Chapter 5

October 10, 1889

Pueblo, Colorado

Caleb hid behind a tree some distance away from the Pueblo schoolhouse and watched the children play, their tin lunch pails tossed carelessly aside. Their teacher, a striking woman with reddish blonde hair, stood on the steps of the tiny building, guarding her charges. She wore a trim blue dress festooned with pink flowers, the white collar buttoned to her chin. When she walked forward to comfort a child who had fallen, he saw the tips of polished black boots peek out from under the hem of her skirts.

He ignored her wistful smile as she set the child back to his games and tugged her shawl around her shoulders against the early October chill.

It had taken him almost six damned months to find her. He’d had to dip into his savings to hire a retired bounty hunter because he couldn’t leave their claim. He would take every penny out of her obstinate hide before dragging her back to their home.

He’d almost completed the white clapboard farmhouse with her in mind, and had even tilled up a garden for her in the misguided hope that she’d come to her senses and return. When the bounty hunter sent word of her location, he saw red.

It had been another month before he could find someone to tend his claim, then a three-week journey to reclaim his reluctant bride. He’d thought several times that he should give up on the brat. He’d stepped out once or twice with girls from the burgeoning town of El Reno, but none had made his guts flame like Abby had. Even the soiled doves populating the brothels brought no relief.

He was further infuriated by the fact that Abby seemed happy. She had a little house with a small garden provided to her by the kind people of Pueblo. She went to church every Sunday and was friendly with several local women. Thankfully, she didn’t seem to have a suitor. He had no idea what he’d have done if she’d been unfaithful.

He stroked the braided leather quirt hanging at his waist. He’d spent his evenings carving the antler handle to fit his hand perfectly. The leather falls were from the hide of the buck she’d killed the day she’d left him. It seemed fitting that he use it to enforce his lesson in obedience.

Abby fingered the ivory stock of the Colt strapped to her thigh. Though she tried to hide it from her pupils, she’d been on edge all day, feeling as if someone watched her. She couldn’t wait to send them off to their homes. If something was going to happen, she wanted the children far away from any trouble.

At first, she’d thought it might be Indians, but there had been no trouble with the tribes for years. Her opinion on the matter was unpopular and she kept it to herself, but she’d often thought the indigenous tribes got the short end of the stick in their dealings with the United States.

Regardless of her feelings, she took her responsibility for the children quite seriously. When the clock finally ticked over to three she heaved a sigh of relief and dismissed her students. They filed outside, thanking her for the day’s lessons as they darted away toward their homes. She shaded her eyes with a hand, watching as the last of them disappeared down the road.

Heaving out a relieved sigh, she turned to collect her things and close the schoolhouse for the day. The hairs on the back of her neck twitched and she slid her hand into the slit in her dress, her fingers closing around the butt of her Colt.

A click sounded behind her, the metallic snap of a cocked pistol loud in the empty schoolroom. “Take your hand out of your dress and put them both up where I can see them.”

The low, angry growl was too familiar and she shivered as she obeyed.

“Drop the pen, Abby.”

Her hand relaxed and the fine fountain pen given to her by the new mayor of Pueblo tumbled to the floor and landed with a thud. The cold muzzle of a pistol touched her temple and she tried to hold back her flinch as a hard hand tore through her dress and jerked her Colt from its holster around her thigh.

“Why have you come here, Mr. Walsh?” She was proud that her voice didn’t waver, but his ugly chuckle made her want to take her chances with the pistol lodged against her face.

“I’ve come to retrieve my wife. Did you honestly think I’d let you go?”

“Yes! And I’m not your wife!”

He was silent for a moment and she wondered if her answer had surprised him. A gentle hand stroked her cheek and she flinched away from the touch. His hand closed on her throat and he leaned close, never moving the pistol from her temple.

“Here’s what’s going to happen, Mrs. Walsh,” he hissed. “You’re going to walk outside and get on my horse. I’m going to mount up behind you and we’re going to go home.”

“I am home.” Caleb’s hand tightened on her neck and she stifled her gasp of pain.

He ignored her and continued, “And if you do not obey me, I’m going to tell the nice people of this town exactly what you look like when you come.”

She hitched in a breath and swallowed against the pressure of his hand on her throat. “Why, Caleb? Why can’t you just leave me alone?”

“Because you were mine the minute you set your stake in my claim.” He tucked her Colt into the pocket of his coat. “Go on now. Count yourself lucky that I haven’t shot out your knee so you can’t run anymore.”

She reached for Matthew’s oilskin duster, but he slapped her hands away. “Go outside and get on the horse, Abigail.”

“But I need my...”

He lowered the pistol and fired a shot right between her feet. She let out a short scream and jumped back, staring in horror at the smoking hole in the floorboards. “Have you lost your damned mind?” she shouted.

“The next one is going in your knee.”

She felt the blood rush from her face as gooseflesh bloomed on her arms. As she stared into his emotionless brown eyes, she realized he was deadly serious. Her gaze caught on the tiny white scar above his eyebrow and she knew it was the remnant of the wound she’d left when she hit him with a rock.

She spun around and marched outside, her boots kicking up little clouds of dust as she approached his horse. She grabbed the reins and set her foot in the stirrup, shivering when the cold metal barrel touched her back.

“They still hang horse thieves, you know,” he whispered. “I recommend that you think very carefully about that if you’re planning on running.”

She swung her leg over the saddle and didn’t reply, ignoring the cold wind biting into her calves. “Am I to be a horse thief or a whore?” she snapped. “You need to pick one if you’re going to keep your stories straight.”