Beth Williamson
ISBN 978-0758234698
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The Right Man Comes Along
Madeline Brewster practically owns Plum City, Colorado. But at thirty-two, she knows she has missed any chance for happiness. Until she finds a tall, strong, handsome Irishman on the wrong end of the hangman’s noose. Suddenly this unconventional woman comes up with an outrageous idea . . .
Teague O’Neal has rugged cheekbones, tousled black curls, and eyes as blue as the sky, even if he is caked in Colorado mud. The men insist they caught him horse-thieving, and there’s something desperate about him that says he’d do anything for a buck.
Maybe it was pure chance, or maybe it was something more that brought Madeline and Teague together. But one thing’s clear, between a woman who has just about everything she could ever want, and a man who’s lost that and more, they might find something in between worth living for . . .
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Chapter One
Plum Creek, Colorado, May 1872
They were getting ready to hang a man. The whispers flittered through the saloon, the general store, the barber, the blacksmith, and finally to the bank.
Madeline Brewster heard snatches of conversation here and there. She usually tried to ignore the gossips. After all, most of the time, they were gossiping about her. But today was different. This time she heard “horse thief” and “hanging,” and her interest was piqued.
There was nothing Madeline hated more than a hanging. “Mr. Cleeson, come here, please,” she called to the nearest teller.
He looked up in surprise and then shuffled over to her office door. His thinning blond hair and watery blue eyes darted around the room, yet he never looked directly at her. He was dressed in his usual white shirt, bow tie, and black trousers. His scruffy black shoes hadn’t been changed since the day she’d hired him two years ago.
“Yes, Miss Brewster?”
“What is all this about a hanging?”
She could almost see him rubbing his hands together with glee to impart the juicy gossip to her. “Well, I heard that the sheriff caught this Irishman red handed with Old Clem’s horse. They knew it was his ’cause of the blaze on his nose. Judge Martin ordered the hanging.”
Madeline tapped her fingers on the large oak desk. “I see. And when is this event taking place?”
“Any minute now, Miss Brewster. I expect they’re just looking for a sturdy rope.”
“And the Irishman? Does anyone know him?”
Mr. Cleeson shook his head. “Came into town a few weeks ago. Was working out at the Double R as a wrangler.”
So, a drifter and apparently a horse thief.
“And his age?”
Mr. Cleeson just looked at her with a blank stare.
“How old is he?”
“Oh, about thirty or so, I guess.”
He sounded perfect. Now all she had to do was get to the old maple at the edge of town before they hung him. Madeline snatched up her reticule and stood, startling Mr. Cleeson.
“I’m leaving early today. I will be back for my usual afternoon hours tomorrow. Be sure to follow proper procedures all around.”
Mr. Cleeson nodded and scurried back to his chair. He was apparently eager to impart the questioning to his coworkers, because as soon as he sat down, he leaned over to Mr. Bryson and started whispering madly.
Madeline pinned on her hat, tugged on her gloves, and swept out of the bank with her head high and her heart pounding. She was about to go meet the man who might change her life. She walked down the wood-planked boardwalk purposefully. Most people nodded a greeting to her, but no one spoke. They rarely did.
Her heeled boots clacked along without slowing. Even so, the walk to the edge of town took more than ten minutes. By the time she got to the tree, a group of twenty men had gathered. In the midst of them, perched upon an old draught horse, was the biggest, filthiest man she had ever seen.
He looked to have black hair, although the dirt and twigs caking it made it hard to tell for certain. His clothing was matted and wrinkled. There was no way to tell what color it had been originally. His legs hung down past the horse’s belly. Everything about him was big, from his hands to his feet and everything in between.
Apparently the incompetent sheriff and the drunken judge had put the man on a horse too small to hang him.
Wrapped around his neck was a thick noose of the sturdiest hemp. He had at least a week’s worth of whiskers on his face. His bright eyes glanced through the crowd, searching. When they landed on her, the only woman present, he cocked his head to the side and lazily ran his gaze up and down her.
A flush stole over her cheeks at the perusal. Never, not once, had any man ever looked at her as a woman. And what does she do when one does? Blush like a schoolgirl!
Madeline had been right to come. With a long bath, a razor, and several bars of soap, he would be perfect.
“Excuse me, gentlemen,” she said.
A hush fell over the crowd as the entire group, which had been pointedly ignoring her, turned to look at her. The Irishman’s eyebrows rose in surprise.
“I would like to know what the charges are against this man.”
Judge Earl Martin walked over to her with his silly bowler hat perched atop his shining head. His suspenders looked to be holding up nothing but the thumbs he’d hooked in them, as his pants were tight against his round belly. He stopped three feet away—his usual habit because she was at least six inches taller than he. He regarded her with his bleary brown eyes over his mottled red nose and muttonchop sideburns.
“Now, Miss Brewster. You know this ain’t no place for a lady.”
Someone in the crowd snickered.
“A hanging is man’s business. Why don’t you go on back to the bank and take care of things there. Your pa wouldn’t have wanted you to witness this.”
Madeline raised one eyebrow and looked down at the judge. “Fortunately my father has been dead two years, Earl. And unless you find a much bigger horse, there is no way you’re going to be able to hang that man.”
Mumbles and curses emanated from the crowd.
“We were just working on that problem, Miss Brewster. But like I said, this ain’t no place for a lady.”
“What are the charges?” she insisted.
The judge took off his hat and ran his hand down his face, a sheen of perspiration evident on his bald pate.
“You ain’t going back to the bank, are you?”
“Not without the information I’ve asked for.”
The sheriff was holding the reins of the horse. Jackson Webster was a pompous braggart who couldn’t find his ass with both hands. Madeline and Jackson had been in school together until she reached the age of twelve and had to stay home with a private tutor.
Jackson had always been a bit of a bully, and the silver badge pinned to his shirt gave him all the authority he needed to exercise that bad habit.
She grudgingly admitted that he was a good-looking man, well built, with dark blond hair and blue eyes. Unfortunately he was as dumb as he was handsome.
“Sheriff Webster?”
“He stole Old Clem’s horse, Madeline. We’ve got an eyewitness.”
“Is this the horse?” she asked, eyeing the creature in question.
“Yup, this is Bud. Been Old Clem’s horse for years and years.”
“And the eyewitness?”
“Arnie Jones saw him leading it into town, pretty as you please.” He looked up smugly at the Irishman. “Danged fool didn’t even try to hide it.”
“Did you ask him how he came to be in possession of the horse?”
The group was silent for a moment.
“Of course we did. He said he bought it at the hostelry over in Coopersville.” Jackson snorted a laugh. “As if we would believe that.”
“Why not?”
“Old Clem would never sell Bud. Never! So obviously this here fella took him.”
Madeline controlled herself, just barely, from rolling her eyes. “And have you spoken to Old Clem?”
“No, he’s not at his house. Pete says he went to visit his daughter in Denver for a month.”
It was worse than she thought. They were all a bunch of incompetent fools.
“Sheriff Webster, you cannot hang that man.”
A collective groan rose from the crowd.
“And why not? You’re not going to stop another hanging with your fancy words. Horse thieving is a hanging crime.”
Madeline nodded. “I understand that. But you have not proven that he committed a crime. Simply because he had the horse does not mean he stole it. There must be corroborating evidence.”
“Corrobo—what?”
“Evidence that proves conclusively he stole the horse. I suggest you wait for Old Clem to return to determine if Bud was indeed stolen, and send someone to Coopersville to check whether or not Bud was sold to this man.”
“What do we do with him in the meantime? He wouldn’t last one hour in that tiny jail cell, much less a month.” Jackson actually had doubt on his face.
Yes, oh, yes. It was working out exactly as she hoped. Madeline walked toward the horse, and the crowd parted like the Red Sea.
“Put him in my custody. He can work for me for a month taking care of some repairs I need completed at the house.”
She couldn’t, wouldn’t look the Irishman in the face. It all hinged on this. Convincing them to give him to her.
