, aided by the hissing gas lamps on the boardwalk, lit half a dozen women wearing prim dresses and bonnets. Standing in the street, they held signs lettered in charcoal on brown paper.

  The Dens of Vice are Stealing from Us, one sign read. Another spelled out, Wicked Women Repent.

  “Move along!” she called. “There’s nothing illegal going on here.”

  “‘Christ the Royal Master, leads against the foe’!” they sang at the tops of their voices with tambourine accompaniment. “‘Forward into ba-at-tle, see His banners go’!”

  At the very front of the gathering was Meriel Reed, wife of Thunder Canyon’s livery owner and the leader of the newly formed Women’s Temperance Prayer League. Lily narrowed her eyes at Wade’s wife of one and a half years. Tall and slender, with every mousy-brown hair in place, Meriel seemed to have honed in on Lily as the personified harbinger of evil and used every opportunity to get under her skin.

  These women had taken to praying and singing in front of the town’s three saloons in hopes of discouraging customers. At first their unwelcome visits had been only on Friday and Saturday nights, but lately their zeal had extended to the weeknights, as well. So far, their behavior had been merely a nuisance, but Lily resented their holier-than-thou attitudes—and their assumption that something wicked was going on in her establishment.

  The song wound down, and Lily got a word in before they caught their second self-righteous wind. “There’s no law against selling whiskey and playing cards,” she called. “You’re wasting your breath here.”

  “There are moral laws,” Beatrice Gibbs returned. “God’s laws.” As the mayor’s wife, Beatrice was a visible and vocal presence in this new protest. She was as buxom and sturdy as Meriel was thin.

  “Nothing immoral goes on in the Shady Lady,” Lily assured her, with a sweep of her arm. “Come in and see for yourself.”

  As a whole, the women sucked in a shocked breath and drew back as though Lily had suggested they step into the flames of hell and dance a jig with the devil. Blythe Shaw, the mercantile owner’s new wife, bristled and spoke up. “No self-respecting Christian woman would set foot within the walls of that den of wickedness. And no one believes you aren’t dispensing more than whiskey in those rooms next door. We’re not fools.”

  Disgusted, Lily turned back inside and closed the interior doors, which were normally open on warm May Montana evenings such as this. She called to Isaac Worthy, “Play that piano louder! We have competition outside.”

  Isaac, with hair to his shoulders from the sides of his head and none at all on top, stepped up the tempo and volume of “Buffalo Gals.”

  Granted, the connecting house had been a bordello until seven years ago, but when Lily had inherited the house from her friend, Madame Antoinette Powell, she’d added on the dance hall and given the last two remaining working girls different jobs.

  “It’s them again?” Mollie asked. Mollie was an Omaha-Ponca Indian who had worked for Antoinette.

  “Seems we’re the only ones who believe there’s no sinning going on here,” Lily told her.

  “What about all the men who drink and play cards here of a night?” Mollie asked. “They can make it plain that this isn’t where they come for a poke.”

  There had been many a misunderstanding when newcomers expecting to take their ease with one of Lily’s girls had been told to look elsewhere. After seven years, the regulars knew they could buy good whiskey, play a fair hand of cards, and buy a dance with a pretty lady. But anyone treating a female disrespectfully was promptly ushered out.

  Lily smiled. “And so they tell their wives the same about us as they do about the Three Moon Palace and the Big Nugget—that there’s no whoring going on?”

  “I suppose you’re right,” Mollie conceded. “What’s a wife to believe?”

  “I bet some of those women are nice ladies,” Lily said affably.

  Molly’s black eyes took on a sparkle. “I’m sure they are. We’d probably be their best friends if we closed the place down and married town big shots. They’d be gracious and have us over for tea.”

  They leaned in close for a shared chuckle at the image.

  “Well, I’m not closing the place down.” Lily’s dance hall was a flourishing enterprise. Early on she’d learned that there was plenty of money to be made from the miners.

  Ten years ago she’d begun a laundry business, tucking away her earnings while living under the protection her friend offered. Upon Antoinette’s death and Lily’s inheritance of the bordello, she’d used part of her savings to build and appoint the saloon.

  She had ordered the gigantic curving cherrywood bar all the way from Pennsylvania. The huge expanse of mirror behind it had cost fifteen hundred dollars. She was especially proud of that mirror. It reflected light and sparkling glassware and the faces of the patrons and those who worked within these walls. It spoke of Lily’s enterprising success
and independence. She was never ashamed to look into it and see the reflection of a hardworking woman.

  “Miss Lily, may I speak with you?”

  “Excuse me, Mollie.” Lily turned to the man who’d spoken. He was middle-aged and slender, wearing a black suit with a white shirt and string tie. “Good evening, Edward.”

  “I wanted to thank you for putting me up for a few nights. I’d have camped outside town, but I really wanted to stay nearby so I wouldn’t miss any arriving trains or stages. I’ve been watching for a friend who will be accompanying me on to the coast.”

  “You earned your keep, Mr. Mulvaney. Old Jess is a fine barkeep, but his bones are a might creaky from his years of prospecting, and he can’t stack and clean the way you did. That storeroom fairly sparkles.”

  “I was wondering, Miss, if you would grant me a few hours of your time tomorrow.”

  Lily gave him a curious look.

  “I’d like to paint you.”

  Lily had seen the paint under Mulvaney’s nails and the wrapped canvases he’d carried with him upon his arrival. “You do portraits?”

  He nodded. “That’s why I’m traveling to the coast. To study under a gifted teacher. I’ve sketched something out, but I’d like to capture your countenance to my liking…if you please.”

  Lily considered his request for a moment. “I can’t see any harm. Tomorrow, midmorning, right here?”

  “That would be perfect. Thank you very much, Miss Lily.”

  He took his leave at the same time one of the double front doors opened and Thunder Canyon’s aging sheriff, Randall Parson, entered the dance hall. A few nods were directed toward him as he made his way to the bar, but his presence wasn’t anything unusual. With a wince, he settled himself on a squeaky stool.

  “Evenin’, Lily.”

  “Evenin’, Sheriff.”

  Old Jess poured a shot of whiskey and slid the heavy glass toward the lawman.

  Like clockwork every evening, he got his two shots on the house; in seven years he’d never missed his drinks. Sheriff Parson going much of anywhere beyond Main Street would have been remarkable.

  “Choir still practicing in the street?” Lily asked.

  She knew the answer. He’d waited for his whiskey until they were gone. Sheriff Parson didn’t like confrontations.

  “They’ve moved on up to the Big Nugget,” he replied.

  “Glad the ladies are getting their exercise,” she said. “Nice night for it.”

  He didn’t meet her eyes. “They’re causing more of a stink than you know, Lily.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’ve called meetings with the councilmen over the past couple of months.”

  Lily had caught wind of meetings after the fact; she and the other saloon owners hadn’t been informed ahead of time. “There’s no law in Montana against running a gambling establishment or selling liquor. There’s no law against prostitution, for that matter. They’re trying to hurt my business.”

  “Lily, you know as well as anyone that the Shady Lady is a big part of the economy of Thunder Canyon.”

  “I remember that every month when I pay my taxes, Randall.”

  Early on, the town fathers had shrewdly made the dance halls pillars of financial support. Officials loved the saloons, not only for their own pleasure, but also for the steady cash flow. Like the owners of the other two establishments, Lily paid four hundred dollars a year for a license and a hundred dollars a month in taxes. Fines for disturbing the peace were added on top of those costs. It was an arrangement that kept everybody happy—or it had until lately.

  Sheriff Parson knocked back his first shot. “These eastern women with their city ideas are more’n a nuisance. The more of ’em there are, the more they band together. The more they make trouble.” Finally, he looked directly at her. “They have influence with their menfolk, Lily.”

  She shook her head and gestured with a hand in the air. “Something needs to be done about them. We were here long before they came to Thunder Canyon.”

  Sheriff Parson rubbed his chin. “They’ve complained about the amount of money squandered in the dance halls and…they claim I’m not doin’ my job.”

  “What do they think your job is? You keep the law.”

  “They’re zealous.”

  “Obviously.”

  “Won’t tolerate drunkenness or prostitution.”

  “I don’t have sportin’ women, you know that, and I’m not gonna be run out. My place operates within the law.”

  “Town officials can influence state laws.”

  “You know me and my saloon, Randall.”

  “I do, Lily. But it looks like it ain’t gonna matter anymore.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He threw back his second shot and studied the bottom of the glass. “I’m bein’ replaced.”

  She stared at him. “What? By who?”

  “Some man hunter they hired to bring law and order.”

  Stunned, Lily glanced around the inside of her place. “I’m not changing a thing until they can change the law.”

  “Good luck, Lily.” He stood and picked up his hat from the bar to settle it on his head.

  “When?” she asked.

  “A month or two, I reckon. Soon as he can tie up his other business and get here.”

  “What’ll you do, Randall?”

  “Got me a sister in St. Louis. Figured I’d go there for a spell. Never met her children, and they’re growed already. Evenin’.” Lily noticed his pronounced limp as he made his way to the batwings and pushed out into the night.

  Isaac was pounding out a melody on the keyboard, and half a dozen men and women danced to the gay tune.

  Lily turned to the mirror and found her reflection. Auburn hair in ringlets caught up on her head; blue eyes; a determined jaw; a glimmer of attitude. Nothing had changed.

  And she wasn’t about to let anything change. She’d been here first.

  NATHANIEL HARDING RODE into Thunder Canyon from the east midmorning on a day late in July. He saw a typical mining town that had been built up and prospered over the years because of the railroad coming through. The first building he passed, set apart from the rest and new, was a schoolhouse. It sat in the center of about an acre of land, shaded by a gnarled oak and several piñon trees.

  The other buildings showed a wide variation in age and expense and were set along three connecting streets that formed an H. Some were unpainted wood frames, while a few were brick and several were made of logs. The wooden buildings along Main Street stood close together and were joined by boardwalks and awnings. Some shared roofs.

  Most were easy to identify. He’d been in a hundred towns that looked just the same. A milliner’s, a mercantile, a butcher shop, post office and freight station combined, a town hall, a bank, three saloons and, at the west end of the street, a whitewashed church. This one was called the Congregational Church, and the sign on the fence announced that Reverend James Bacon presided.

  A garden plot occupied an entire lot in the midst of the businesses, an oddity to be sure. The flourishing vegetables looked well-tended.

  An impressive three-story brick structure on Main Street appeared vacant, which struck him as odd.

  The sheriff’s office and jail was a building set off by itself at the southwest corner of town. Dirt-streaked windows bracketed the door. There was a hitching post and a wooden porch with a long bench, but no roof to protect whoever sat on the bench from the blazing sun.

  His arrival seemed to have caused a stir. The women stared and spoke to each other, and shop owners came out on their boardwalks. He touched the brim of his hat in a silent greeting and rode past.

  The telegram tucked in Nate’s pocket instructed him to go directly to the town hall when he arrived, so he tied up his horse and entered the brick building. The impressive structure was large, with a foyer and doors that opened from the main area. He rapped on the one that had a placard announcing Peyton Gibbs, Mayor.
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  The sound of chair legs scraping the floor met his ears, and a moment later the door swung partway open.

  A thin, dark-haired man in a suit and wearing gold-rimmed spectacles took a step back, his eyes growing wide as he took in Nate’s appearance. Nate wore his .45 in a holster on his hip and carried his Remington rifle. He’d been riding for over a week and hadn’t shaved in all that time. No doubt he looked a mite rough around the edges.

  “Er. May I help you?”

  “The mayor here?”

  The man blinked like a mouse confronted with a bobcat. “Er. Who would be asking?”

  “Nathaniel Harding.”

  “Oh. Oh. Yes, Harding. Come in, won’t you? Just one moment.” He opened the door completely and scurried away to enter another room.

  A few minutes later, a portly man with dark hair parted in the center and a handlebar mustache greeted Nate with a handshake. “Pleased to meet you. Your references were impeccable. Very impressive. Your reputation is just what Thunder Canyon needs.”

  Nate eyed him from beneath the brim of his hat. “Sheriff’s job, right?”

  “Precisely. We have a sticky situation, and we’re trying to handle it.”

  He ushered Nate into his office and offered him a seat before he outlined the problem with the Women’s Temperance Prayer League and the reforms they were insisting upon.

  Nate sat and rested his hat on his knee.

  “Mind you, these are our wives. Their displeasure makes our lives miserable.”

  “You hired me to handle a bunch of women?”

  “No, no. We need you to appease them and clean up the town.”

  “Get a lot of undesirables, do you? Gunfights and such?”

  “Drunken miners mostly, not many outlaws. The problem is in the dance halls.”

  “There’s no law against gambling or drinking.”

  “There’s disturbance of the peace on occasion. What really gets the women riled is the money bein’ spent. Just between you and me, those houses support the town, always have. Miner sells some gold dust, he spends his coins on whiskey and women. But there’s trouble comin’. These women aren’t going to be satisfied until the town is as clean as a whistle and the sportin’ women are gone.”