Abbie's Outlaw

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

Chapter One

Midas, New Mexico

June 1887

When the Reverend John Leaf saw Abigail Windsor standing at the top of the train steps, dressed in black and shielding her eyes from the noonday sun, he knew that all hell was about to break loose. He’d made a million mistakes in his life and had made amends for all of them—except one. Now that mistake was coming to light in a way he had dreaded for years and deeply feared.

His eyes stayed on Abbie as she scanned the crowd. Lord, he thought, she looked awful in black. The girl he remembered had insisted on wearing pretty colors in spite of the gloom in her life. He remembered her best in a coppery dress that brought out the highlights in her hair. He also remembered her wearing nothing at all, which was a problem for a man who’d sworn off women entirely.

He’d never been inclined toward marriage or children of his own. The Leaf family curse ran thick in his blood, and he’d rather die than pass it on to an unsuspecting child. Certainly not to a son who would grow up filled with hate or to a daughter who would go through life lonely and crazed like his own mother had.

But if the letter he’d received from a girl in Virginia was true, he’d done exactly that. The hairs on John’s neck stood on end as he remembered opening the envelope with Silas’s handwriting on the front. On a single sheet, his friend had written, “This came for you. Godspeed.”

Along with Silas’s note, John had removed an expensive linen envelope addressed to him in a schoolgirl’s cursive. The address was brief: “Mr. John Leaf, Bitterroot, Wyoming.” Beneath the two lines she had written, “Please forward.” John had peeled off the wax, unfolded a sheet of stationery and started to read.

Dear Mr. Leaf,

My name is Susanna Windsor. If you are the same John Leaf who left the Wyoming Territorial Prison in April of 1881, please write to me at my school. I believe I am your daughter.

Regards.

John had stared at the words in a fog. The girl had said just enough to scare the daylights out of him without revealing anything about herself. The address she had supplied was for a girls’ academy in Virginia. He’d never been east of the Mississippi and didn’t know a soul who had, at least not someone who could afford a fancy private school. The original postmark was two months old. He figured the envelope had been sitting in the Bitterroot post office for weeks before Silas went to town where the postmaster must have given it to him.

John had spent a wretched night remembering dozens of women he’d barely known and one he’d almost taken to Oregon. He’d also sat at his desk with his head in his hands, praying that the poor girl had made a mistake. He was obligated to reply to her letter, but who was she?

He’d gotten his answer the next morning when Justin Norris had delivered a telegram from the girl’s mother.

We have urgent business. Will arrive in Midas on the California Ltd. on June 3rd. Abigail Windsor nee Moore.

It had taken him a minute to put the pieces together. The stuffy-sounding Abigail Windsor was Abbie Moore, the girl who had threatened to shoot out his kneecaps, then fed him supper because she’d felt bad about it. They had spent two weeks together, alone on her grandmother’s farm, and nature had taken its course.

John’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He wanted a drink, but he had consumed his weekly shot of whiskey the previous night in a vain effort to forget about what had happened on their last night together. To his shame, John had ridden off and left Abbie alone to clean up the mess.

Now that girl was a woman and standing in the doorway of the train, scanning the crowd from beneath the brim of her black bonnet. Needing to greet her but not ready to face the needs of the day, John watched as she pressed her lips into a tight line and scoured the crowd with her eyes. Her chest swelled as she took a breath and then blew it out in irritation. That gesture gave him comfort. She was probably upset with him for not meeting the train. They’d both be better off if she stayed that way, so he rocked back on one heel and waited.

To his surprise, her eyes locked on someone in the crowd and turned murderous. Following her line of sight, he saw a boy with the gangly posture of adolescence pushing through the throng. The kid had a bigger head of steam than the train and was barreling straight at Emma Dray, the mayor’s daughter and a member of John’s congregation. The matrons in his church had picked this young and pretty woman to be his wife, much to John’s irritation and Emma’s ill-concealed delight.

Emma was waving at someone across the platform when the human cannon ball clipped her elbow and knocked her off balance. John had no desire to catch Emma, but what choice did he have? With two quick strides, he came up behind her and clasped her arms until she was steady on her feet.

When the boy glanced back, John gripped his thin shoulder and hauled him up short. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “What’s your name, son?”

“I’m not your son.” When the kid’s voice cracked from bass to soprano, John held in a grin. He remembered those painful days between boyhood and being a man, and this young fellow had a face full of pimples to go with his resistant vocal cords.

John took the boy’s attitude in stride. He liked bratty kids. Some of them spelled real trouble, but most were either neglected or mad at the world, feelings he understood. Knowing that too much kindness made angry boys even more rebellious, he made his voice as grim as charred wood. “It’s most definitely my business, son. You owe Miss Dray an apology.”

Emma looked down her nose. “He certainly does. He wrinkled my dress.”

Leave it to Emma to carp about nonsense. The boy’s conduct needed to be addressed, but any fool could see he’d been cooped up on the train and needed to blow off steam. Ignoring Emma, John said, “So what do you have to say?”

The boy managed an arrogant scowl. “She’s fat and slow. She should have gotten out of my way.”

“Well, I never!” huffed Emma.

“Trust me,” John said pointedly. “In about five years, you won’t think Miss Dray is fat.”

When a blush stained Emma’s cheeks, John wished he’d been more careful in his choice of words. He’d meant to remind the kid that he was still a boy. Instead John had reminded Emma that he was a man. If he knew her mother, he’d be paying for the slip with unwanted invitations for the next six months.

Before the boy could reply, the crowd shifted, revealing Abbie hurrying in their direction. She was lugging a satchel with one hand and using the other to hold her skirt above her ankles to allow for her angry stride.

At the sight of her high-button shoes, John felt his heart kick into double time. If it hadn’t been for another pair of boots, they might never have met. His gaze rose to her face where he saw her high cheekbones and small nose. Her hair was pinned in a stylish coiffure but slightly disheveled, as if it were rebelling against the black hat holding it in place. Her cheeks had flushed to a soft pink, and her eyes were glued to the boy in John’s grip.

“Robert Alfred Windsor! Don’t you dare take another step!”

Because of the feathers poking up from Emma’s hat, Abbie hadn’t seen John’s face. She focused on Emma as she dipped her head in apology. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been on the train for twelve days and he’s—”

John stepped into her line of sight. “Hello, Abbie.”

“Johnny?”

“I go by John now,” he said. “Or Reverend.”