A Hired Gun for Her Freedom (Preview)

Chapter One 

Clara Belle Anderson slammed the cabin door behind her hard enough to rattle the frame. What she’d just heard on the other side of that door had made her shaking mad. 

Wind rushed down from the mountains, carrying with it the faint smell of rain. It was a smell she usually loved.

Not now.

Now she wanted nothing more than to gut the bastards that were running families just like the Garrettys out of their home. It was rampant. And it was her job to uncover it all.

She stood there on the narrow porch, breathing hard, a sheaf of papers clutched tightly in her hand, her pulse still racing from what she’d just heard.

Clara glanced down at the pages. Her notes were surely messy, scribbled fast like a mad woman. Ink had smudged where her hands had shaken as she took down names and dates and descriptions, both from their mouths and the physical receipts they’d shown her.

It was the kind of break she’d been waiting for, but it didn’t bring her any joy. Not at all.

There had been threats toward that precious family, and she knew it wasn’t just them. There were so many more families than that, but no one had been brave enough to say anything. Only the Garrettys. Though she wasn’t sure if it was bravery so much as fear.

She couldn’t blame them, though, being so afraid…

What with visits in the middle of the night and broken windows with a rock that had a warning: 

Sell. Or else.

Her jaw tightened as lightning cracked across the sky, pulling her out of her stupor enough for her to start down the porch steps. She was headed toward her horse, Millie. Her gorgeous bay mare.

Thunder rolled. She could tell it was deep through the valley—distant, and yet coming in faster than she wanted it to.

She needed to get home. The storm was coming and there wasn’t time to stand around. 

Clara shoved the papers into her saddlebag, swung herself up into the saddle in one smooth motion, and turned Millie toward the narrow dirt road that wound down the mountainside. The Garrettys were right to be afraid, but she wasn’t. Not by a long shot. 

She dug her heels into Millie’s side, pushing her to move faster. Her hooves struck hard against the ground, loosening up rock as she started down the trail. Wind whipped at Clara’s auburn hair, shaking it loose from its red tie. Strands of auburn snapped across her face, but she leaned low over Millie’s neck. 

“Yah!” she yelled out, slapping the reins harder.

She needed to get back to the Rocking A ranch. Her father’s ranch.

She needed to get all of this written out legibly. She needed to get this to the Denver publication.

Needed—

Her horse suddenly shied, coming to a halt. Clara’s head snapped up.

There were men standing in the road ahead. Dark shapes at first, heads tilted down atop their horses, their eyes not visible. 

They were blocking the narrow pass, and as soon as she approached, their heads tilted up.

She could see their eyes now.

They smiled. Not a friendly smile. Menacing ones. Like they’d been waiting … 

For her.

Her stomach dropped. She knew them. Not their names or anything, but she knew their faces; she knew what they were.

These were the kind of men who didn’t knock on doors for pleasantries. They were the kind of men who rode in in the middle of the night and threw rocks through people’s windows. They were the kind of men who left homes burning behind them. 

One of them, a middle-aged man with a long, shaggy black beard, shifted in his saddle as lightning flashed again—this time behind the men. 

They’d been expecting her. For a single, frozen second, she just sat there, staring at them. Blinking. 

Then instinct hit and she wrenched the reins hard. Millie reared and pivoted around sharply, her hooves scrambling against the ground, flinging up gravel and dust. 

“Go!” she shouted, her voice sharp and desperate. “Yah!”

Her entire body shook as Millie pounded away. Branches snapped at her face as she darted into the woods. She ducked and weaved, missing as many as she could as Millie continued to dart through trees and brush. The ground was uneven. Treacherous.

She held hope that she could cross the creek. The stream was swollen, running harder than she’d ever seen, or at least paid attention to, feeding fast into the river just down the way. 

The storm wasn’t there yet. She might still have a chance to cross. Whatever she decided, she had to keep moving. 

The men were shouting behind her. Then she heard their horses pounding the ground, moving in. 

She didn’t look back. Didn’t need to. She knew they were coming. And fast.

She leaned forward, tucking her knees, her eyes focused on getting through the woods and across the creek that fed the river below. Town was this way. She could cut through and make it—they’d turn around or get shot up by some of the local men. 

By her father… or someone with loyalty to him…

The wood thickened around her, but she knew the terrain. She had ridden it since she was a girl. Never at this speed, though.

Never under these circumstances.

Gunfire cracked behind her. 

One of the shots tore through a branch at her left, splintering wood, tossing leaves around her. Another kicked the dirt near Millie’s right hind leg.

A squeal escaped her throat, in surprise, then a growl followed.  “Damn you,” she hissed, ducking low.

They weren’t trying to scare her. They were trying to kill her.

The slope steepened and the ground turned rocky underneath Millie’s hooves. If she could make it over the ridge she had a chance.

Another shot hit close behind her. Too close. 

Her breath was ragged and coming out fast and sharp. Her heart hammered so hard and loud it was all she could hear, even over the thuds of hooves pounding. Even over the sound of bullets. 

She veered left, then right to break up a pattern. They knew where she was headed, but they didn’t know her route.

She needed distance.

But it didn’t matter how much she needed it, it didn’t seem like they were letting up. Trees seemed to swallow her whole as she raced through the woods. Her mind raced. Crossing would mean survival. It was her only chance.

Clara hauled back on the reins and Millie skidded to a stop right at the edge of the rushing river, right where the creek emptied in. The water roared, white foam at the top as it crashed violently against jagged rocks.

The bank dropped there, but the current was far too strong to cross. 

“Damn it!”

Behind her, the forest erupted with sounds as the men rampaged through the trees. 

Quickly, she turned her horse around and pushed her further downstream as hard as she could, following the curve of the water. Mud coated the rock, making it slippery, and the uneven terrain made every step a struggle.

The river was high and strong, enough to splash her boots. 

Hoofbeats closed in.

Closer.

Too close.

She spotted a break in the bank. This had to be the crossing. She only prayed they could get to the other side and lose them.

“Come on,” she breathed, leaning forward. “Come on—”

She didn’t slow down. Instead, she drove the horse straight into the river.

Cold water flowed all around, the current slamming harder against Millie’s legs than she thought it would. The mare fought to get a footing. 

“You’ve got it, girl! You’ve got it!” Clara called out over the rapids before grabbing the saddle horn with one hand. The other hand reached for the pistol in the saddle holster behind her.

She didn’t want this to be the end of the line.

She was going to fight and claw her way out—no matter what it took. 

Behind her, the riders burst from the trees.

She swung the gun up and fired behind her. One of the men jerked back, his horse rearing as the bullet struck somewhere near them. 

“Back!” she shouted, firing again. “Back off!”

They scattered. That was all she needed.

Just a little space.

The horse lunged forward, scrambling up the far side of the river, her hooves slipping.

Clara urged her on. They didn’t have time to dilly-dally.

They had to move.

Her heart slammed against her chest and the men gained ground again. But she didn’t stop.

Didn’t look back.

She rode.

The storm broke overhead, and the bottom fell out. Rain came hitting down like needles, soaking her through in seconds.

Millie stumbled, her hoof striking a rock loose and sliding out from under her.  “No!” she cried, but it was too late. 

The world looped to its side, the reins tore from her hands, and she hit the ground so hard the breath knocked right out of her lungs. Pain exploded across her entire side as her horse shrieked and bolted riderless through the woods.

Clara rolled, gasping, scrambling to her knees. But she was too slow. 

The men’s horses surrounded her, and before she could get up to her feet, hands grabbed at her arms, holding her roughly. 

She fought—elbowing, kicking, screaming. Doing everything she could to twist free—that is before someone caught her by the hair and yanked her back so hard she cried out.

“Let go of me!” she snarled, clawing at the hand clutched in her hair. “You bastard—” 

A sharp blow stung her face. Her vision blurred. She staggered.

They dragged her upright, half-throwing her across a saddle, like she weighed nothing at all. Rain soaked through her clothes as they tied her up, binding her legs and arms. She twisted again, her vision returning, and tried to throw herself off. But a hand shoved down on her back. Hard. Then he mounted up, holding her down.

“Easy,” his deep harsh voice drawled above her. “Wouldn’t want you to break before we get paid.”

Clara spat at him, her tongue tasting of metal as the rain streamed down her face. “Go to hell,” she snapped. 

“That might be you, darlin’,” the man said, chuckling.  “If your pa doesn’t pay.”

The man turned his horse to the direction she’d just come from.

And she saw it.

Smoke.

Her stomach dropped. No.

They rode hard toward the cabin as the storm all but swallowed them.

When they got to the clearing near the Garretty cabin, she knew it was too late.

Flames already licked up the sides of the house, the roof already beginning to sag inward as fire consumed it. The porch stood blackened, half-burned already, and in front of it—Clara went still. 

The Garretty family were on their knees. One man stood over the four of them. She couldn’t see much of him. All she was focused on was Bobby, the husband. Deborah, the wife. Suzy and Jacob—their two beloved children—only twelve and fourteen…

The man above them pulled out a gun. 

“No,” Clara whispered, the word ripped from her. “No—”

She craned her neck to look as they came to a halt and dragged her down from the horse.

She had to do something.

She had to think of something.

But then they forced her to her knees in the mud. It sloshed all around her as the rain continued to pour. Hands tightened around her arms, pinching her skin as they held her tightly in place.

She struggled in their grip, trying to rip herself away from them.

“Let them go!” she shouted, voice breaking through a strangled sob. “They didn’t do anything! This was me! I came to them!”

The man stepped forward. Tall. Lean. Dark features. And a scarred mass at his chin and mouth. His smile was nothing if not pure evil. 

“Too late for that,” he snarled, drawing his gun. 

Clara screamed. The shot cracked through the storm. Then another. Then another. Then… another…

She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t move. Could only stare at their lifeless bodies lying in the filth of the ground, the rain pouring down over them. 

A sharp whistle cut through the storm. 

“You got the ol’ beast!” one of the men screamed with an evil chuckle. 

One of the riders had circled back, leading Millie by the reins. The animal fought, her sides heaving, eyes rolling white. But it didn’t matter.

They had her too, now.

Clara’s gut wrenched.

The man turned back to her, calm as ever, holstering his weapon like he hadn’t just ended four lives. Two of them… children…

“Now,” he said mildly, “let’s see what you were so eager to write about at the Garrettys’ house.”

One of the men pulled her saddlebag from the horse and dumped it out at her feet. Papers spilled into the mud, ink bleeding as the rain hit them and water soaked it from the ground.

The man with the scar crouched down, snatching the pages from the mud. He barely glanced at them before his mouth pulled into something dark. Another smile.

Clara lunged at them. “Don’t!” she yelled, panicked.

A hand slammed her back down. She fell into a puddle, her knees sinking. Clara’s hands fell beside her, almost lifeless. The cool breath of the ground molded around her fingers as she pressed her fingers into it.

Ten riders had come after her.

Someone would need to know that…

Quickly she traced a rough shape into the brown sludge. The man crouched, picking up one of the pages, scanning it with eager eyes. That smile. The same evil smile he’d smiled before killing the Garretys.

Waltzing over to the cabin, clearing his throat before throwing them into the flames that had almost completely taken the cabin now.

The heat had become unbearable against her face. The smoke strangled her. It was smothering.

She made a sound she hardly even recognized as her own. 

Anguish spread. 

Everything she had worked for—everything she’d risked…

It was now ashes, weighed down by drops of rain before it could float too far away. 

Smoke was getting thick from the water hitting the burning wood. She coughed and hacked as she bent forward. 

The man turned back to her, brushing his hands together like he’d just finished some chore and he sighed, a smug grin just at the tail end. “You’d be dead already,” he said, almost conversational, “if you weren’t worth more alive.”

Her eyes snapped to his.

“What—”

“Five thousand dollars,” he went on. “That’s what your pa’s gonna pay to get you back.”

Clara swallowed hard, her throat tight. She had no idea who this man even was. Clearly one of them. 

“And if he doesn’t pay it?” she asked, knowing good and well he would if push came to shove. 

The man’s smile pulled even wider. “I’ll just fuckin’ kill you.”

The hiss of steam inside wood was all she heard until the roll of thunder. The man’s expression didn’t change. His smile stayed, and for the first time, fear coiled tightly inside of her, almost suffocating her more than the smoke. 

“You’re making a mistake,” she wheezed.

The man laughed. “Everyone says that,” he replied, nodding to his men. “Move out.”

They hauled her back onto the horse, the flames roaring behind them as they rode out into the storm.

Clara’s eyes found the fire, and she didn’t look away.

Not from the fire. Not from the bodies. 

You didn’t burn the truth.

Her eyes closed, then opened again, narrowed into slits.And somewhere beneath the fear—the anger was stirring even harder. 

You just made it personal.

Chapter Two

Luke Callahan rode into Puma Pass in the late afternoon when the world still sat in that quiet space between night and day.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.

He slowed his horse, Rook, at the rise above town and looked down over it. The town was smaller than he’d expected it to be. Nothing more than a handful of buildings gathered along a wide dirt street. 

The sky was gray and gloomy and did nothing to make the town look any more appealing than every other run-of-the-mill ranch town.

But it did have its perks from the look of it.

It looked like a place that minded its own business. Places like that rarely stayed that way for long, though. People moved in quick. Especially when the railroad came through.

Puma Pass hadn’t been touched, though. Not yet. Not by the look of it.

It was still a quaint little ranching community in the mountains, and it all revolved around one big ranch—the Rocking A. 

Luke let his eyes move past the town, out across the valley. 

That was where the man who hired him lived. 

The Rocking A spread across the land like it owned the valley and the town alike. It practically did from the sound of things. The ranch’s pastures stretched wide open under the mountains, with fences running long in sections, cattle scattered inside them.

He could see the house from here.

It was a large two-story house, painted white, with a great big wraparound porch. There were two barns, a bunkhouse, and a couple of small outbuildings that stood behind the house, too. 

Twenty thousand acres.

Luke paused there a moment longer than he meant to.

It was a hell of a place. The kind he’d once dreamed of having. Not just big, but well kept, too. It had been built right. Made to withstand whatever storm came its way.

It was the kind of place that a man should hold onto forever if it ever came his way. He’d seen land like it before, though… and most men didn’t hang onto it. With a click of his tongue, he urged Rook to move. 

Time to get this over with.

The rancher known as Buck Anderson had a daughter, Clara, that had gotten herself kidnapped. Likely by a bunch of thugs.

It was his job to bring her back by whatever means necessary.

He sighed. Just another job.

Always a hired gun.

Truth was, Luke Callahan was tired. Not just of tracking, either. Of everything he’d been willing to do to make ends meet. This, though? It seemed worth it to find one damsel for as much money as this rancher was willing to spend. 

By the time he rode into town proper, the place had begun to stir. A couple of men moved along the street hanging on to tin coffee cups.

A woman stepped out onto the porch and began sweeping dust into the road like she’d done every day of her life. She probably had—at least on the days it didn’t rain. 

He rode straight through, the sound of Rook’s hooves loud on the quiet streets. The few people around seemed to notice him. They always did. 

Luke Callahan didn’t look like he belonged in a place like this. 

He wasn’t entirely sure he belonged much anywhere anymore.

He wore a long coat that had been worn thin by all his travel. His revolver was low on his hip, the perfect level for his hand to grab it easily when riding—he’d needed it more times than he could count. 

He ignored the looks just like he always did until someone gave him a reason not to. And he continued on through town and over the pasture toward the ranch house. 

The road curved gently toward the main house, wide and well-traveled. Just like you’d expect from a ranch the entire town relied on.

He passed a pair of ranchers working on a fence, who turned to watch him as he rode up. One of them straightened and stood. He was broad shouldered and thick necked. 

“You’re late,” he said, spitting tobacco out next to him. 

Luke rested his hands loosely on the saddle horn. “I said I’d be here and I’m here, ain’t I?”

That didn’t earn a smile.

The other man stood up too, wiping his hands on the front of his gray pants. He was a younger man. A lot thinner than the other. 

“Callahan?” he asked.

Luke nodded.

“Get over to the house and a couple of guys’ll meet you to take you to Buck,” the younger one drawled, clapping his thick-necked friend on the shoulder.

He smirked and lightly dug his heels into Rook’s side, setting off toward the house.

Luke rode to the house at an easy pace. A couple of men were coming out of the barn as he approached and they stopped when they saw him, watching. He swung down off the horse and held out the reins without looking at either of them. 

“Got business with Mr. Anderson,” he said, trying to hand off his reins. 

“What kind of business a man like you got here?” one of them asked, his eyes moving over Luke slow and curious.  He was the kind of man that filled a doorframe. Broad, but lean, with dark hair. His jaw was square, filled with a few days of stubble over his face.

But his eyes were striking and blue, and he looked a bit too pretty to be as rugged as he pretended to be. Luke was sure he worked hard. Looked like a top hand, the kind that had a good strong back and knew he was needed around a place like this. But it made him arrogant. 

“The kind that requires a man like me,” Luke replied.

The other man, an older stocky man with a salt and pepper beard and a black hat, stepped forward a half-pace, slinging rope over his shoulder. “You Callahan?”

Luke grumbled low in his throat and dipped his chin in a short and serious nod. “That’s right,” he said.

“I’m Jake Clemmons, the head ranch hand,” the first man said, thrusting his hand out between them. “You’re early.”

Luke just looked at his hand.

Clemmons cleared his throat, a faint color rising in his face. The other man beside him started to snicker. It wasn’t that Luke meant any particular offense by it. He just didn’t take well with strangers. Never saw much point in shaking a man’s hand he didn’t intend to do any real business with.

The men looked at one another, and the stocky older man started to snicker.

“Buck’s expecting you,” Clemmons grumbled. “Come on.”

Luke handed off the reins to the snickering man. “Make sure she gets a good brush,” he said cheekily with a wink.

He followed Clemmons across the yard toward the house, feeling the attention on his back from the others as he went. He gritted his teeth. He was used to it.

Up close, the ranch held up to what he’d seen from the rise. Everything was in order. Clean and maintained, and it seemed like all the men had their roles. 

The house was beautiful, standing solid and so clean and bright white that it almost glowed against the afternoon sun. The windows were spotless, porch swept. Everything was in perfect order. 

A young woman answered the door before they reached it—slight thing, dark-haired, with a soft face that hadn’t yet learned to hide much. She stepped back without a word when she saw them. Her eyes fell on Luke and rested there as she clutched her chest.

He noticed her. Couldn’t help it. Then he looked away and she moved off, disappearing behind the door.

Inside, the house was as well kept as the outside. Thanks to that maid of theirs, no doubt.

The smell of a fresh baked pie floated right into him in a way that practically made him salivate.

The wood was polished. The carpets were thick and clean, not a single speck of dirt dragged in from ranchers. Though now there would be, with Clemmons and himself tromping right through the house.

He could bet that timid young maid would be cleaning the rugs as soon as they left the room. 

Beautiful paintings hung on the walls with large, ornate frames. But he didn’t have time to pay much attention to what they were of. Clemmons was moving quickly, stopping at the other side of the grand sitting room, just within the hall to the right.

He stopped and knocked three times on the wood door. 

“Mr. Anderson,” Clemmons called. “He’s here.”

“Send him in.”

Luke stepped inside the darker room. A nice study, with wood-paneled walls, and walls of books and a fancy, deep red carpet.

Buck Anderson stood behind his solid wood desk with both hands braced on the edge. He was a big man—short iron-gray hair, tanned skin, blue eyes that took you in all at once. Weathered from years of hard work. His face was lined but there was nothing soft in it. 

The man was still strong despite his age. The kind of man Luke wouldn’t have figured for much emotion.

But he looked worn. Bagged eyes, red at the rims. Like he’d been up all night.

“Callahan,” he said.

“Anderson.”

Anderson gestured to the chair across from the desk. “Sit.”

Buck remained standing but only to give Luke a once-over, which he didn’t mind. 

It seemed like something rich people always did. They always took a good look at what they were paying for. When he got his fill, he flashed a half-smile, but it was more of a pleasantry than anything real.

Up close, there was strain in him. 

“Your daughter,” Luke said, getting straight to the point. “She was taken yesterday, I hear?”

Anderson nodded. “From a settler’s cabin up in the mountains.”

“What was she doing there?”

The man grumbled under his breath for a moment, his eyes darting from the desk then to Luke. He cleared his throat. “My daughter has… taken an interest in matters that don’t concern her.”

“So she gettin’ in other people’s business?” Luke asked, his brow quirked.

“She’s wild and headstrong,” he said rubbing his hand down his face, blinking quickly. “She fancies herself a reporter.”

“A reporter?” Luke asked.

“Went around trying to find out who was burning settlers out of their land,” he said. He pulled a cigar from his breast pocket and struck a match against the edge of the desk, touching it to the end. “Said it was all connected and there was someone behind all of it.” He shook the match out and set it down.

Luke watched him carefully. “And you didn’t believe that?”

“I believed she was putting herself in danger chasing it,” he growled before throwing open one of his desk drawers. 

Luke took a moment to watch the man. He was agitated, sure. Nervous. But more than anything, riled up. 

“But whoever took her left this.”

Anderson slid a cream-white sheet of paper across the desk, stained by mud and soot.

Luke leaned forward, taking it. 

“Where’d they leave it?”

“On my front step…” the man barked. “Can you fucking believe that?”

Luke fought the urge to smirk.

He could believe it.

A lot of men had balls. Some were stupid. Some just confident. He needed to figure out which one these men were. 

Luke unfolded the dirty piece of paper. Five thousand dollars or she dies. No law.

He read it once, then again, then folded it back down.

“Who do you think took her?” he asked plainly.

Anderson didn’t hesitate. “Well, I’ve been doin’ a lot of thinking…” 

His tone was mostly breath. Fast. Abrupt. Like he’d been waiting for someone to ask. 

“There are several possible culprits…” He took a puff of his cigar. “There’s a mining operation that has been scouting Puma Mountain. They’re looking to open a new camp. They’ll need land for it and they don’t got a lot of money from what I hear. But there’s also a gang… and men I’ve crossed over the years.” A few more puffs from his cigar left the room a gray haze. “My own personal enemies.”

 Luke crossed his arms in front of his chest as the man’s eyes fell to his desk—almost in guilt, Luke sensed. 

“Business has a way of making enemies,” the older man continued, as if he was making some sort of excuse for himself.

Luke shrugged and tapped the note with his thumb. “And you think this is which one? What’s your gut tell you?”

Anderson leaned back in his chair. “I think it’s Ransom Pike wantin’ ransom.” The man seemed to study him. 

“That so?” Luke asked, looking out the window, over the pastures. It was beautiful out here. Didn’t look like a place with a bunch of thugs running about.

“He runs a gang of thugs,” Anderson blurted, angrily. “He’s a miserable old bastard. I caught him tryin’ to steal my cattle a while back and damn near carved his face up to brand him the thief he is. He’s held a grudge against me ever since.” The man’s lip twitched in anger. His fists clutched atop the desk. “It fits the pattern best. And they’ve done things like this before.”

“And you think it’s a coincidence your daughter just happened to be taken while digging into this stuff about people drivin’ poor folks off their land?” Luke asked, his brow raised, head tilted. He wasn’t convinced.

Buck didn’t answer that directly. He was quiet a moment, turning his cigar in his fingers. “As I said, the mining outfit has been scouting Puma Mountain,” he said. “Looking to sink a new shaft, set up a camp. And the railroad’s been eyeing the pass for a new line. Both of them need land.” He paused. “She was digging into finding out who’s been runnin’ folks off their land. Could be either one of them, I suppose, too, that maybe she sniffed a little too close—but I doubt it.”