The Last Bounty at Mercy Creek I

A Western WLW Mini Novella Rachel Boone came into Mercy Creek with dust in her hair, blood dried brown along one sleeve, and a folded wanted poster tucked into the inside pocket of her coat, close enough to her heart that she sometimes hated herself for noticing it was there. She had ridden three days through hard wind and empty country, sleeping once under a mesquite tree and once in the ruins of a burned stage station, and by the time the town appeared below the copper sky, with its crooked water tower, its two rows of false-front buildings, its jailhouse leaning like a drunk against the sheriff’s office, and its saloon glowing already with lamplight and sin, Rachel looked less like a woman arriving somewhere than like judgment finally remembering an address. A boy outside the livery saw her first and stopped brushing a mule. Then the barber stopped shaving a man. Then a woman carrying flour paused in the doorway of the mercantile. Then, one by one, Mercy Creek grew quieter, because there were stories about Rachel Boone, and though half of those stories were lies, the true half was enough. She had once brought in the Cates brothers tied together with their own suspenders. She had once shot the gun out of a bank robber’s hand at thirty paces. She had once followed a horse thief across a salt flat for two days with no water and came back leading the horse, wearing the thief’s hat, saying nothing at all. And before all that, before she became a bounty hunter, before men learned to lower their voices when she entered a room, Rachel Boone had been Rachel Hartley, a farmer’s wife with soft hands, a green front door, a husband named Thomas who sang badly while mending fences, and a future so ordinary it had seemed indestructible. Silas Daggett had ended that future with one bullet. Rachel had buried Thomas beneath a cottonwood tree, sold the farm for less than it was worth, bought two revolvers, and told the preacher who urged her to forgive that forgiveness was a luxury for people whose dead still had breath in them. For seven years, she had taken bounties. For seven years, she had hunted every murderer, robber, horse thief, train raider, and hired gun who crossed her path, not because she cared much for the law, which was usually late and often drunk, but because the trail of bad men sometimes crossed the trail of the worst one. Silas Daggett. Her husband’s killer. The man who had vanished into the West like smoke. And Rachel had made herself one promise in all those years, a promise colder than prayer and cleaner than hope: when she found Daggett, when she looked into his living face and made him answer for the dead, she would be finished. No more bounty notices. No more sleeping with one hand under her pillow. No more towns that remembered her by the bodies she carried in. No more Rachel Boone, the woman with no home except the saddle. She would take the last money, ride until the land looked kind, and become someone else, if there was enough of someone else left in her. But first, she needed a bath. She stopped outside the Mercy Creek Saloon, swung down from her horse with a stiffness she refused to show, and tied the reins to the rail while three men on the porch pretended not to watch her. One of them looked at the rifle on her saddle. One looked at the revolver on her hip. One looked at her mouth, which was his mistake. Rachel turned her head slowly. The man found his beer very interesting. Inside, the saloon smelled of smoke, sweat, whiskey, cheap perfume, spilled beer, old wood, and rain that had not yet fallen. The piano player stopped mid-note. Dice froze in a man’s hand. A red-haired woman at the far table smiled like she recognized trouble and approved of it. Rachel crossed the room, spurs quiet beneath the sudden silence, and leaned one gloved hand on the bar. The barkeep, a square man with worried eyebrows, swallowed. “What can I do for you, ma’am?” Rachel pulled off one glove finger by finger. “Room,” she said. “Bath. Hot water, not warm. Someone to clean my clothes and stitch the holes. Feed and rub down my horse. Whiskey first, coffee after. And I want a woman sent up.” The barkeep blinked. Behind her, somebody coughed. Rachel looked at him without changing expression. “One who knows how to keep her mouth shut when I need quiet and use it when I ask questions.” The barkeep’s face relaxed by a fraction, though not much. “I reckon Clara can handle all that.” The red-haired woman at the far table lifted her glass. “I reckon Clara can handle more than that,” she called. Rachel turned. Clara was perhaps thirty-two or thirty-three, pretty in the practical way of women who have learned exactly what men want and exactly how much of themselves not to give them, with auburn hair pinned loosely, sleeves rolled to the elbows, a dark green dress that had seen better years but still knew how to flatter her, and eyes sharp enough to cut cards. Rachel studied her. Clara studied Rachel right back. Then Clara smiled. “Well,” Clara said, “you look like a woman who came in from hell and found the accommodations disappointing.” Rachel almost smiled. Almost. “Hell had less dust.” Clara stood, took Rachel’s measure again, and nodded toward the stairs. “Come on, then, bounty hunter. Let’s get you human before you scare the wallpaper off the walls.” The bath was in a narrow room behind the upstairs landing, and Clara bossed two boys into carrying bucket after bucket until steam rose from the tin tub and blurred the cracked mirror on the wall. Rachel stripped without modesty and without invitation, because modesty was for women who had not been stitched shut in hotel rooms by strangers, who had not dug bullets from their own coats, who had not learned that a body was sometimes merely another tool that needed cleaning, feeding, resting, and occasionally repairing. Clara did not simper, did not gasp at the scars, did not ask about the pale line across Rachel’s ribs or the old burn near her shoulder. She only said, “You bleed anywhere fresh?” Rachel sank into the water with a sound she meant to keep behind her teeth. “No.” “That means yes, but not enough to discuss.” “That means no.” Clara sat on the stool beside the tub, took Rachel’s filthy shirt into her lap, and began checking the seams. “You always this agreeable?” “You always this nosy?” “I’m paid to notice things.” “So am I.” Clara glanced at the revolver Rachel had placed within reach on the floorboards. “I noticed.” Rachel closed her eyes, letting the heat work its way into her muscles, and for a few minutes neither woman spoke, which Rachel appreciated more than politeness. Then Clara said, “You hunting somebody particular?” Rachel opened one eye. “Always.” “There’s particular and there’s particular.” Rachel reached for the whiskey Clara had set on the floor beside the tub. “You ask every woman in a bath questions like that?” “Only the ones who walk into town looking like they might either save us or burn us down.” Rachel drank. “Which one do you need?” Clara’s needle paused. “That depends.” Rachel looked at her properly then, through the veil of steam, and for the first time since entering Mercy Creek she saw something besides curiosity in Clara’s face. She saw worry. Not fear for herself. Fear for somebody else. Rachel knew the shape of it. “What happened?” she asked. Clara resumed sewing, but her voice lowered. “There’s a woman outside town. Mary Whitcomb. Farm about six miles east, past the dry creek bed. She comes in every Tuesday, regular as church bells, buys coffee, flour, thread, peppermint candy if she thinks no one is looking. Smiles at everybody, even those who don’t deserve it.” Rachel waited. “She hasn’t come in eight days.” “Maybe she’s sick.” “Maybe.” “Maybe her wagon broke.” “Maybe.” “But you don’t think so.” Clara pushed the needle through cloth. “No.” Rachel leaned back, water dripping from her hair. “Where’s her husband?” “Daniel Whitcomb. Quiet man. Decent enough. Came in with her sometimes. Hasn’t been seen either.” “Sheriff ride out?” Clara laughed once, hard and humorless. “Sheriff Crowe doesn’t ride anywhere before noon unless a bottle rolls downhill.” Rachel closed both eyes again. “Family?” “None near. Mary’s people died back in Missouri. Daniel had a brother in Kansas, I think, but no one close enough to notice quickly.” Rachel said nothing. Clara’s voice softened. “I went to the sheriff yesterday. He told me farm women stay home sometimes.” Rachel opened her eyes. “And you believed him?” “I believed he wanted me to stop talking.” Rachel reached for the soap. “Anything else?” Clara hesitated. Rachel heard it. “There was a man,” Clara said. “Three nights ago. Came into town late, kept his hat low, bought cartridges, beans, coffee, and laudanum from the mercantile. Paid cash. Didn’t stay.” Rachel’s hand stilled. “What did he look like?” “Big. Dark coat. Beard gone patchy. Scar near one eye, maybe. Walked like his left knee pained him.” The room seemed to narrow. Rachel turned her head slowly. “Which eye?” Clara met her gaze. “Right.” Rachel set the soap down. Clara noticed the change in her, and because Clara was wise, she did not ask the wrong question. She asked the right one. “You know him?” Rachel reached out of the tub, took her coat from the chair, and pulled the folded wanted poster from the inside pocket with wet fingers. She opened it. Silas Daggett stared up from the paper, ink-black eyes, heavy brows, mouth set in the smug half-smile of a man who had never believed consequences were meant for him. Clara looked from the poster to Rachel. “Oh,” she said quietly. Rachel’s voice was flat. “Tell me exactly where that farm is.” Clara did not leave when Rachel finished bathing. She helped dry her hair with a towel, patched the shirt well enough to pass for whole in poor light, brushed mud from Rachel’s coat, and took a quiet pleasure in making the notorious bounty hunter look less like a corpse dragged behind a horse. “Your hair’s not black,” Clara said after a while, combing through the wet tangles. Rachel sat on the edge of the bed in a clean borrowed shift, bare feet on the floorboards, whiskey in one hand. “Most people don’t get close enough to correct themselves.” “It’s brown.” “Is it?” “With gold in it.” Rachel huffed. “Dust.” “No,” Clara said. “Gold.” That should have annoyed Rachel. It did not. Maybe it was the bath. Maybe it was exhaustion. Maybe it was the way Clara stood behind her, practical fingers gentle against her scalp, asking for nothing Rachel did not feel like giving. When Clara leaned down and kissed the side of Rachel’s neck, Rachel did not move away. “You can say no,” Clara murmured. Rachel stared at the warped reflection of them in the mirror. Clara warm, alive, auburn-haired, clever-eyed. Rachel pale beneath the tan, marked and tired, the kind of beautiful that had been sharpened on grief until it became a blade. “I remember how,” Rachel said. Clara’s smile touched Rachel’s skin. “Good.” Rachel turned. The kiss was not love. Rachel knew that. Clara knew it too. It was comfort, heat, a little mercy offered without promise, and Rachel took it because the road had been long, because the dead did not warm a bed, because tomorrow she might finally meet the man who had made her into this hard and hungry creature. In the morning, Rachel woke to sunlight creeping through torn curtains, Clara’s bare shoulder warm against hers, and the sound of Mercy Creek beginning below them. For a few breaths, Rachel did not know where she was. Then she remembered. Daggett. Mary Whitcomb. The farm east of town. The last bounty. Clara stirred beside her. “You leaving without breakfast?” Rachel sat up. “I’m leaving after coffee.” Clara stretched, entirely unashamed, and watched Rachel reach for her clothes. “You always run from beds that quick?” “I don’t run.” “No,” Clara said. “I suppose you hunt in the opposite direction.” Rachel paused with her shirt in hand. Clara’s voice had changed. Not jealous. Not hurt. Just knowing. Rachel buttoned the shirt slowly. “I find him,” she said, “and I’m done.” Clara sat up. “Done with what?” “All of it.” “The killing?” “The chasing.” “That all you know how to do?” Rachel looked toward the window, where the sun lit the dust in the air like gold ash. “No,” she said after a moment. “But it’s all I’ve trusted myself to do.” Clara got out of bed, wrapped a sheet around herself, and crossed to the washstand. “Then maybe don’t die before you figure out the rest.” Rachel looked at her. Clara poured water into the basin. “And Rachel?” Rachel stilled. She had not given Clara her first name. Clara smiled faintly without turning. “Your wanted poster fell out of your coat last night. His name’s on one side. Yours is written on the back, in old ink. Thomas wrote it, didn’t he?” Rachel’s throat tightened so suddenly she hated Clara a little for noticing. “Yes.” Clara nodded. “Then make sure you come back carrying your own name, not just his ghost.” Rachel said nothing, because some words were too clean to touch. She only buckled on her gun. Sheriff Abel Crowe had spilled coffee on his shirt before Rachel even entered his office, and from the smell of him, the coffee was losing a long war against whiskey. He sat behind a desk scarred by boot heels and cigar burns, with a badge pinned crooked to his vest and a face that had once belonged to a better man. Rachel tossed the wanted poster onto his desk. Crowe looked at it. Then he looked away too quickly. Rachel noticed. “Silas Daggett,” she said. Crowe cleared his throat. “Lot of men look like old posters.” “Lot of sheriffs lie badly.” His eyes snapped up. Outside, a wagon creaked by. Inside, the little jailhouse behind him sat empty. Crowe reached for his coffee, thought better of it, and folded both hands on the desk. “What business you got with Daggett?” Rachel smiled without warmth. “The personal kind.” “That ain’t lawful.” “No. The bounty is.” Crowe looked down at the poster again. “Three thousand dollars.” “Five now,” Rachel said. “Texas added two for the rail men he killed in Amarillo.” Crowe swallowed. “Is that so?” Rachel leaned forward. “Mary Whitcomb.” At that, Crowe’s face changed. Only slightly. But Rachel had built seven years of survival on slight changes. “Farm woman,” Crowe said. “She missing?” “She ain’t missing. She’s on her farm.” “You ride out?” “No reason.” “You saw her?” “No reason.” Rachel tapped the poster. “A man matching Daggett bought supplies here three nights ago. Mary hasn’t been seen in eight days. Her husband neither. You telling me those things don’t trouble you?” Crowe’s mouth hardened. “I’m telling you not to stir up grief where there may be none.” Rachel straightened. “Sheriff, grief is already there. I can smell it.” Crowe stood too fast, chair scraping. “You listen here, Mrs. Boone—” Rachel’s revolver was in her hand before his sentence found its end, not aimed at his head, not quite, but resting calmly on the desk between them. Crowe froze. Rachel’s voice stayed quiet. “Don’t call me Mrs. Boone unless you mean to speak respectfully of the dead man who gave me that name.” Crowe breathed through his nose. Rachel picked up the wanted poster with her free hand. “If I bring Daggett in dead, you’ll sign the claim.” “If he’s Daggett.” “He is.” “If you can prove it.” Rachel slid the revolver back into its holster. “I’ve been proving things to cowards for seven years.” She turned toward the door. Behind her, Crowe said, “That farm is private property.” Rachel stopped. “So was mine.” Then she walked out. The Whitcomb farm sat six miles east of Mercy Creek, past the dry creek bed, past the wind-bent cottonwoods, past a low ridge where the grass turned yellow and brittle under the sun. It should have looked peaceful. That was the worst of it. The house was whitewashed, though the paint had begun to peel. A kitchen garden grew beside the porch. Sheets hung on a line, stiff in the wind. There were chickens scratching near the coop, a brown milk cow bawling too long by the fence, and a wagon standing half-loaded beside the barn as though somebody had started a chore and forgotten what hands were for. Rachel reined in near the gate and watched. No dog barked. No man came from the barn. No woman sang from the kitchen. The place held its breath. Rachel touched the butt of her revolver, then took her hand away. Too early. She rode up slowly, openly, letting anyone inside see her coming. At the porch, the front door opened two inches. A woman looked out. Mary Whitcomb was thirty, perhaps, with dark blonde hair pinned badly, a face that would have been gentle in better days, and eyes so frightened Rachel felt them like a hand against her chest. A bruise yellowed along one cheek. Another shadow marked her wrist. Rachel removed her hat. “Mrs. Whitcomb?” Mary’s fingers tightened on the doorframe. “You need to go.” Her voice was barely more than air. Rachel kept her own voice calm. “My name’s Rachel Boone. Clara sent me.” At Clara’s name, Mary’s face crumpled for half a second before she forced it still. “No,” Mary whispered. “No, please. Go.” “Where’s your husband?” Mary looked over her shoulder. That was answer enough. From somewhere inside the house, a floorboard creaked. Mary flinched so hard Rachel nearly drew. Then a man’s voice called from within. “Who is it, Mary?” Mary shut her eyes. When she opened them, she was no longer only afraid. She was performing fear’s idea of obedience. “Traveler,” she called back, voice shaking. “Lost road.” A silence. Then heavy steps. Rachel lowered her hat back onto her head and let her right hand hang loose beside her holster. The door opened wider. Silas Daggett stepped into the daylight wearing another man’s shirt, another man’s house, and the same cruel mouth Rachel had seen every night for seven years in the dark country behind her eyes. Older. Heavier. Beard rough along his jaw. Scar near the right eye. Left knee stiff. But him. Rachel knew him. Her whole body knew him before her mind finished saying his name. Daggett stood behind Mary with one hand resting on her shoulder. Not lovingly. Possessively. His fingers pressed hard enough that Mary’s mouth tightened. “Afternoon,” Daggett said. Rachel smiled slightly. “Afternoon.” “You lost?” “Maybe.” “Road’s back that way.” “I was told Whitcomb kept horses.” Daggett’s gaze moved over her, measuring hat, coat, gun, horse, posture. He did not recognize her. Why would he? The woman whose husband he killed had been younger, softer, crying in the dirt beside a dead man. This woman was sun-burned steel. “Whitcomb ain’t selling,” Daggett said. Rachel looked at Mary. Mary did not look back. Rachel said, “You Whitcomb?” Daggett smiled. Mary’s face went white. “Close enough.” Rachel wanted to kill him then. She wanted it with a purity that was almost religious. But Mary stood within arm’s reach of him, and Daggett’s other hand hung near the pistol tucked into his belt. Rachel had killed many men. She had not survived this long by confusing wanting with timing. So she nodded. “Then I’ll be on my way.” Mary made a small sound. Daggett’s eyes sharpened. Rachel touched two fingers to the brim of her hat. “Ma’am.” Mary’s lips parted. No words came. Rachel turned her horse slowly and rode away, feeling Daggett’s stare between her shoulder blades until the ridge swallowed the farm from sight. Only then did she let herself breathe. Only then did she whisper, “I found you.” Rachel did not ride back to town. She circled wide, found a shallow wash below the ridge, tied her horse under a stand of scrub oak, and spent the remaining daylight studying the Whitcomb place from a distance. She counted doors. Front, kitchen, cellar. She counted windows. Two front, one side, two back, one upstairs. She counted habits. Daggett came out twice, once to piss off the porch, once to check the barn with a rifle in his hand. Mary came out once, carrying a bucket to the well while Daggett stood in the doorway watching her every step. She moved like a woman whose body had learned that speed could be punished, slowness could be punished, silence could be punished, and sound could be punished, so every gesture became a careful negotiation with a man’s temper. Rachel’s jaw ached from clenching. Near dusk, Daggett dragged a chair onto the porch and sat with the rifle across his knees. He made Mary bring him supper outside. He ate. She stood. He spoke to her, and though Rachel was too far to hear the words, she saw Mary nod again and again. When darkness finally fell, Rachel moved. Not toward the house. Not yet. She crept first to the barn, slow and low through dry grass, pausing whenever the porch boards groaned or Daggett shifted in his chair. Inside the barn, the smell of hay, manure, old leather, and fear met her. Daniel Whitcomb’s body lay beneath a canvas behind the feed bins. Rachel found him because death had its own weather. She lifted the canvas. He had been shot once in the chest. Not clean. Not quick. Rachel lowered the canvas again and closed her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. Then she searched the barn. A spare saddle. Harness. Rope. Lantern oil. A rusted bear trap hanging from a nail. Loose boards in the loft. A back wall with enough gaps to see the house. Daggett had chosen a good hiding place, but like most men who believed fear made them safe, he had mistaken control for intelligence. Rachel could use the barn. She could use the dark. She could use his pride. But she could not use Mary. Not if Mary was watched every breath. At midnight, the house quieted. At one, the lamp in the front room went out. At two, Rachel saw the faint glow of a lantern move across the kitchen. Mary. Alone, maybe. Rachel slipped from the barn and crossed the yard. She reached the kitchen wall just as the back door opened. Mary stepped out with a basin in both hands. Rachel caught her by the elbow and covered her mouth before fear could make her scream. Mary went rigid. Rachel whispered against her ear, “It’s Rachel. Don’t move unless you want him awake.” Mary trembled so violently the water in the basin rippled. Rachel slowly removed her hand. Mary turned, and in the moonlight Rachel saw tears already on her face. “He’ll kill me,” Mary breathed. “He said if anyone came, if I spoke wrong, if I looked wrong, he’d kill me and burn the house.” “I know.” “You don’t know. He killed Daniel. He made me—” Her voice broke. Rachel touched her shoulder, lightly, giving her the chance to pull away. Mary did. Rachel let her. “I saw Daniel,” Rachel said. Mary covered her mouth. For one terrible second she made no sound at all. Then grief bent her nearly double. Rachel wanted to hold her and knew she could not. Not here. Not yet. “Listen to me,” Rachel whispered. “I’m going to get you out.” Mary shook her head. “No.” “Yes.” “No, you don’t understand. He sleeps against the bedroom door. He keeps my shoes. He keeps the knives. He counts the cartridges. He watches the privy. He watches the well. He watches everything.” Rachel’s eyes darkened. “Does he sleep heavy?” “With laudanum. He bought some. Drinks it with whiskey. But not enough. Never enough.” “Where’s his horse?” “Barn. Black gelding.” “Does he know Daniel’s body is there?” Mary flinched. “He made me help drag him.” Rachel’s voice became very quiet. “I’m going to kill him.” Mary looked at her then, really looked, and something besides terror entered her face. Not hope. Hope was too dangerous. Recognition, perhaps. Of another woman ruined by the same man. “Who are you?” Mary whispered. Rachel took the folded wanted poster from her coat and pressed it into Mary’s shaking hands. Mary unfolded it by moonlight. Then she saw the name. Silas Daggett. “He told me his name was Cole,” she whispered. “He lies.” Mary looked up. “Why are you hunting him?” Rachel glanced toward the dark house. “Because seven years ago, he killed my husband too.” Mary’s breath caught. For a heartbeat, their grief stood between them like a third woman, wounded and silent. Then a floorboard creaked inside. Mary’s eyes went wild. Rachel took the poster back and stepped into the shadow beside the door. Daggett’s voice came from within, thick with sleep and suspicion. “Mary?” Mary snatched up the basin. Rachel mouthed, Drop it. Mary stared. Rachel mouthed again, Drop it. Mary let the basin fall. Water crashed across the porch boards. Daggett cursed inside. Mary backed toward the door, voice shaking for real now, which made the lie perfect. “I spilled it. I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Silas, I only spilled it.” Silas. She had said his name. The house went silent. Rachel’s blood turned cold. Then Daggett stepped into the kitchen doorway with a pistol in one hand. “What did you call me?” Mary could not answer. Daggett grabbed her hair and yanked her inside. Rachel’s hand closed around her revolver. Mary cried out. Rachel did not shoot. Could not shoot. Not with Mary between them. Daggett dragged Mary fully into the kitchen and slammed the door. Rachel stood outside in the moonlight, shaking with the force of not acting. Inside, Mary screamed once. Only once. Then nothing. Rachel looked up at the stars. Her voice was a blade. “All right,” she whispered. “No more waiting.” By dawn, Rachel had made her plan. By sunrise, she had ruined Daggett’s horse. Not killed it. Rachel did not punish animals for men’s sins. But she cut the cinch halfway through, packed mud deep beneath one shoe, loosened a stall latch, and rubbed pepper along the bridle so the gelding would fight any hurried hand that tried to saddle him. Then she took the cartridges from Daggett’s spare saddlebag and replaced them with river stones. She found the laudanum bottle in the barn loft, where Daggett had hidden it from Mary, and emptied half into the dirt. The rest she kept. After that, Rachel rode back to Mercy Creek as the sun lifted, walked straight into the telegraph office, and sent one message to Marshal Harlan Pike in Abilene. SILAS DAGGETT AT WHITCOMB FARM MERCY CREEK STOP HOSTAGE ALIVE STOP SHERIFF COMPROMISED STOP COME FAST OR COME TO COLLECT WHAT IS LEFT STOP R BOONE The telegraph man read it twice and looked pale by the end. Rachel paid him. “Send it again in one hour.” “Yes, ma’am.” “If Sheriff Crowe asks?” “I didn’t see you.” Rachel almost smiled. “You’ll live long.” Then she went to Clara. Clara was downstairs in the saloon, pouring coffee for a miner with one hand and slapping another man’s fingers away from her waist with the other. When she saw Rachel, her expression changed. “You found something.” Rachel nodded. Clara set the coffee pot down. “Mary?” “Alive.” Clara closed her eyes. “For now,” Rachel added. Clara opened them. “What do you need?” Rachel looked around the saloon. Men pretending not to listen. Women listening openly. Fear and curiosity sitting together at every table. “I need Mercy Creek to become very noisy at noon,” Rachel said. Clara tilted her head. Rachel continued, “Church bell. Wagon at the east road. Someone driving cattle if you can manage it. Boys shooting bottles near the creek. Anything that sounds like a town being a town too close to that farm.” Clara stared. “You want him rattled.” “I want him looking everywhere except where I am.” “And where will you be?” Rachel’s smile was terrible. “Close.” Clara studied her face. “You planning to live through this?” “I have plans after.” That answer surprised them both. Clara’s expression softened. “Good.” Rachel looked away first. Clara reached beneath the bar, pulled out a small derringer, and set it on the counter. Rachel raised an eyebrow. Clara shrugged. “Men assume saloon women only carry secrets.” Rachel took the derringer, checked it, and slid it into her boot. “Thank you.” “You bring Mary back,” Clara said. Rachel nodded. “And Rachel?” Rachel paused. Clara’s voice lowered. “If you bring yourself back too, I won’t complain.” Rachel met her eyes. There were many things she could have said. She chose honesty. “You were kind to me.” Clara smiled, but it did not hide the sadness in it. “I was more than kind.” “Yes,” Rachel said. “You were.” “And still, I’m not the woman at the center of this story.” Rachel did not deny it, though she did not yet understand what Mary had become in her mind, only that the thought of leaving her in that house made something in Rachel tear open. Clara nodded once, accepting the truth before Rachel had words for it. “Then go finish your last bounty.” A Story by Germaine Corbeau - Click here for links to all Germaine Corbeau Stories! Quick 👏 Guide: 0 = I got lost! - 1-4 = Nice font... nice images. - 5-9=Read a bit. Nice try!, 10-14=Okay... Pretty good!, 15-19=I actually enjoyed this! - 20=Absolutely legendary!