Page 1 of Redeeming the Outlaw
Chapter One
Summer 1873
Flat River, Nebraska
Whit Hartman quickly glanced around the empty alleyway before jumping up to grab onto the window ledge of Marshal Orrin Briggs’ office. His fingers scraped against the rough wood, and he wished for something, anything, to help boost him up. With a final grunt, he hoisted himself up and reached for the window, which creaked open with effort.
At least Briggs remembered to leave it unlocked this time.
Whit slipped through the open window into the small hallway with four empty jail cells. The floorboards creaked under his boots as he landed. His eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight filtering through the window, and he hurried downthe hallway to the large, open office. The marshal’s office was dark, the only light coming through the small window at the end of the cells and the large bay window at the front of the office.
He didn’t know how long it would be before Briggs returned. The marshal had headed toward the livery before Whit ducked in the alley and through the window.
The large windows illuminated the marshal’s desk. Whit tread carefully across the room, wary of knocking into any furniture and raising suspicion. He reached Briggs’ desk and rifled through the top drawer, fingers brushing over wanted posters and telegrams until they grasped a small leather journal.
Walking to the window, he flipped through the pages and took in the writing before tucking the journal into his shirt. The inaudible murmur of voices carried through the window into the office, and he pressed himself into the shadows. He watched as a young couple walked arm in arm across the boardwalk in front of the office.
The man leaned in, his hand cupping the woman’s cheek, and planted a soft kiss on her lips. She giggled and playfully pushed him away before they both vanished into the darkness of the night.
As Whit watched the young couple disappear, a pang of longing tugged at his heart. He brushed it aside. Now was not the time for distractions. The stolen journal felt heavy against his chest, full of secrets which could help the Richards gang. He knew he was playing a dangerous game, stealing from the marshal, but he needed to find out what Briggs knew.
A horse’s whinny outside jerked Whit from his thoughts. He peered out the windows, scanning the street for any signs of movement. Satisfied no one was watching, he returned to the desk and closed the drawer. Checking the top to make sure nothing was out of place, he rapped on the wood with hisknuckles before slipping back into the hallways.
The empty jail cells mocked him in the darkness, ghosts of outlaws past calling to him. If he wasn’t careful, he’d be sleeping in one of those cells waiting for the hangman’s noose. He hoisted himself up onto the window ledge and slipped outside, boots landing softly in the dirt.
Why was it easier to get out of the office instead of inside?
After scuffing the dirt underneath the window to remove any boot prints, he shuffled his steps to the end of the alley to hide his boot prints and peeked around the corner. The livery stable was just down the way. The metallic tang of fear coated Whit’s tongue as he pressed himself against the building, trying to blend into the shadows.
Checking his watch, he had about two minutes. A lone figure emerged up ahead. Marshal Briggs walked with purpose, back toward his office. The marshal took a drag from a cigar and flicked ash into the street, blowing smoke into the air. Whit’s nose cringed at the bitter smell.
Peeking around the corner again, he made sure the lawman’s attention was elsewhere before making his move. His pulse quickened as he ran across the street and melted against the side of the general store, barely daring to breathe as Briggs’ footsteps drew closer on the hard-packed earth. The faint moonlight outlined the marshal’s figure, making him appear tall and imposing against the backdrop of the darkened town. The dim glow from the streetlamps caught the shine of his polished badge, the only thing keeping him from blending in with the shadows.
Whit pursed his lips and let out a sharp whistle, followed by two low ones. The marshal’s eyes flickered toward him before continuing toward the office. As soon as the marshal stepped onto the creaky wooden porch, Whit quickly made his way downthe alley toward the back of the mercantile, passing crates and barrels stacked high against the outside wall.
His boots thudded against the hard dirt as he approached three weathered outhouses lined up, each with a small crescent moon carved into its wooden door. Next to the middle one was a broken flowerpot. He pulled out the journal and slipped it inside the pot while looking around to find something to cover it with. Grabbing the daisies Mrs. Arden grew in a pot, he lifted them by the roots and plopped them on top of the journal. Two-bit Tom would not be looking at the flowers, he just needed to see Whit was a man of his word.
He patted the dirt in the pot to make it look like it belonged and then brushed the excess on his pants. Rolling back on his heels, he stood and looked around. Not seeing anyone, he knew it was only a matter of time before Tom arrived to pick up the package.
He hummed his way back up the alley toward the livery.
“Whit, you’re out late tonight.”
Whit startled when Hiram King, the owner of the livery and stables, emerged from the darkness. “You scared me,” Whit said as he rubbed the back of his neck and met the stable master’s gaze.
“Looks like you were expecting someone else,” Hiram drawled, dragging a long smoke from the same brand of cigar the marshal had been smoking.
“Nah. I’m just making my way over to Miss Marcy’s.”
“You need the back room tonight?”
Hiram allocated a room in the rear of the stable for cowboys who preferred not to stay above the noisy saloon. Whit had been staying there, or sometimes in the barn, at the widow’s home just outside of town.
Briggs asked Whit to keep an eye on the widow and watch her pigeons. It gave him a bit of extra money, so he was happy to help. Whit didn’t know why Briggs was so interested in the widow. She was a great deal younger than Briggs, but Whit went out several times a week to check on her. Mrs. Brown wasn’t much of a conversationalist, but she fed him, and the sheets in the barn were always clean.
The only requirement from both Briggs and Mrs. Brown was he could not talk about the job or her.To anyone.Not even his family.
Granted, even though Whit thought it was odd, he was good at keeping secrets. He had been keeping them all his life.
