The Gunman's Bride

“What’s going on outside, Etta?” she asked. “Look at all those men and horses right under my window.”

“Ma’am?” someone shouted from below. “Excuse me, ma’am, but have you seen a wounded man about these parts?”

“Shut the window!” Etta hissed. “Quick! Shut the—”

“I’ll have you know men aren’t allowed near our dormitory,” Rosie called out. “It’s against Mr. Harvey’s regulations. You’d better take your horses out of this yard before the sheriff arrests you.”

“I’m the sheriff of Colfax County, miss. Sheriff Mason T. Bowman. This fellow with me is a detective from the Pinkerton National Detective Agency out of New York City.”

“Oh, my!”

“I told you to shut the window,” Etta whispered.

“Don’t mean to frighten you ladies, but we’re in search of a desperate outlaw. He was wounded about an hour ago in a gun battle just outside of town—shot two or three times. He’s lost a lot of blood, and we’ve tracked him as far as this backyard.” Shot once, Bart corrected silently under the bed. He might have needed an excuse to get close to Rosie, but he wasn’t fool enough to let two bullets plug him.

“This man is armed and dangerous. He’s a hardened criminal with a price on his head in Missouri. You ladies had better keep your windows shut tight and your doors locked.”

“Yes, Sheriff Bowman.” Rosie’s voice quavered. “I’ll tell the other women.”

“What has this man done?” Etta called down.

“You name it. Robbed banks, trains, stagecoaches. He’s a horse thief and a cattle rustler. And he’s wanted for murder.”

Under the bed, Bart frowned. He was not a horse thief and cattle rustler.

“What’s his name?” Etta asked.

“Goes by two or three aliases—Injun Jack, Savage Jack, Jack King. His legal name is Bart Kingsley. He ran with Frank and Jesse James before Jesse got killed last year. The detective is after him for three train robberies in Missouri. Been trailing Kingsley all the way from Kansas City.”

Kansas City? Bart frowned. The Pinkerton detective had been tracing him since Kansas City? Rosie had left a trail a mile wide, but Bart didn’t think he had given any clues to his own whereabouts. Maybe he was a chuckleheaded fool after all. No wonder the sheriff had plugged him.

“If we see anything suspicious, we’ll send for you right away,” Etta assured the sheriff as she shut the window. “A murderer! Can you imagine, Laurie? Right outside the dormitory, too. The other girls will be scared out of their wits at the thought. I’m going to tell Annie and Mae right away. Won’t they just swoon? Laurie? Are you all right? You’re trembling!”

“Oh, Etta.”

“Don’t be scared of that outlaw. The sheriff will have him rounded up by morning.”

“Etta, I want you to open my wardrobe door right this minute and look inside. Wait—take this!”

Rosie knelt by the bed, and Bart prayed she wouldn’t see him in the shadow as she fished a pistol out from under the mattress. He let out a stifled sigh when she stood and gave the weapon to her friend.

“Laurie! You’re not supposed to have a gun,” Etta squealed. “It’s against regulations!”

“If he’s in there, shoot him! Just shoot him right through the heart.”

Bart scowled. Well, that was a fine attitude.

“Take your gun, Laurie. The wardrobe’s empty.”

“Don’t leave me here alone. Please, I beg you!”

“That man’s not going to get in here. I locked your window, and you can bolt the door after I’m gone. I never expected you to be so—”

“Etta…” Her breath was shallow. “Etta…I know that man. The outlaw. The killer. I know him. Or I used to know someone by that name.”

“Injun Jack?”

For a moment the room was silent. Then Rosie let out a ragged breath. “Bart Kingsley,” she whispered. “I was married to him.”

A knock on the door by one of the girls who had come to investigate the shouting had taken Etta out of the room for a moment. As soon as she informed everyone about the sheriff’s warnings, she hurried back into Rosie’s room and sat down on the bed beside her friend.

“I swear my heart is about to pound right out of my chest! I could barely hold my tongue after what you told me, Laurie. You think you were married to the outlaw?”

“Etta, please,” Rosie pleaded, trying to still her own heartbeat. “I don’t want to talk about it. It’s all in the past.”

“Oh, Laurie, how can you just up and say you were married to a murderous outlaw and then not tell the story to me—your very best friend in all the world?”

“I wasn’t married to an outlaw, Etta. The Bart Kingsley I knew in Kansas City was no killer. He was a boy. Seventeen. And I was only fifteen. It happened a long time ago.”

“You got married when you were fifteen years old?” Etta’s blue eyes sparkled as bright pink spots lit up her cheeks. Her hair had escaped its roll to form a wildly frizzy blond spray across her forehead.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Rosie repeated. She felt hot, miserable and suddenly close to tears as a flood of memories washed through her. All she had ever wanted was to teach children. How she loved little ones with their wide eyes and fertile minds! She longed to open those minds and pour in knowledge that would create successful, happy adults who could change the world into a better place.

But schoolteachers were working women, Pappy always said, and far beneath her social rank. She would never be allowed to stand in a classroom, he informed her, with chalky fingers and eyes tired from reading late by candlelight. No, she was to marry—marry someone well situated—and forget her schoolmarm notions.

Then Bart Kingsley came along.

“Laurie, please tell me,” Etta begged.

“It’s not romantic like you think. It was all a mistake.”

“Was he cruel? Did you know he was going to become a killer?”

“Of course not. In fact…I couldn’t have known the Bart Kingsley they’re hunting. At least…I don’t think it could be the same man.”

“But it might be,” Etta stressed. “Remember how scared you were when you first heard his name—same as yours.”

With a sigh Rosie smoothed down her black cotton skirt. Right now she wanted nothing more than to untie her soiled white apron, slip off her stockings and soak her sore feet in a basin of water. She didn’t want to think about the past. She didn’t want to remember Bart Kingsley.

“He was handsome,” she murmured, unable to look at Etta. “My Bart Kingsley had green eyes…strange green eyes with threads of gold. And straight hair, black as midnight. He was skinny—rail thin—but strong. Oh, my Bart was so strong. He was kind, too. Always soft-spoken and polite to everyone. He loved animals. Stray dogs and cats followed him around the farm. When he sat down to rest, there’d be one cat on his shoulder and another on his lap.”

“He worked on your father’s farm?”

“In the stables. He was wonderful with horses. He broke and trained them with such gentleness. It was like magic the way they obeyed him. And you should have seen my Bart ride.”

“What do you suppose turned him into a cattle rustler and a murderer?”

“It couldn’t be the same man,” Laura Rose retorted. “The Bart Kingsley I married never hurt anybody. He wouldn’t even say a harsh word if someone was cruel to him.”