The Gunslinger: Renegade Brides, #1

By Suzanne D. Williams

Never trust a Renegade.

 

Samson Renegade has been running from the law since he shot a man at age sixteen. Raised in a family of well-known outlaws, his future was decided for him before he could walk. Destined to follow in his father's footsteps, he'll probably die, one day, hanging from a rope.

But not for whatever happened in El Paso.

 

Riding south to clear his name, he narrowly escapes one of the area's toughest lawmen when the sheriff's beautiful daughter stumbles in his path. Yet, though she's his ticket out of town, the deeper they ride into the desert, the more it seems his biggest mistake, and the one that will prove his final downfall, is the state of his heart.

 

Book 1 of 2 in RENEGADE BRIDES by author, SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS. A western romance. 32,000 words.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Suzanne D. Williams
• Release date: Nov 9, 2018
• ISBN: 9781386375555

Suzanne D. Williams

Best-selling author, Suzanne D. Williams, is a native Floridian, wife, mother, and photographer. She is the author of both nonfiction and fiction books. She writes a monthly column for Steves-Digicams.com on the subject of digital photography, as well as devotionals and instructional articles for various blogs. She also does graphic design for self-publishing authors. She is co-founder of THE EDGE. To learn more about what she’s doing and check out her extensive catalogue of stories, visit http://suzanne-williams-photography.blogspot.com/ or link with her on Facebook at http://www.facebook.com/suzannedwilliamsauthor.

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SUZANNE D. WILLIAMS

© 2018 THE GUNSLINGER (RENEGADE BRIDES) BOOK 1 by Suzanne D. Williams

www.feelgoodromance.com

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission from the publisher.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any similarity to actual people, organizations, and/or events is purely coincidental.

Leave me alone and let me go to hell by my own route. – Calamity Jane shortly before her death in Deadwood, South Dakota, in 1903.

Schönberg's Map of Texas, 1866

Schönberg & Co. Schönberg's map of Texas. [New York: Schönberg & Co, 1866] Map. https://www.loc.gov/item/2002622346/.

A picture containing text, map Description generated with very high confidence

PROLOGUE

1858, West Texas

Blunt fingernails, dug deep into his neck, hauled him out the double doors into the darkened street. He landed, face first, in a fresh pile of horse dung, youthful anger boiling upward.

I’ve had enough of you Renegades in here causing trouble, the saloon owner said, least of all a green whelp like you. Stay away, and tell that no-good brother of yours, he’s included.

Without waiting for his reaction, the saloon owner stomped back inside. The raucous voices of drinking men and working girls whisked out the doorway into the clear, night sky.

Samson Renegade glared in that direction, the taste of whiskey burning his tongue, then rolled over and glanced down at his shirt. He spat a curse word. His mama would kill him, and he wasn’t in no mood for that.

He pushed to his feet and aimed for the laundrywoman’s place. She’d be sleeping at this hour, but he already knew how to get into the washhouse and where she kept her supplies. He’d borrow a few things, clean his shirt, and stay outside until it dried. Chances were his mama would notice, but the fact he’d tried to take care of it would soften the effect.

Coming in from the back alley, he paused at the fence and glanced side-to-side, willing his brother not to pop up somewhere. It was a rare and unusual night that he was alone. Seemed like his brother was always somewhere nearby, ready to interrupt his schemes.

His fingers strayed, brushing the barrel of the gun tucked in his waistband.

A Renegade never left home without it, his papa said. Of course, he’d not used his on more than the fenceposts and a handful of wild animals. But his father said, the moment you left your gun behind, you’d find cause to regret it.

The scent of the dung stung his nostrils afresh, and he opened the gate and stepped through. Tiptoeing toward the washhouse, he shucked his shirt and pictured in his head how things lay inside.

At the corner of the laundrywoman’s home, however, the retort of a gun stopped him in place. His heartbeat doubled, he curled his shirt in one hand, altering his path. Dim light leaked through filmy white drapes hung inside the front windows.

Crouched on the low stoop, he peered between them, his breath blowing frosty circles on the glass. The living room, forward, was empty and dark, but in a far doorway, the laundrywoman fought with a man twice her size, an ornery-looking fellow, with a thick, black beard and a hat a size too small.

Samson’s gaze lit on a sleeve, lying crosswise in the bedroom floor. The laundrywoman’s husband, his hand upturned, lifeless.

Try to rob me, will you? the outlaw said.

Samson raised his gaze to the scene. The laundrywoman kicked at the man, but he lifted her off her feet, weightless, and threw her face-first on the bed. Grasping her skirt, he hiked it upwards and fumbled with the buttons of his pants.

Deep laughter rolled from his lips. I’ll show you how it’s going to be ...

Samson stepped back, his throat dry. He glanced toward the street again. He could go for help, but no one was up at this hour, except the drunks at the saloon, and he couldn’t go back there. There was the postman, living over depot, but he was half-deaf and probably wouldn’t hear his shouting.

No one would believe him anyway. No one within a hundred miles trusted a Renegade.

He edged toward the door, a ball of nervousness in his gut, and pulled out his gun. The woman’s cries and the attacker’s cursing exploded inside the small house. He crept forward, pressing against the wall outside the bedroom.

A loud crack split the atmosphere, and the house fell silent. His gut tight, Samson raised his gun, his breaths rushing, and heard his father’s gruff voice in his head.

Look ’em in the eye, boy. Don’t ever let anyone see you’re afraid.

He had to do this. Teeth gritted, he swung into the doorway. Stop, he said.

The outlaw halted mid-motion, his privates exposed. His lip curled. Well, what we got here? You gonna shoot me, boy?

Not a boy. He’d turned sixteen. Step away. Leave her alone.

The outlaw chuckled. Or what? You even know how to use that thing? His grin widened. Or ... I know! You’re jealous ....

A flame flickered in Samson’s gut. His papa had done many bad things. The Renegade name was known by every lawman in Texas. Yet, he would never hurt a woman.

Samson pulled back the hammer and aimed at the outlaw’s temple. He stepped forward. I said, ‘Let her go.’

The outlaw stiffened, his face shading red. Who’s your papa? he growled. Maybe I should let him know what his boy is doin’ tonight.

You do that, Samson replied, and the name’s Renegade.

Recognition lit in the man’s eyes with a flicker of fear. He softened his tone. I don’t have no argument with no Renegades. You ... just speak kindly of me, and I’ll be on my way.

Speak kindly? Only kindness in life was the love of his mama. As for his dad ... if anything, he’d shame him for letting the man go.

Never turn your back on anyone, and never be the first one to walk away. You stand there, no matter what until the other fellow makes his move.

Scenes flashed in Samson’s head. He and his brother in the rain, ankle deep in mud, firing at the bullet-riddled target, again and again.

Lift your barrel, boy. You keep firin’ at your feet, and the next shot’ll end up in your heart.

On another day, in the summer sun, their skin baked red, the horizon swirling in his vision.

Don’t you dare faint on me. I’m not raisin’ women. This here’s your best friend, treat it right. He’d cocked his gun, then, and fired between them, the wind of the bullet parting their hair.

We’ll see who’s boss ...

The outlaw swung, one arm outstretched, and Samson fired. The bullet buried deep between the man’s eyes, a spray of blood and brains speckling the ceiling. The outlaw’s knees folded, and he crumpled, in slow motion to the floor.

Samson scrambled backward, his eyes wide. The heels of his boots struck the husband’s skull, and he whirled. Empty eyes, sightless, stared into the unknown.

Samson spun in place again, the room shading red everywhere. He’d killed a man, and no one would believe why. His name, alone, guaranteed it.

The woman stirred, and panicked, he fled. But despite the darkness, the scene replayed, vivid, again and again ... the woman sprawled over the bed, the outlaw dead at his feet, her husband rigid against the wall.

CHAPTER 1

1872, West Texas

A bullet sang his name in passing, ending its hum in the silk-fabric over the bed, and he sprung out, his pants around his knees, barely missing the dirge played by the second. One hand fumbling with his buckle, with the other he scrambled for his gun and fled the room, his shirt unbuttoned, his boots half off his feet.

Call girls dashed in either direction out of his path down the long, narrow hall, their Johns peering out curiously at the ruckus. Paying them no mind, he took the stairs two at a time and plunged out the back door into the alley. His horse in sight, the beast unfazed by the rising clamor, he hitched his pants up again, one foot raised toward the stirrup, but a woman, appearing from a doorway on the left, blocked his path. Her plaid skirt swirling around her feet, cheeks pink and eyes bright, she halted in place, a gasp rattling from her slender throat.

Aware of his exposed state and the sensibilities of a girl like her, he attempted to pull himself together, but feared, given the look in her eye, that the damage had already been done.

Samson Renegade ... A man called from the street. I know you’re back there. This is Sheriff McCann. You’re surrounded, and there’s no escape.

He considered that, rolling the sheriff’s words in his mind, and sensed an unplanned chance to change things. Pardon me, he said to the woman. Swinging her to him, one hand around her waist, he tossed her like a rag doll atop the horse, rising behind her into the saddle. She squeaked, her hands flailing, one foot striking the horse.

The horse never flinched. Best horse he’d ever had, and he’d taken it from the previous owner when a bullet buried itself between the man’s eyes.

Come out with your hands up, the sheriff called again.

Samson flipped the woman upright, her legs draped on one side of the horse, and her rounded curves pressed against him, pleasant. He spoke low, for her ears alone. "Here’s how