The Outlaw's Daughter Read online

  Also by Margaret Brownley

  A Match Made in Texas

  Left at the Altar

  A Match Made in Texas

  The Haywire Brides

  Cowboy Charm School

  The Cowboy Meets His Match

  Christmas in a Cowboy’s Arms anthology

  Longing for a Cowboy Christmas anthology

  Thank you for downloading this Sourcebooks eBook!

  You are just one click away from…

  • Being the first to hear about author happenings

  • VIP deals and steals

  • Exclusive giveaways

  • Free bonus content

  • Early access to interactive activities

  • Sneak peeks at our newest titles

  Happy reading!

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Books. Change. Lives.

  Copyright © 2020 by Margaret Brownley

  Cover and internal design © 2020 by Sourcebooks

  Cover art by Chris Cocozza

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  sourcebooks.com

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Acknowledgments

  Excerpt from Left at the Altar

  1

  2

  3

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  “What gets us into trouble is not what we don’t know.

  It’s what we know for sure that just ain’t so.”

  —Attributed to Mark Twain

  1

  Haywire, Texas

  1887

  “Hold it right there, mister!”

  Matt Taggert froze in place. The woman’s voice sounded serious, as did the metallic click announcing she was armed.

  Not wanting to alarm her, he held his hands out where they could be seen and turned to face her, taking it nice and easylike.

  The owner of the voice stood at the entrance of the barn, the sun behind her back. The woman was small in stature but nonetheless looked like she meant business. Least her shotgun sure enough did.

  Loosely braided hair the color of silken corn fell from beneath a floppy felt hat. Keen blue eyes looked him up and down, stopping momentarily to study the Colt hanging from his side and the badge on his leather vest. Apparently, nothing she saw relieved her mind as her weapon remained pointed at his chest.

  “You can put your shotgun down, ma’am,” he said. “I mean you no harm.”

  Matt’s assurances won him no favor, and the shotgun didn’t budge. “What are you doing, snooping ’round my property?” she demanded.

  “Name’s Taggert. Matt Taggert, Texas Ranger,” he said. When even his name and profession didn’t convince her to lower her weapon, he added, “I’m looking for Neal Blackwell. I knocked on the door of the house, but there was no answer. Thought maybe I’d find him here in the barn.”

  “Well, you thought wrong, mister.”

  He studied the woman with narrowed eyes. “If you don’t mind my asking, ma’am, who am I speaking to?”

  “I’m Mrs. Blackwell.”

  “Mrs.—” That was a surprise. If her husband did indeed rob a stage, he sure in blazes hadn’t spent any of the stolen loot on his wife. Her sinewy body looked like it had been shaped by hard work and even harder times. If that wasn’t bad enough, her dress had enough patches to shingle a roof. The scuffed leather boots showing beneath the frayed hem of her skirt fared no better.

  Nor did the animals in the barn, which included one skinny milk cow and a swaybacked mare.

  Nevertheless, the woman earned his begrudging respect. Despite her shabby attire, she held herself with a quiet dignity that seemed at odds with her circumstances. He sensed that her squared shoulders stemmed from hard-earned inner strength.

  “I need to talk to your husband,” he said.

  Some emotion he couldn’t decipher flickered across her face. “Well, you won’t find him here.”

  “If you’ll kindly tell me where I can find him, I’ll be on my way.”

  Suspicion clouded her eyes, and he could almost see the cogwheels turning in her head. “What business does a Texas Ranger have with Neal?”

  Before he could answer, a boy no older than five or six appeared by her side and tugged on her apron. “Mama?”

  Dressed in knee pants and a checkered red shirt, the child peered at Matt from beneath a black slouch hat. A handsome lad, he had his mother’s blond hair and big blue eyes. He also matched his mother’s determined demeanor.

  Matt grimaced. He hadn’t counted on Blackwell being a family man. Nothing worse than having to arrest a man in front of his children. It was bad enough cuffing one in the presence of his wife. But if Blackwell couldn’t answer Matt’s questions, arresting him was a real possibility.

  The woman’s stance didn’t waver, but her voice softened as she addressed her son. “Go back to the house, Lionel. Mama’s busy right now.”

  Before leaving, the boy looked Matt up and down, curiosity written on his little round face. “Is he a bad man, Mama?”

  “Let’s hope for his sake he’s not,” his mama replied. “Now, go.”

  Lionel’s face grew more solemn as his probing eyes met Matt’s. Matt winked in hopes of relieving the boy’s mind, but the stoic look remained. Never had Matt seen a child so young look so serious.

  “Go,” his mother repeated, and this time Lionel left without further ado.

  Mrs. Blackwell gave her shotgun a shake as if to remind Matt she meant business. “You still haven’t told me what you want with Neal.”

  Matt couldn’t think of a tactful way to explain his business, so he came right out with it. “I need to talk to him about a stage robbery that took place last year.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Why?”

  Partly because of the shotgun and partly because something about the woman brought out his protective instincts, Matt chose his next words with care. “I have reason to believe your husband has…certain information that would be
helpful in my investigation.”

  She discounted his explanation with a toss of her head. “Why would you think such a thing?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, ma’am. Least not till I talk to your husband.”

  Her blue eyes narrowed. “If you think Neal had anything to do with that robbery, then you’re barking up the wrong tree.”

  “That may be true,” he said slowly. “But I still need to talk to him. It’s the only way I can wrap up my business and—”

  “You’ll wrap up your business a whole lot quicker if you just leave now.”

  Matt drew in his breath. If she were a man, things would be easier. For one thing, a man would have been disarmed by now. He would have seen to that. After letting his outlaw brother escape, Matt couldn’t afford another blunder. Not if he wanted to keep his job. Still, he wasn’t about to use physical force on a woman. Not unless he had to.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am.” He ever so slowly lowered his hands to his side. “I can’t leave. Not till I talk to your husband.”

  “That’s gonna be a little hard to do,” she said with a wag of her shotgun.

  He arched an eyebrow. “Why is that?”

  “Well, mister, it’s like this. My husband, Neal, is dead.”

  * * *

  Ellie-May Blackwell watched the man ride away on his fine black horse. He’d said he was a Texas Ranger, and she had no reason to doubt his word. A man who rode that tall in the saddle probably had nothing to hide.

  Still, she kept her shotgun ready. A woman alone couldn’t afford to take chances. He wasn’t the first man she’d had to chase off her land in recent months, but she sure did hope he would be the last.

  If the Ranger thought Neal knew something about that stage holdup, then somebody was spreading false rumors about her husband, and she didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

  “Mama…”

  “What is it, Lionel?” she asked, keeping her gaze focused on the now-deserted road leading away from her farm.

  “I’m hungry.”

  She turned to gaze at her son. “Hungry, eh?” No surprise there. The boy ate like he had a wolf in his belly. Affording him a loving smile, she tweaked the brim of his hat. “Then I guess we best rustle you up some grub.”

  Slinging her shotgun over her shoulder, she walked him the short distance from the barn to the house.

  “Careful,” she said when they reached the warped porch. Her farmhand hadn’t yet fixed the loose wooden step. Since Neal’s death, the house had fallen into disrepair. A window shutter hung from a single rusty hinge, but that was the least of it. The roof had lost some vital shingles, and several floorboards had come loose.

  There just didn’t seem to be enough time to do everything that needed to be done on that farm. Nor was there enough money.

  What was the old saying? Too poor to paint and too proud to whitewash? Although in her case, pride had nothing to do with it. Even the cost of whitewash was more than her budget allowed.

  “Was that a bad man, Mama?” Lionel asked, following her into the house and through the small but tidy parlor to the kitchen.

  She glanced at her six-year-old son, and her heart ached. He was too young to know that bad men existed. She had tried her best to protect him—protect both her children—from such worldly matters. But now that they both attended school, her job had gotten a lot harder.

  “No, he was just looking for someone,” she said.

  “Why-cha point a gun at him?”

  “I didn’t know who he was till he told me.”

  Lionel studied her. “I wish Papa was here,” he said, repeating the refrain he’d heard her say many times over.

  Sighing, she reached into the bread box and pulled out the loaf of bread baked fresh that morning. “So do I, Lioney,” she said, calling him by his pet name. “So do I.” Retrieving a knife from a drawer, she set to work slicing the bread.

  Neal had been dead for a year, and keeping his memory alive in her children’s young heads was no easy task. Lionel had only been five when his father died and Alicia six.

  Still, she refused to let her children forget who their father was and what he stood for. Not only was it important to instill a sense of pride in them, but she never wanted Lionel or Alicia to go through what she had gone through as a child.

  She’d only been eight when she’d watched her pa swing from the gallows. All through her growing-up years, no one had let her forget that she was an outlaw’s daughter. Some had even gone as far as to say she had tainted blood. As such, she had been viewed with suspicion and distrust wherever she went.

  At the age of ten, she had been accused of stealing a nickel from another pupil’s desk. Though she was innocent, she was deemed guilty and expelled. Never again had she been allowed to attend school, and her lack of formal education still rankled.

  Calling her a bad influence, parents had kept their children away from her, which only added to her loneliness and isolation. And it didn’t stop there.

  Throughout her teens, clerks had followed her around from the moment she entered a shop until she left. At church, all eyes had turned in her direction whenever the minister mentioned the word sin.

  She couldn’t believe it when Neal had taken a fancy to her. He’d said he didn’t believe all that nonsense about tainted blood, and neither should she. She had only been seventeen when they’d gotten married. Out of respect for Neal, people then began looking at her with more tolerance. Still, there were those who refused to let her forget the past, and she remained an outcast in the town’s social circles.

  The women’s auxiliary was off-limits to her. Same was true of the music club and quilting bee. She pretended that she didn’t care. Told Neal as much. Said she had no interest in quilting bees or charity groups, even though secretly she longed for female companionship.

  She’d heard it said that people had short memories. If such folks existed, they sure in blazes didn’t live in Haywire.

  Resigned to a lifetime of living in her father’s shadow, she’d never expected to be fully accepted by the citizens of Haywire. Then the unthinkable happened; her husband had died a heroic death saving children from a school fire.

  With his death, she had finally gained the acceptance she had longed for nearly all her life. As Neal Blackwell’s widow, she was now treated with more respect than she’d ever known or even thought possible. Even the mayor had consulted her before deciding on the placement of her husband’s memorial.

  She considered it ironic that it took one man’s death to ruin her reputation and another man’s death to restore it.

  Neal had died a hero, and she aimed to make sure he stayed a hero for her children’s sakes. Never did she want them to experience the scorn and shame that she’d gone through.

  Lord knows, she could barely eke out the bare necessities for them and sometimes not even that. But she had it within her power to preserve the memory of their father in a way that would earn her children the admiration and respect denied her throughout her childhood. That was what she had done this past year since Neal’s death and she intended to keep doing it.

  The Texas Ranger be danged.

  2

  Matt Taggert elbowed his way through the swinging doors of the Wandering Dog Saloon and bellied up to the bar. The scent of freshly strewn straw rose from the floor and mingled with the stale smell of tobacco and alcohol that clung to the air.

  It was still early in the afternoon, and the place was empty except for the man hunched over a corner table, snoring like a freight train. Even the poker and faro tables stood deserted.

  The bartender sauntered over to Matt. A tall, thin man with droopy eyes and an even droopier mustache, he gave the bar a quick swipe of his wet rag before asking, “What can I do you for?”

  “I’m looking for information.”

  Droopy made a fac
e. “If it doesn’t come in liquid form, I can’t help you.”

  Matt tossed a gold coin on the bar. “What can you tell me about Neal Blackwell?”

  Shrugging, Droopy pocketed the coin, proving that, despite his disclaimer, he held no prejudice against solids, long as they were gold. “Whatcha want to know?”

  “For starters, how and when did Blackwell die?”

  Setting his rag aside, the bartender glanced at Matt’s badge. “You haven’t been in town long, have you?”

  “Arrived yesterday. How’d you know?”

  “Only a stranger could ask a question like that. Anyone taller than a grasshopper knows how Neal Blackwell died. I’m surprised they haven’t made him a saint. For now, he just has to settle for being the town hero.”

  Matt’s gaze sharpened. “Hero? In what way?”

  “The school caught fire, and it would have turned into a disaster had it not been for Neal Blackwell. He ran into the blazin’ buildin’ and got everyone out unharmed.” Pausing for effect, Droopy gave the bar another quick swipe. “Unfortunately, the smoke got him in the end. The doc said his lungs couldn’t take it.”

  “How long ago was that?” Matt asked.

  Droopy rubbed his whiskered chin with his one free hand. “Guess it’s been about a year now.”

  Matt did a quick calculation. The bartender might have answered one of the questions that had puzzled him—why none of the stolen banknotes had shown up. If Blackwell was indeed responsible for the holdup, he might have died before he had a chance to spend the stolen loot. Timewise, it made sense.

  “The whole town turned out for his funeral,” the bartender continued with a shake of his head. “Never saw anything like it.”

  “Guess folks ’round here are grateful to the man,” Matt said.

  “You can say that again.” The bartender pursed his lips before continuing. “Just to show how grateful, they’re about to name the new school after him.”

  Matt furrowed his brow. “They’re goin’ that far, eh?” If he was right about Blackwell’s involvement in the stage holdup, the town might want to rethink the wisdom of naming a school after him.

  “Yeah, and that’s not all.” The bartender picked up a tin can and rattled it. “We’ve been collecting money to pay for the bronze statue of him.”