Outlaw Hearts - Rosanne Bittner
Part One
What we do today will become tomorrow’s memory; and often the past we are now creating returns to haunt us.
One
April 1866
Miranda tried to ignore the image of her father’s still-fresh grave as she flicked the reins and goaded the draft horses into a slightly faster gait. This was not a time to crumble. She had to face facts. Her father was dead, and her worthless brother was somewhere in Nevada, totally oblivious to the hardships his father and sister had faced these last months.
She was a woman alone now. If not for the war, she would still have a husband. If not for the war, there would have been no marauding outlaws to come and shoot down her father. It seemed that she had spent her entire young adult life thinking about survival, ever since her precious mother had died six years ago. She had been only fourteen then, and after that, one by one, she had lost all those she loved.
She grunted when the wagon hit a hefty rut and nearly bounced her out of her seat, but she kept a tight hold on the reins. The thirty-minute ride to Kansas City from what was left of her father’s meager farm led over a rough, often muddy, dirt road. Today it was dry and hard, and the ruts and holes were more jolting; but dark clouds were moving in swiftly from the west, threatening a much-needed rain. It had been an unruly Kansas spring, warm one day, cold the next, and too dry.
Ever since the raiders had killed her father six weeks ago, she had been in a quandary over what to do. Her friends in nearby Kansas City had been urging her to sell the farm and get herself to the safety of town, warning her that it was too dangerous for her to be staying on alone. Maybe they were right. With all the cattle and horses stolen, the chickens killed, the barn burned, what was left? It had taken her several days to get the cabin back in order, and one window, shot out by the raiders, was still boarded up. She had spent most of her and her father’s hard-earned savings buying new supplies because so much had been stolen. Thank goodness most of the money was in a bank in Kansas City rather than at the cabin the day of the raid. The outlaws had torn the place apart looking for whatever they could find of value.
She was also thankful she still had the draft horses, one of the few things left that was worth something. She had finally decided to sell the farm, but she would not move to Kansas City. The first thing she should do now was try to find her brother in Nevada, and she could only pray he was actually still there. His last letter had come from Virginia City, but that had been over a year ago.
She couldn’t help wondering if Wes was really worth finding, after the way he had abandoned them. Still, he was all she had left, and it seemed to her they should be together now. Besides, he should know their father was dead, and she hoped he would feel guilty about it. If he had stayed on to help with the farm, he would have been there the day of the raid to help protect things, and maybe their father would still be alive.
She felt guilty enough herself. If she had not gone to town that day to participate in a church social, maybe there would have been something she could have done herself to save her father. Then again, God only knew what the outlaws would have done to her… If, if, if. She used that word a lot. If her mother had not died back in Illinois, her physician father would not have felt guilty for not being able to save her. He would not have given up his doctoring and moved to Kansas to try to farm, and consequently, he would not now be lying buried, shot down by rebel raiders.
There was no sense wondering what might have been. What was real was that she was completely alone now. She felt under the seat to make sure her father’s prized Winchester rifle had not bounced too far back to reach quickly. She was determined to be ready for any would-be attackers. She had no mercy for the kind of men who had shot down her father in cold blood. Besides the rifle, she carried a derringer in her handbag. She realized the pistol was not as deadly as the rifle, but at short range, it could certainly do enough damage to stop a man in his tracks. Trouble was, for any kind of accuracy, and to do a man any real damage, that man would have to be closer to her than she would care to experience. She could only hope she would never have need of the pistol.
It seemed strange to be considering the best way to kill a man. She worried sometimes that all her losses had left her harder than she ever thought possible. Where were the gentle, loving feelings she used to have? Where was the innocent Miranda Sue Baker who had not a care in the world before her mother died? It was Hayes now, Miranda Hayes—a name taken from a man whose bed she had shared for only two weeks before he left for the war, never to return. That was three years ago. She had not shared any man’s bed since.