The Gunfighter and the Heiress - By Carol Finch Page 0,1

am not taking any assignment until I catch up on my rest.”

Bart shrugged and smiled wryly. For the life of him, Van couldn’t imagine why his friend—and Van didn’t have many of them in white man’s society, so he was careful not to offend Bart—looked so amused. Certainly nothing in their conversation accounted for it.

Bart tapped his forefinger against the stack of telegrams and letters. “You have a wide range of jobs to choose from. You can serve as a railroad detective to quell trouble on the line from Fort Worth to points east near the Mississippi River. Several robberies are occurring on the line. Also, you can become a personal bodyguard for some highfalutin politician who wants to inspect the Texas Ranger stations on the frontier.”

Bart leaned toward Van. “Personally, I think the Ranger captain is trying to recruit you. He thinks if he can get you to show up at one of their headquarters, you’ll cave in and finally agree to join.”

“Not happening.” Van munched on a slice of bacon, then slathered sand plum jelly—his favorite—on the toast.

“I’ll be sure to quote you verbatim when I respond to the Ranger captain and the politician.”

Van disliked the Rangers that had swooped down on the Kiowa and Comanche village where he’d grown up. His clan had been in constant conflict with the army and Rangers…until the military had received orders to slaughter Indian horse herds and to march surviving tribe members to the hated reservations in Indian Territory. His mother’s people had urged him to take advantage of the fact that his father had been a white trader and to avoid confinement by becoming white.

He had fled to begin indoctrination into white society. Now he had his freedom and he received exceptionally high fees for his skills as a hunter, tracker and shooter. But he refused to take any assignment for the Rangers or the military. They couldn’t pay him enough to forget the heartache his people suffered at their hands.

“Van?” Bart prompted.

Van shook off the unpleasant memories then sipped his coffee. “Sorry. My mind wandered. What were you saying?”

“Some large ranchers in Colorado are feuding with sheepherders who have slaughtered their livestock…or so they claim. Five big ranchers formed a stock growers association and want to hire you to investigate. You’ll receive the usual going rate of two thousand dollars for every conviction, plus reward money and traveling expenses.”

Van munched on his tasty meal while Bart listed other assignments that would take him hither and yon, investigating a recent robbery in the no-man’s-land between Indian Territory, Texas and Kansas and a horse theft in the Texas Panhandle.

He didn’t show much interest in any of the assignments until Bart said, “But I agree that you won’t have time for too many new jobs since this telegram states that your fiancée will be arriving tomorrow on the five o’clock train from Fort Worth.”

“MY WHAT?” Van croaked—then choked on his toast.

Bart leaped to his feet to whack Van between the shoulder blades until he caught his breath. “That’s what I said,” he remarked while Van wheezed and coughed. “You never mentioned a fiancée.”

“That’s because I don’t have one,” Van chirped, then guzzled his coffee to dislodge the toast from his throat.

“Apparently you have one now. Congratulations, by the way. When is the wedding?” Bart asked, and chuckled.

Van leveled a glare at his grinning friend. “I didn’t hire you for your sense of humor,” he muttered as he snatched the telegram from Bart’s hand. Sure enough, the message stated that his fiancée would arrive tomorrow at five.

Bart plunked down in his chair, pushed his drooping spectacles up the bridge of his crooked nose and stared speculatively at Van. “I’ve always wondered what your fiancée might look like. Is she Indian or white?”

“I’m not the marrying kind. Not now. Not ever. I don’t know who this charlatan is but I damn well intend to find out.”

Bart’s pale green eyes glinted with amusement as he gestured toward the plate of food. “You should keep eating. Keep up your strength for when the fiancée arrives.”

Van gave Bart “The Stare” he was famous for. He’d backed down many a troublemaker with that chilly glare. His friend merely snickered.

“But what if she’s really attractive and charming and you decide to keep her?”

“I can’t imagine why anyone would pull such a stunt. This has to be a trick.” Van shoved aside his plate and poured himself a tall drink of whiskey.

Bart jerked upright in his chair. “You’re right! Maybe