The Outlaw Bride by Sandra Chastain Page A

then she, too, could change professions and become respectable.She’d quit entertaining men in her room, and she’d started changing the way she dressed, but her reputation was marred in Laramie. She’d returned to serving drinks in the bar. But that was as far as she’d go. The only way to change her future was to separate herself from the past. So far she hadn’t really found a way to do that.
    “Funny thing about the younger Callahan,” Will said. “Folks in Sharpsburg never thought Ben had it in him to run off with the money, but he got away with it—so far.”
    “So far,” she agreed. “But you won’t know the truth until you find him.”
    “And so far I haven’t managed to do that. The people of Laramie are going to start asking what kind of sheriff I am.”
    She laid her hand on his arm. “You’re an honest one. One the good people like and the bad ones fear. Everyone knows that, Will.”
    “Maybe I need to make you my deputy, just to remind me of the obvious.”
    “Maybe you do.” She smiled. “I wouldn’t ask for much pay.”
    “How much would you ask for?”
    “A dinner now and again, away from here.”
    “I think Laramie can afford that.”
    “Deal.” She held out her hand for a shake.
    Will took it in his, and she felt his grip tighten.
    “Thanks, Ellie,” he said. “You really are a good person.”
    He started out the door, stopped and turned. “About that dinner, I was thinking that the hotel would be a nice place for a meal. Would you mind if Josie came along?”

7
 
    “Do I know you?”
    He was just waking up—though this could be a dream. Nothing seemed familiar, not even the woman leaning over him. She was young, small, with a heart-shaped face and sun-kissed skin. Her eyes, a deep brown, crinkled in concern at the corners, allowing, for just a moment, a hint of what might be called fear.
    After a long silence that seemed to signal the waging of some kind of internal war, she answered softly, “I guess you don’t remember.”
    “Remember?” All he could remember was pain. Every breath was sheer torture. His chest hurt. His ribs hurt. But mostly, his head hurt.
    He glanced around. They were inside a small confined place with little light. At the end of their shelter he could see the night sky, glittering with stars, and below it the suggestion of a campfire. He was in a wagon.
    She wiped his face, as though he were a child and she the parent. But he wasn’t a child. He was a man. He reached up, catching her arm, pulling it down on his chest—not because it was his intention, but because he hadn’t the strength to hold it up.
    “Tell me,” he whispered. His voice was graveled and strained. His tongue seemed to fill his mouth, making it difficult to talk. “Why? How did I get here?”
    “You were hurt, Jacob. I found you in the mountains north of Laramie, in Wyoming. Then Brother Joshua Willis came along and said that it wouldn’t be Christian to leave us stranded, so … well, we’re … here.”
    “You called me Jacob?” he asked.
    “You have to have a name. I couldn’t go on caring for a man without one. I gave you a name I … I like.”
    The woman flinched. He glanced down and realized he was still holding her arm. He let go, but the colorless imprints of his fingertips remained. “Forgive me, I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
    “You are forgiven. You’ve had a bad time, Jacob. You were half dead when I found you. You had a black eye and your face was badly bruised. I believe you were beaten.”
    He flexed his muscles, moving his legs cautiously. They were stiff, but seemed to work all right. Next came his arms. Functional. It was when he attempted to lift his head that he found the source of his greatest injury. His head felt like a huge egg, a heavy cracked egg. If he moved, it would break into a million pieces.
    “How long ago?”
    “Five days,” she answered. “Would you like some water?”
    He tried to nod but found it less painful if he