A Vow to Protect the Innocent (Preview)

Chapter One

The cold sank deep into Michael Byrne’s bones. He crouched in the trees, breath clouding the air, hands tucked beneath his stolen coat. Too big in the shoulders, too short in the arms, the thing barely kept the wind from cutting through him. His fingers curled into his sides for warmth, but the shivering never stopped.

The red scar at the corner of his mouth pulled at his skin as he clenched his teeth, rubbing at it absentmindedly. The thing had healed ugly. He didn’t much care how it looked, but it always felt too tight when the wind turned sharp.

The smell from the smokehouse hit his nose again—rich, heavy, intoxicating. His stomach twisted so hard he thought he might fold in on himself. He swallowed, ignored the gnawing inside him, and kept his eyes on the little shack.

It sat a stone’s throw from the main house, squat and sturdy, thick planks darkened from years of grease and smoke. Light flickered through the cracks in the walls. A man moved about within, shifting slabs of meat, turning them on hooks. Every time the door opened, warmth poured out, carrying the scent of salt and fat and smoke. Michael had been staring at it for hours, imagining what might be going on inside. His mouth flooded with saliva.

The last time he’d begged for food, James had sent him sprawling into the dirt. Drunk and mean, his brother-in-law had hit him so hard the world turned black. When he’d come to, Michael had barely managed to scramble away before James grabbed him again. Then Helen had tried to stop the bastard. His sister’s screams stayed with him. He’d run until he couldn’t hear them anymore.

He told himself she’d be alright. Told himself she always survived.

But he hadn’t gone back. Couldn’t. James might kill him next time. Or worse, he might kill Helen.

Michael’s stomach let out a low, miserable growl. He gritted his teeth, pressed his fists into his gut. Didn’t matter what James did. Michael wouldn’t beg again. He stayed still, waiting, slowly rubbing more dirt onto his face and arms to make his skin look darker in the evening’s murky blackness. They couldn’t know it was him.

A voice called out from the main house. The man inside the smokehouse answered, grumbling, then stepped out into the night. He didn’t bother shutting the door. Just a minute, maybe less. That was all Michael needed.

He bolted. The wind carried his footsteps as he crossed the frozen ground, his bare feet near numb, the chill biting up through his ankles. The smokehouse door stood wide. He lunged inside and grabbed the first thing he saw—a thick block of ham, the skin slick and golden with fat—then turned, sprinting for the trees.

“Hey!”

Shouting. Boots pounding against the ground behind him. Michael ran, ran like the devil himself tore after him. The cold stabbed at his lungs, his vision blurred, his whole body running on nothing but willpower and hunger. The meat was heavy in his arms, slippery in his grip, but he clutched it to his chest and kept running.

A bullet whined past his ear. The man cursed behind him. Michael veered off the road, diving into the underbrush. Branches clawed at his face, tore at his threadbare clothes, but he forced his way through, ignoring the sting. His breath came in ragged bursts.

More boots, more shouting. There was more than one voice now. He ran faster. The men chased him hard, their voices barking out orders, but they were clumsy in the dark. Michael ducked low, weaving between trees, feeling his way through familiar paths. His heart hammered, and sweat slicked his back despite the cold.

The ground sloped downward. He stumbled, almost fell, but kept running. He could hear them still, too close, too damn close. The ham’s bulk dragged at him, his arms burning from the effort of holding it tight. He shifted his grip, nearly dropped it, caught it at the last moment. A crack rang out—a gunshot. Bark exploded from a tree beside him. He didn’t slow down.

Then he saw it: the river. Black water, moving sluggishly beneath a thin sheen of ice. If he could just make it across—

A root snagged his foot. He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring through his ribs. Pain shot through his shoulder. The ham tumbled from his grasp, rolling into a drift of muddy snow. Michael scrambled for it, fingers clawing desperately. Footsteps thundered behind him. He lunged, grabbed the meat, pushed himself up, and ran.

The trees thinned. The river loomed ahead. He could hear the men crashing through the brush behind him, swearing, shouting. He didn’t think. He just ran straight into the water.

The cold was like a knife to the gut. His body seized up, breath ripped from his lungs. Ice cracked around him as he waded deeper, the current yanking at his legs. He kept moving. Kept clutching the ham to his chest. His teeth chattered, limbs tight, but he pushed forward.

On the far bank, he dragged himself onto the shore, shaking so violently he could barely stay on his feet. He looked back. The men hesitated at the water’s edge. One cursed, lifted his gun, but the other grabbed his arm.

“Ain’t worth it,” the man muttered. “Kid’ll freeze.”

Michael didn’t wait to hear more. He turned and ran, feet slipping on the icy ground. He didn’t stop until the trees swallowed him whole.

He collapsed near the riverbank. His breath came in ragged gasps, his hands trembling as he tore into the ham. He ate like an animal, shoving the meat into his mouth, chewing and swallowing so fast he barely tasted it. Salt burned his throat. Grease slicked his fingers. He didn’t care. His stomach stretched, finally full, finally warm, until exhaustion dragged him down.

The barn had been empty when Michael first found it. That was months ago, after James’ last beating, back when the air still held the last traces of summer. He’d stumbled on it after days of wandering, ribs sticking out like an old washboard, feet bleeding from a split pair of stolen boots. The place wasn’t much—one wall had rotted through, the roof sagged in the middle, and snow slipped through the gaps in the rafters—but it kept the worst of the wind off. Better than the alley behind the dry goods store. Better than the church steps, where the preacher chased him off like a stray dog.

Michael curled up in the barn’s corner now, his stomach full for the first time in days, the ham still clutched to his chest. He pulled his ragged coat tighter, eyes drifting shut. His breath slowed. The wind outside howled, but here, in the dark, he was safe.

He didn’t hear them come in.

A sharp yank wrenched the ham from his arms. Michael startled awake, heart hammering. The three boys stood over him, older, taller, their clothes just as tattered as his own. But they weren’t starving, not like he had been. They knew how to take what they wanted.

He’d seen them before. The first time, the three boys were passing through the fields, kicking stones, spitting in the dust. He’d seen their type before—orphans, runaways, just like him, surviving on scraps and meanness. He had kept to himself, made himself small in the shadows. They hadn’t noticed him that day. But it was only a matter of time before they’d run into one another on the streets or in the woods.

The biggest one, lanky and sharp-faced, grinned wide as he held the ham in both hands. His teeth were crooked, his nose bent from being broken one too many times. Michael knew him as Ketch—short for “Ketchum,” though nobody ever used the full name. The other two, Simms and Toby, stood close behind, eyes alight with cruel amusement.

“Lookit this,” Ketch said, voice thick with mockery. “Half-Grin’s been eatin’ good.”

Michael’s jaw tightened. Half-Grin. He hated that name.

The first time he’d heard it, he’d been fresh off the streets, standing outside a saloon with his belly aching. Some drunk had taken a look at his scar, the way it pulled his mouth into that permanent half-smile, and laughed.

“Boy looks like he’s always laughin’ at somethin’,” the man had said, nudging his friend. “Like some half-cracked circus fool.”

The name stuck. The laughter stuck. And after James had split his face open and left the scar worse than before, it became something worse than a joke—it became a brand.

Michael lunged for the ham. A fist caught him in the ribs, knocking the wind from him. He stumbled back, gasping. The boys laughed.

“Give it back,” he snarled. His voice came out hoarse. Weak.

“Give it back,” Ketch mimicked, twisting his face into an ugly sneer. “Or what?”

Michael didn’t think. He threw himself at Ketch, fists swinging, teeth bared. He hit hard, clawing, biting, scratching. Got a good one in, too, split the bastard’s lip wide open. But then the others grabbed him. They pulled him down, kicked him in the gut, slammed his head against the dirt. The world spun. Blood filled his mouth. He struggled, tried to get his feet under him, but a boot hit his ribs and sent him sprawling again.

He tasted iron. His vision blurred.

Ketch crouched beside him, wiping blood from his mouth. “You ain’t nothin’, Half-Grin.” He spat, the saliva landing hot against Michael’s cheek. “You a freak. Ain’t got nobody. Ain’t got nothin’. Gonna die in the gutter like a dog.”

He wound up and kicked Michael in the stomach one last time. A sharp pain tore through Michael’s gut. He retched, emptying the contents of his stomach all over his dirty shirt and onto the dirt floor. His world blurred. The wind howled through the broken walls and he thought he heard the door creak open. The next time he looked up, the boys were gone.

He lay in the dirt, shaking, blood dripping from his nose, his ribs screaming. His scar throbbed, stretched tight over his too-thin skin. His stomach, full just an hour ago, ached with loss.

But he didn’t cry. He never cried. He never even smiled—only that damn half-grin.

Chapter Two

Fifteen years had passed since Michael Byrne had lived like a starving dog in the cold. Fifteen years since he had to fight for every meal, for every scrap of warmth. But the years hadn’t smoothed him out. He wasn’t much different now—still mean, still scarred, still carrying the same old fight inside him. He just had a star pinned to his chest now. And a town that called him deputy.

Damascus, Montana, sat in the shadow of Fort Bellings, a frontier town propped up by the soldiers who kept it running. The settlement thrived off the fort, feeding it men, supplies, whiskey, and women, and in return, the fort ensured the town didn’t collapse under the weight of its own lawlessness.

It was a stopping place for settlers heading west, a home for drifters and gamblers, and a refuge for the kind of men who liked their whiskey strong and their justice weak. Michael had seen the town break better men than him. He wasn’t sure if it had broken him yet. Frankly, he wasn’t sure how much of him there was to be broken.

The marshal’s office was quiet that night, the air thick with kerosene and tobacco. Michael sat behind the office’s only desk, a gas lantern throwing his shadow across the wooden walls. A bottle of whiskey rested at his elbow, half-drained, and a cigarette burned low between his fingers.

His other hand worked steadily over a scrap of paper, charcoal sketching out the shape of a man’s face—long nose, sunken cheeks, a little too much like the gambler who had stiffed him on a poker hand the night before. Michael grinned at his work, the scar at the corner of his mouth pulling tight.

“Christ, Byrne, I remember when you used to draw real things,” came a slow, slurred voice from the jail cells.

Michael didn’t look up. “I still do, Motes. Just happen to like the funny ones best.”

Marshal Motes lay stretched out on the cot inside one of the three cells, his boots kicked off, his long frame wrapped in a blanket. He wasn’t locked up—he owned the damn keys. But the cot was the most comfortable place he could find when the morphine took hold, and Michael never raised hell about it. Motes had been a hell of a lawman before the sickness got him. Now he was a man running out of time, easing his pain the only way he knew how.

“I ever tell you ‘bout the time I knocked out a cavalry captain?” Motes mumbled, eyes half-lidded. “Damn near got court-martialed over it.”

Michael smirked, took a pull from the bottle. “Only ‘bout a dozen times.”

“It gets better every time,” Motes said, chuckling.

Michael opened his mouth to retort but a frantic pounding on the office door cut him off. He sighed, setting his sketch aside. “Jesus, what now?”

When he swung open the door, a woman stood there, her breath coming hard, her painted face streaked with tears. He recognized her—one of the girls from Bellings Cabaret. The place wasn’t respectable, but neither was Damascus.

“Deputy,” she gasped, gripping the doorframe. “You gotta come quick—Joe Evans is gonna kill Anna. He’s beating her bad, and no one’s lifting a damn finger!”

Michael felt something cold twist in his gut. Joe Evans was a known bastard, a man with fists too heavy and a head too full of whiskey. Michael had let him off with warnings before, but this? No. Not this.

Motes watched from his cot, eyes glassy. “You goin’?”

Michael grabbed his hat and gun belt. “Reckon I am.”

Bellings Cabaret was alive with noise when Michael pushed through the batwing doors. Soldiers and locals crowded the place, whiskey flowing, laughter sharp as knives. The stink of sweat and stale beer clung to the air.

The woman led him upstairs, her breath coming fast. Even over the din below, Michael could hear the screams. Anna’s screams. The kind of sound that made a man’s blood burn hot.

Michael didn’t knock. He kicked the door open.

Joe Evans turned from the bed, his face flushed red with drink and rage, his fist still raised. Anna lay curled up, bruised and sobbing.

Evans grinned, all cocky swagger. “Now hold on, Byrne—”

Michael didn’t let him finish. The pistol-whip cracked hard across Evans’s cheekbone, splitting skin, sending him staggering. The man let out a strangled yell, clutching his face.

Michael grabbed him by the collar. “You like beatin’ on women, Joe?”

Evans spat blood. “You son of a—”

Michael threw him. Evans crashed through the window in a spray of glass, hitting the muddy street below with a heavy thud.

Michael took the stairs two at a time, stepping out into the night where Evans groaned, half-conscious in the dirt. He grabbed the bastard by his collar and dragged him toward the jail.

Shouts rang out from the saloon. Four men stepped into the street, hands on their holsters. “Let ’im go, Byrne,” one of them warned.

Michael didn’t stop walking. “Ain’t happening.”

The men spread out, blocking his path. “Then we got a problem.”

Michael sighed, adjusting his grip on Evans. “Alright, boys,” he said, voice low, slow. “You know who I am. You know what I can do.”

The men hesitated. But they were drunk, and drunk men didn’t think straight. One of them reached for his gun.

Michael was faster. A shot rang out, the man’s pistol flying from his hand before he could clear leather. The others stiffened, hands hovering over their belts.

“Goddamn, Half-Grin,” one of the men said. “He’s just drunk is all.”

Michael turned, his pistol held in an iron grip at his waist. “What’d you call me?”

The three men took a few steps back from the pistol, one rubbing his hand from where the gun had flown out of it.

“That’s what I thought,” said Michael. He holstered his weapon and grabbed the unconscious Joe Evans by his collar.

He dragged him through the dust, ignoring his groans and feeble attempts to plant his feet. The bastard’s face was already swelling from the pistol-whipping, blood smeared across his cheek like war paint.

The door to the marshal’s office groaned on its hinges as Michael kicked it open and hauled Evans inside. He tossed him into a cell without ceremony, the outlaw crumpling onto the cot with a grunt.

From his own cell, Marshal Motes propped himself up on one elbow sleepily. “What the hell’s all this?”

Michael pulled his hat off and ran a hand through his hair. “Joe Evans thought he could beat a woman to death tonight. Figured he ought to sleep it off somewhere he wouldn’t kill nobody.”

Motes let out a slow breath, rolling onto his back. “His boys ain’t gonna like that.”

Michael poured himself a drink from the bottle on the desk. “No, I reckon they won’t. Might want to get your ass up.”

As if summoned, something shattered against the door—a bottle, by the sound of it. Liquid seeped under the threshold, the acrid stink of cheap whiskey filling the room. Michael sighed, took a final pull from his glass, and set it down before heading for the door.

Outside, four men stood in the glow of the gas lamps, their boots planted wide, hands twitching near their holsters. The tallest of them, a wiry man with bad teeth and a gut full of courage, stepped forward.

“Let him go, Byrne.”

Michael tilted his head. “Or what?”

The man grinned, flexing his fingers over his belt. “Or we’ll take him.”

Michael sighed through his nose. “And where exactly you gonna take him, boys?”

That made them pause, just for a second.

“We gonna take him where we take him and that’s just what it is, Half-Grin.”

Heat bubbled up in Michael’s stomach. His finger began to twitch over his pistol’s trigger.

“Oh, excuse me,” said Bad Teeth. “I meant Deputy Half-Grin.”

Michael drew first. The crack of his pistol split the night, and Bad Teeth howled. He clutched his wrist, blood seeping between his fingers.

Michael cocked the hammer back again. “Gun belts. Off.”

The remaining three hesitated, eyes flicking between each other. Then one of them—stocky, mean-looking—grinned.

Michael saw it too late. A shadow moved behind him, and before he could turn, an arm hooked around his throat, dragging him back. There was a bandage wrapped around his hand. They’d ambushed him.

The fight was on.

Michael fought like a cornered animal, his boots kicking up dust as he twisted free. He slammed his elbow into his attacker’s ribs, feeling the sharp exhale of breath against his neck. The man grunted and staggered back, but before Michael could press the advantage, another came at him fast—a stocky bastard with a thick beard and fists like iron. Michael barely ducked the first punch, but the second caught him in the ribs, stealing the air from his lungs. He tasted copper, forced himself to move.

A third man slammed into him from the side, tackling him low. Michael hit the ground hard, his skull cracking against the packed dirt. Stars burst behind his eyes. The man’s heavy body pinned him down, rough hands clawing at his arms, trying to keep him still. Michael twisted, shoved an arm free, and rammed his thumb deep into the man’s eye socket.

A howl of pain. The grip loosened.

Michael bucked upward, rolling them both over, but before he could get the upper hand, something struck the back of his skull—

A boot. Then another.

Pain flared white-hot as the kicks rained down. His ribs screamed, his gut clenched against the blows. Someone stomped on his hand, grinding it into the dirt. Another kick caught his jaw, snapping his head to the side. Blood pooled in his mouth. He spat it out, tried to curl in on himself, but they were on him like wolves, snarling and ruthless.

The world dimmed. His ears rang with the rush of his own heartbeat, the sickening crack of bone, the laughter of men who thought they’d already won.

Through the haze of pain, he saw the glint of a revolver. A man loomed over him, a silhouette against the gaslight glow, barrel pointed right between Michael’s eyes.

Michael blinked, trying to focus, but the man’s face blurred. His own breath rasped in his chest, shallow, sharp. This was it.

Then a gunshot split the night. The man jerked, a red bloom spreading across his chest. His gun wavered, then fell from lifeless fingers as his body crumpled backward. Another shot. Another body dropped. The last man hesitated, eyes wide with terror, then turned and ran.

Michael sucked in a ragged breath, the pain in his ribs flaring bright and brutal as he forced himself up. Blood dripped from his temple, staining the dirt beneath him. His vision swam, but he managed to turn his head.

Marshal Motes stood in the doorway, his pistol still raised, smoke curling from the barrel.

He spat onto the ground. “Damn waste of good morphine.”

Chapter Three

The saloon was dimly lit. A slow, mournful tune droned from a piano in the corner, barely heard over the low murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter from the card tables.

Michael sat slumped at the bar, a half-empty bottle in front of him, his fingers curled loosely around the glass. The first few drinks had burned, but now they slid down easy, numbing the aches in his body, turning the edges of his thoughts soft. The bartender gave him a wary glance but said nothing—Michael was known in Damascus.

How could he not be? With a face like some sort of deranged mask or haunted puppet and a reputation for dispensing justice—or at least what he considered justice—with a swift and violent hand, Michael was someone to be left alone. Or at least left to himself.

He took another swig, the amber liquid running down his throat, pooling warm in his gut. The fight played over in his mind: the blows, the blood, the way his body still screamed from the beating. He shifted on the stool and winced, pressing a hand to his ribs. He sort of liked the sting.

A couple of off-duty cavalrymen sat a few stools down, eyeing him with the kind of look men gave when they weren’t sure whether to be impressed or wary. Michael ignored them, focusing on the bottle and pouring another finger into his glass. Had Old Motes really taken one of these guys to task back in the day?

Sometime later—he wasn’t sure how long—he pushed himself off the stool, the floor tilting beneath his boots. The world outside was colder than he expected, the night air biting through his whiskey warmth. He patted his pockets, not sure if he had left any cash on the bar. No one had chased after him so he figured he must have. He staggered forward, bottle still in hand, and made his way through the empty streets, past the church.

The sight of it made his lip curl. A towering thing of whitewashed wood, its steeple stretching up toward the heavens, its door shut tight against the likes of him. He paused, swaying slightly, then lifted the bottle in a mocking toast.

“To God,” he muttered. “And all His damned silence.”

He took a long pull, then spat into the dirt before lurching onward.

His home wasn’t much—just a shack out behind the stables, tucked away where no one would bother him. The walls leaned slightly, the roof barely kept the rain out, and the smell of horses clung to everything. But it was his, and he didn’t have to answer to anyone inside it.

He pushed the door open, letting it creak on rusted hinges. The room was small, barely enough space for a cot, a rickety table, and a chair. A lantern sat on the table, but he didn’t bother lighting it. He didn’t need to see. He just needed to sleep.

Michael collapsed onto the cot without bothering to undress. His boots hung over the edge, his breath slow and heavy. The room spun slightly around him, the whiskey still warm in his blood. He tucked his fingers into his worn leather belt, near the revolver at his hip—a habit he never shook, even in sleep.

His body ached, his mind swam, but the exhaustion finally took hold. He was out before the bottle hit the floor.

Darkness pressed in around him, thick and suffocating. In the dream, fists rained down like hail, faceless men striking him again and again, their laughter cruel and sharp. A boot smashed into his ribs—he gasped, smaller now, thinner, a child once more, cowering in the alley behind the saloon. The figures towering over him blurred and shifted, their faces flickering between shadow and familiarity.

James. Strangers. The past and the present collided, pain bleeding through the years, his body breaking all over again. He tried to fight, to claw his way free, but the hands kept coming, pinning him down, pressing the breath from his lungs. Crushing him beneath their weight. Then the laughter shifted. It wasn’t men laughing anymore. It was crying.

Michael woke with a violent start, breath heaving, heart hammering against his ribs. He shot up, hand grasping for the revolver at his hip. For a moment, he thought they had come for him—Evans’s men, back to finish what they’d started. His pulse thundered in his ears as he strained to listen.

But the noise wasn’t footsteps. No low, drunken threat creeping through the night. It was crying. A thin, piercing wail. It wasn’t the wind pushing through the cracks in the shack’s walls. It was something else, something alive. Michael sat still, every muscle coiled tight. The sound didn’t stop.

He pushed himself to his feet, wincing as pain flared up his side. The whiskey haze had worn off just enough to let the bruises remind him they were there. He staggered to the door, pushed it open, and stepped out into the crisp pre-dawn air.

His stomach turned to ice.

Lying on the ground just outside his door, wrapped in blankets, was a baby.

The crying didn’t stop, didn’t slow. It cut through the silence of the stables, a desperate, pleading sound that made Michael’s skin prickle. He stood frozen, the night air biting through his shirt, his breath clouding in front of him. He had seen a lot in his years—death, suffering, the kind of cruelty men inflicted without blinking—but this? He didn’t know what to do with this.

“Jesus…”

His voice came out rough, the word barely more than a breath. Slowly, cautiously, he crouched down. His hands, so used to violence, trembled slightly as he reached for the bundle. He lifted it carefully, the warmth of the child foreign in his arms. The blankets were thick, but when he peeled one back, he saw a small, scrunched-up face, red from the cold and from crying.

Michael swallowed hard. “Hey now… easy.”

The baby continued to wail, its tiny fists flailing in the blanket. Michael rocked back on his heels, completely and utterly lost. He had never held something this small before, this fragile. He shifted his grip, careful, uncertain, as though the child might break if he breathed too hard. Then his gaze caught something beneath the baby—

A folded scrap of paper.

He hesitated, then reached down with one hand and plucked it from the ground. The paper was rough against his fingers, the ink smudged but still legible.

With the baby still crying in his arms, Michael unfolded the note.

And then he read.