her father’s daughter, use his own tactics, for the first and last time.
After a brief wedding ceremony, the groom could go his way and she would go her own way—west. She’d heard it said that out West a woman wasn’t as restricted by social expectations as in the East. Out West was where free-spirited individuals migrated, to live by their own rules and establish new lives for themselves.
Surely somewhere in this outpost of three thousand souls she could find one man who was intimidating and strong-willed enough to withstand her father. A man who didn’t stay in one place long enough for Walter Malloy to track him down and offer him scads of money to have the marriage annulled, before dragging his daughter home to wed that stuffy, pompous aristocrat he had chosen.
Hanna winced, remembering her confrontation with her father. He’d boomed at her in that deep, foghornlike voice, shouting that Hanna had rejected the very last suitor, and that she would become Mrs. Louis Beauchamp—of the highly prestigious Beauchamps who could trace their family lineage back to the titled gentry of France. The merger of two wealthy shipping magnates would ensure a monopoly the likes of which New Orleans had never seen.
In outraged fury, Hanna had refused, insisting that if Walter was so immensely fond of Louis Beauchamp—of the highly respected Beauchamps—then he should marry the man.
That had been a mistake of gigantic proportions. Walter’s face had turned the color of raw liver and he’d bellowed that there would be a wedding and a merger and Hanna would accept his decisions, like the dutiful, grateful daughter she was supposed to be.
From that day forward, a chaperon—Rutherford J. Wiley—was assigned to her each time she left their sprawling plantation on the Mississippi or ventured from their elegant town house in New Orleans. According to Walter, Hanna would have no opportunity whatsoever to defy his decree.
Or so he thought, she mused, smiling triumphantly as she made a beeline toward the registration desk of the hotel. She’d taken advantage of the only window of opportunity her father had left open to her the past few months. The window in the room where she was to dress in her wedding gown before Walter walked her down the aisle to become the bride of Louis Beauchamp—of the proud and pompous Beauchamps. That window had been her salvation. Hanna had been prepared for that moment of opportunity, had planned for it, right down to the last detail.
She imagined that her father had cursed several blue streaks when he’d realized she’d escaped. She would’ve liked to see the look on his face when he realized she’d defied him and fled the city posthaste. If she knew her father—and she knew him well—he would spare no expense in hiring the most qualified detectives—the Pinkertons, no doubt—to haul her home.
But it would be too late. She’d have a husband and she’d be long gone by the time Walter discovered where she was and what she’d done to counter his insufferable dictates.
“May I help you, miss?”
Jostled from her thoughts, Hanna glanced up to see a bewhiskered and bespectacled man with a shiny bald head staring at her. “Yes, sir. I would like a room, please. Your best,” she added, certain the best Fort Smith had to offer would fall miserably short of the luxuries to which she’d grown accustomed.
The proprietor—James Jensen, according to an engraved wooden nameplate on the counter—smiled kindly at her. “I’m sorry, miss. I’m afraid second best is all I have to offer. Our most spacious suite was rented an hour ago to a man who’s become legendary in these parts. He’s one of Judge Parker’s most effective and most reliable, ya see.” James leaned forward confidentially. “By nature and profession, he’s not a man folks want to cross. But he and his dog saved my life one dark winter night when four bloodthirsty hooligans dragged me into the alley to pistol-whip me and steal the money I was taking to the bank. Now we have a standing agreement. When he’s in town he receives the best accommodations I have to offer. Free of charge.”
Hanna was intrigued. The reputation of Judge Isaac Parker—the Hanging Judge, as he’d been dubbed—was known far and wide. This living legend who rode for Parker might be exactly the kind of man she was looking for.
“He’s a deputy marshal?” she asked hopefully.
James smiled wryly. “When necessary. Bounty hunter mostly, though. You might say he’s the judge’s last resort when all civilized methods of law and order fail. This gunfighter takes the most difficult cases and deals with the worst desperadoes who hide out in Indian Territory. ‘Course, being a half-breed Cherokee, he knows every inch of that seventy-four thousand square mile territory, every secluded haunt where outlaws like to hole up with their ill-gotten gains.”
“So, you’re saying this accomplished bounty hunter, and sometimes deputy marshal, is in and out of town frequently?” she asked with growing interest.
“Mostly out,” James reported as he turned the registration book so she could sign her name. “He’s only in town once a month or so to deliver prisoners, testify at trials and collect his rewards.”
In other words, this legendary tracker and shootist was sent out to apprehend the most vicious, barbaric criminals who preyed on society. He risked his life on a daily basis for sizable rewards.
Anticipation sizzled through Hanna. From the sound of it, luck was on her side. Within an hour of reaching Fort Smith she had a prime candidate for a husband. He was more or less a gun for hire who provided a necessary service. If he were accustomed to dealing with deadly killers on a regular basis he wouldn’t bat an eyelash at confronting her blustering father. Walter Malloy would be no more intimidating to this fearless gunfighter than a buzzing mosquito.
“Most of the deputy marshals ride across Indian Territory in groups of two to four, pulling a wagon that serves as mobile headquarters, office, kitchen and jail,” James added. “But not Cale Elliot. He and his dog travel alone, and that’s the way he likes it.”
Cale Elliot, she mused as she signed a fictitious name on the register to throw her father’s detectives off her trail. And they would come looking for her; she didn’t doubt that for a minute. By then, Hanna would have a wedding ring on her finger and a marriage license in hand.
When she’d originally devised her scheme to escape her father’s control, she had considered seeking out a condemned convict for a husband. But it didn’t take her long to realize she needed a live body. If she were a widow her father could easily tote her back to New Orleans to wed Louis Beauchamp. No, Hanna needed a real live husband, and this half-breed bounty hunter sounded as if he fit the bill perfectly. She could be wed immediately and disappear before her father tracked her down.
“Here ya go, Miss…” James glanced down at her signature “…Rawlins. Turn right at the top of the stairs. Your room is two doors down on the left.”
“Is my room near the bounty hunter’s?” she asked eagerly.
Assuming Hanna was hoping for nearby protection, James smiled, then glanced over her head to note the raft of men who were hovering in the doorway to cast their eyes on the attractive new arrival. “He’ll be right across the hall from you. He’s not one for idle chitchat, but if trouble arises, he’s the man you’ll want on your side.”
Mrs. Cale Elliot, she mused. That had a nice ring to it….
A worrisome thought furrowed her brows. What if Mr. Elliot was already married? Perhaps he had a wife who lived in the Cherokee Nation.
Don’t go borrowing complications, she chastised herself as she accepted the key from
