Lawfully Yours

Bounty hunter Ryder Storm likes women little and trusts them even less. Against his better judgment, he accepts the job of tracking down the woman who murdered a Rhode Island businessman. Finding her seems simple enough, but keeping his heart becomes the biggest challenge of his life.

Cheri Henderson is a woman down on her luck, working in the uncultured West, trying her best to properly raise her son without the benefits of a father. Little does she know, however, the crude bounty hunter sent to Tucson to catch a murderer is actually looking for her.

The Cover Models: Eddie Foltz and Teresa Lyons.

Awards: AQP 2003 Reader's Choice Award, RIO Award of Excellence 2003 Finalist (Short Historical)

Rhode Island
December 1869

He hated this part of the job—meeting potential clients. They usually were just as second-rate, if not more so, than the man he was hired to find and bring to justice. No one called upon him unless they had exhausted all other possibilities and the Justice Department had washed their hands of the case. Although “respectable” members of society, beneath their well cut suits they harbored secrets worse than a two-bit criminal. At least with an outlaw, you knew him for what he was.

Ryder Storm walked up the short stone walkway, passing through the wrought-iron gateway, his booted heels sounding loudly. It was Sunday. No one worked on the sanctified day aside from those not doing the Lord's bidding, and he walked the fine line of being considered holy for some time.

His buckskin breeches rode low across his hips where a cartridge belt rested carrying two holsters strapped to his thighs. He wore his Navy revolvers butt out, loaded, and ready for use.

His appearance alone made many ladies gasp in fright as their prospective mates or husbands dragged them to the opposite side of the street. He emptied a store many times just by walking through the door. These actions were second nature to him now. He no longer noticed when a man backed his intended, or wife, against the wall to shield her from his view.

Ryder's emotions hardened as he walked up the brick steps of the town house. He prepared for the coming confrontation; this was business and nothing more. Clenching his teeth, steeling his jaw, he rapped sharply on the cherry-wood door. The door opened immediately, and a small black face and white eyes peered nervously at him.

“Ryder Storm, ma'am.” He tipped his worn Stetson.

“Of course, sirrah” She bowed her head, opening the door for him to enter. “I'll tell missus you're here.”

Ryder's fists clenched as he looked around at the elegance surrounding him. The chandelier overhead cast light like diamonds off the surrounding papered walls as an oriental-carpeted staircase wound its way to the second floor. Gold-framed paintings hung from ceiling to floor, overwhelming the foyer.

“Mr. Storm...” An elegantly dressed, middle-aged woman addressed him, extending her hand as she made her way toward him from the study to his left. “I'm glad you could make it.”

“I bet you are,” he replied curtly, grasping her hand, kissing the back. A deep chuckle rumbled from his chest as she quickly withdrew her hand, wiping it in the folds of her embroidered afternoon gown. “Tell me what it is you want, and I'll be on my way.”

“But, of course. If you'll kindly follow me into the study,” she said, making her way back.

Ryder watched the gentle sway of her slender hips as she walked with a haughtiness about her. Her raven hair piled loosely atop her head, and her makeup appeared flawless. Ryder knew she wasn't as proper as she wanted everyone to think. He'd lay odds she performed quite the opposite beneath the sheets.

With another resonating chuckle, he fell into step behind her and entered the study. Books lined the mahogany shelves of three walls. The fourth wall, which faced the door, sported a large window draped in dark green velvet. A large mahogany desk complemented by two leather chairs sat before the window. Definitely a man's room.

“Mr. Storm.” The woman swept her hand to the plush chair before the desk as she took the one behind. “If you'll take a seat.”

“I prefer to stand” He tipped his hat, but didn't remove it as manners called for.

“Suit yourself.” She lay her hands atop the desk, raising an eyebrow in his direction. “Let's get past the formalities and on to the business. Shall we? I'm not a woman to mince words.”

“The only way I like it. How did you get my name?”

“A friend of a friend.”

“Of course.” He chuckled. “You are?”

“Adelaine Montgomery.”

“Well, Mrs. Montgomery—”

“Adelaine, please.” She smiled too sweetly, telling Ryder more than he wished to know. Women of her ilk often found themselves attracted to him when not under the scrutiny of the public eye.

“Well, Mrs. Montgomery,” he held his ground, “what is it you want from me?” He paused, realizing what his question might imply. “Who is it you wish me to find?” he reworded.

Her smile turned sour on her lips. She said acidly, “My husband's murderer.”

“You're widowed?”

“My husband was viciously stabbed three months ago and I want the detestable person caught and hanged.”

“Do you have a name?”

“Of course, I do.”

“Then why hasn't the law caught him yet?”

“They claim the evidence is all circumstantial and washed their hands of the case. Besides, the murderer fled the state. That's why I want to hire you. I heard there is no one better.”

“You heard right. His name?” Ryder placed his hands on the smooth surface of the desk, leaning precariously close to Adelaine's face.

Her body trembled slightly, telling Ryder either he scared her or affected her in a much more intimate nature. He held his stance as she glared into his eyes, not backing from their intensity.

“Her name is Cheryl Donovan,” she stated in an unwavering voice.

“Her?” he all but shouted. “I'm sorry, lady, but you got the wrong man.”

She jumped to her feet as he turned to exit the room, calling out to him, “Mr. Storm, you can't abandon me! You're my only chance!”

He turned to face her, stopping by the entrance to the study, glaring at the distasteful woman before him. His voice deep, he told her, “I ain't never gone after a lady and I don't intend to start. Good-day, Mrs. Montgomery.”

“Wait,” she pleaded. “You don't understand.”

“It's you who doesn't understand. I ain't trackin' no lady.”

“She's no lady, Mr. Storm,” Adelaine stiffened her response. “The harlot murdered my husband. She worked in our saloon, for God's sake.”

“It ain't His sake I'm worried about. I ain't trackin' no woman.”

“How much do you usually charge?”

“It doesn't matter.” He eyed her carefully beneath the broad brim of his worn hat.

“How much, Mr. Storm?” she repeated, tapping her toe, arms crossed over her more than adequate breast line. “Three thousand dollars.” He quoted high, raising an eyebrow, daring her to challenge his price. “But I ain't trackin' no woman.”

“Six thousand,” she stated evenly. “One thousand now, the remainder when you bring her back.”

“Half now,” he challenged. “The other half when I bring her back. And if I don't find her, which I don't doubt I will, you're out the money you fronted me.”

“Deal.”

“Deal? Are you nuts? You don't even know me,” he replied incredulously. His disposition darkened. “You're willin' to let me walk out that door with three thousand dollars and no guarantee? You're either stupid or so wealthy that three thousand dollars means little.”

“On the contrary.” She approached his rigid form, stopping only inches from him. Not backing from his icy demeanor, she continued, “I'm placing a lot of faith in your reputation, Mr. Storm. You come highly recommended. I doubt you'll disappoint me. Come by tomorrow evening and I'll see to it you get your money.”

“I'll be by tomorrow, and I want a list of anything you know about this woman,” he said, disgusted as she continued to close the gap between them. “I also want to know how she did it.”

She tilted forward so her breasts came in contact with his shirtfront. “You can have anything you need, Mr. Storm,” she whispered.

His chuckle returned, knowing what she offered, though she interested him little. He said as he stepped away, “The money and the information is all I need.”

“Of course,” she stammered. She straightened her spine, glared at him hatefully. “You may retrieve the information from my maid since there will be no reason for us to meet again until you bring back my husband's murderer.”

“No reason at all.” He tipped his hat. “Good-day, Adelaine.” Then, he walked out the door without a backward glance.

Tucson, Arizona
March 1870

“Cheri!” The burly young man cocked back his chair and crossed one booted foot over the other as he lifted his shot glass. “Another whiskey.”

“Right away, Alex.” She waved from across the crowded saloon.

It was Saturday, the busiest day of the week, and Cheri Henderson's feet ached, having been on them since two in the afternoon. Though accustomed to standing for long periods of time, she looked forward to closing time where the luxury of her sheets awaited to lull her into dreamland. Dreams were better than reality.

Life had dealt her an unfair hand. She swore the deck was stacked against her. Left alone in this life to support herself and her family, she worked day after day at Charlie's Saloon, dealing with drunk men pinching, propositioning, and patting her behind—the dreaded three p's following her through life. Truth be told, not qualified for much else, she expected nothing more than working in saloons and taverns.

She grasped the whiskey glass from the highly polished bar top, pushed her dark hair from her eyes, and headed for the anxious patron. The saloon was excessively noisy this eve as men drank whiskey freely and drowned away their troubles.

“Here you go, Alex.” She set the glass before him.

“Thanks, sweetheart.” He winked at his drinking companions, placing a firm hand on her backside.

She grasped one of his fingers as she removed his hand, pulling it painfully back while giving him a wink. “Now you know, Alex, I'm not your sweetheart. Although, I can't control your dreams. But then that's not reality, is it?”

The men surrounding the table chuckled, prodding the red-faced Alex. He laughed light-heartedly with them. He wished she was his sweetheart and certainly made no bones about that, telling her as much on several occasions.

Cheri had been in town now for about six months and had yet to attach herself to any eligible bachelor. And that's the way she liked it for now. Not that there weren't plenty in Tucson to choose from. She knew rumors swirled around about her with several of the town's gentlemen. You couldn't keep people from talking. But Alexander McGregor knew better. His brother, Alabaster, was one of her closest friends. Since coming to town in search of a job, Alabaster had befriended her, giving her a place to stay at his family's homestead, making her more like relation.

“Where's Bas tonight?” she asked, using the pet name she gave to Alabaster. “I haven't known him to miss a Saturday in a long time. Could it be possible he's out with a lady?”

The table of men roared with laughter as Alex came to his brother's defense. “I ain't ever known Alabaster to call on a lady,” he said with a grin. “Alabaster doesn't go out with anyone he cain't get anythin' from.”

“Now, Alex,” Cheri scolded, “Bas is an upstanding citizen.”

The men at the table roared again, slapping each other playfully on the shoulder, sending one man's whiskey spewing on the man seated next to him. Cheri quickly handed the man a towel, hoping to end a potential battle before it ever began.

“What I mean is, I've known Bas for a long time and he's been nothing but a gentleman to me,” she quickly amended. “So is that what he's up to tonight? A call with a woman, I mean?”

“Not unless that woman looks like a man,” Alex said, still laughing. “An awful mean lookin' one, I might add.”

“He'd make an ugly woman,” a man at the table added as the others nodded in agreement.

“He's meetin' with an old friend of his,” Alex told her. “They go back a long ways. Met back in '55, I believe. Said he'd be in later tonight if you asked.”

“Good.” Relief soothed her tired bones. “Can't remember the last time he didn't see me home.”

“I don't know what you see in the old buzzard that you don't see in me,” Alex replied.

“Charm, Alex.” She walked away from the table to serve the other patrons. “Charm.”

Another bout of laughter burst from behind her as she walked from the table to fetch a couple of whiskeys for another customer. The sound of their laughter became an undertone to the scraping of chairs, hoots and hollers, and slamming of glasses in the saloon as Cheri picked her way, quickly from table to table.

Suddenly, the room grew deathly quiet. Cheri pulled her head up from her work. All eyes gaped at the swinging doors of the saloon.

A man in buckskins filled the entrance. Holsters hugged his muscular thighs and a Stetson rode low on his forehead. A taut line slashed his face where smiling lips should be.

A shiver ran down Cheri's spine as her gaze traveled over his muscular body. His very presence exuded danger, outlaw. His hands rested lightly at his sides, though she knew they were ready to draw in an instant. She meant to rid him of his pistols before anything gave him cause. A sign hanging outside the door read, “No weapons inside.” They were to be left at the door.

The stranger slowly perused the room, though not a soul could see the eyes beneath the brim of his worn hat. Slowly, conversation traveled about the room again, leaving the stranger to his business.

Cheri approached him nervously. He had to leave his guns at the entrance. The rule had been clearly posted and there was a damn fine reason for it. Somehow she didn't see him agreeing. She had nearly reached him when the door swung open behind him. The man turned, one fluid motion that screamed animal, eyed the tall red-haired man entering the saloon. Poor Bas had unwittingly made himself a target.

Afraid the stranger might draw on, or kill, her dear friend, Cheri quickly closed the distance between them. The outlaw looked as though he wanted a reason to use the revolvers strapped to his thighs and she hoped Alabaster would not be the reason.

“Bas.” Cheri extended her hand in welcome. “I'm glad to see you could come by tonight.”

A bright smile lifted the large mustache resting on his upper-lip. He held out his brawny arms and enveloped her in a bear hug.

“Alex is here. Should I get you a chair to join him?” She pulled back to look into his bright smiling green eyes.

“No, not tonight.” A chuckled resonated from deep within his chest. “How 'bout findin' a table for me and my friend?”

Cheri stepped from his embrace. This dangerous looking man was Bas' friend? She eyed the stranger carefully. He regarded her with no more than mild interest.

“Certainly.” She walked over to the bartender. A few words got Bas what he wanted. “Clayton said he'll get a table from the back,” she told him as she returned. “As you can see, we're quite full tonight.”

“I'd like you to meet an old friend of mine, Cheri.” Alabaster motioned to the large man at his side. “Ryder Storm. Ryder, this little woman is my dear friend, Cheri Henderson. You be nice to her.”

“Henderson?” She heard the deep voice rumble, barely audible. “You from Tucson?”

“Well, I...uh...” Cheri drew her eyebrows together, thrown by the man's question. She peered upward, looking for the eyes hidden by the shadow of the brim. “Not always, no. Why?”

“If I wanted you to know why, I'd tell you,” he replied. His mouth remained a black slit in the center of his whiskers' growth.

“You, sir, are rude.” She turned in a whirl of skirts to leave the detestable man with Alabaster, wondering how a man with a heart of gold could befriend such a beast.

Alabaster caught her arm to halt her progress across the room. “Look, I'm sorry 'bout Ryder's so called manners”

“The man has the manners of a cornered viper.” She flashed the man a glare over her shoulder. “I'll get your chairs. Ask your friend to remove his guns. You know the rules, Bas.”

“I'll tell him.” He chuckled. “Don't think he'll listen, though.”

“Then I won't serve him.” Cheri held her stance.

“Won't bother him all too much. He don't drink, but I'll see what I can do.” Continuing to laugh, he walked away from her.

“I'm to tell you to kindly remove your guns, Ryder,” Alabaster said as he rejoined Ryder by the door.

Ryder merely stared down at him. “Not likely.”

Alabaster gave a soft laugh as he led the way to their corner table. “Well, they have rules here. Weapons are left at the door. Sorta keeps the violence down.”

Ryder eased into his chair, ignoring his friend's statement. His gaze scanned the room, coming to rest on the backside of the woman he spoke to earlier. She was bent slightly over the table she served, giving him a nice view of her perfectly rounded derriere. A hand slid around grasping it.

Ryder's reserve stiffened. Though he had been in plenty of saloons time and time again, seeing this kind of behavior over and over, he itched to draw on the man.

Alabaster laid a hand on Ryder's gun arm.

“She can take care of herself, Ryder. Draw and you'll live to see her wrath. Believe me, you don't want to be on her bad side.”

Cheri plucked the man's hand away, and Ryder's tension subsided. He leaned back, stretched his long legs in front of him, and crossed his booted feet at the ankles. “I think I'm already on her bad side.”

His long fingers toyed with the band of whiskers hanging from his chin, tied to resemble a pony's tail. She headed their way.

“Gentlemen, what can I do for you?” she asked in a business tone.

“Whiskey,” Alabaster replied.

Her gaze traveled to Ryder. He watched as her chocolate-brown eyes centered on his fingers stroking the thin leather strap that wrapped his chin whiskers. They grew from just beneath his lower lip, running a straight line to fall from his chin a good three inches. The rest of his face bore no more than a few days stubble from days on the road. Though she tried to hide her confusion, the little furrow between her brows gave her away. She wondered why he'd do such a thing.

“Sir?” she asked.

“The name is Ryder,” he stated in a gruff voice. “I answer to nothin' more, nothin' less.”

“Excuse me, sir. What would you have?”

“Ryder. The name is Ryder.” He twined the leather around his fingers. “What's so hard about callin' me by my first name?”

She met him stare for stare. “What would you like, Mr. Storm?”

Ryder chuckled at her stubbornness. Not many women were brave enough to meet him head on. He tipped his hat slightly, hearing the catch in her breath when she caught clear sight of his face for the first time.

“What's so bad about my name that you can't bare to speak it?” He traced his tongue over his parched lips. Days on the road could do that to a man...dry him out. Her gaze followed the action and he resisted the urge to smile.

“I'm not use to calling a strange man by his Christian name.”

“Somehow,” Ryder chuckled, “I can't imagine you callin' Alabaster, Mr. McGregor when you first met him. Not many would think to call him Mister. Certainly, somewhere along the line you learned to call him by his Christian name. As I recall, you even gave him a pet name, Bas. Dare I ask why?”

“My relationship with Mr. McGregor is none of your business, Mr. Storm.”

“Ryder. Say it. It won't kill you,” he prodded, giving her a genuine smile.

A flush traveled up from her bosom, reddening her face. She placed a hand over her bust line as though to conceal her heated blush from his view.

“Have it your way, Ryder,” she finally conceded. “What would you have?”

“What would I have?” He raised one eyebrow to punctuate his double meaning, laying his hat on the table. “For now, a cup of coffee would do, black.”

“Black coffee?”

“Don't worry, darlin', I'll sleep like a baby. Black coffee, that's all I need...for now,” he added a second later, winking at her.

“One black coffee and a whiskey coming up,” she repeated. “But I ain't your darlin'. And if I were you, I'd remove those guns before I return.”

He chuckled, observing the seductive sway of her hips as she walked away from them. The beginnings of desire pooled in his lower abdomen and he reveled in the feeling.