The Law & Annabelle

The Law & Annabelle

Dakota Lawmen Mysteries Book 1

By

L.K. Campbell

Copyright © 2013, 2021 by L.K. Campbell

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in relevant and critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, places, businesses, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

Cover Photo © Ivan Vander Biesen / Dreamstime.com

and Chote BKK / Shutterstock.com

Cover Design © L.K. Campbell

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Excerpt: The Sheriff & Camille

Other Titles by L.K. Campbell

For my husband Bryan, who is a stickler for historical accuracy and helped make sure all of the details were correct.

Chapter 1

1882

THREE DAYS ON A TRAIN bound for Chicago had taxed Annabelle’s nerves and her senses. Now, I’ve managed to rent a room downwind from the stockyards. With a small atomizer from her travel case, she sprayed perfume around the iron cot that took up most of the space. That’s a little better. The bed creaked when she sat down. She shifted her weight hoping that it wouldn’t collapse. Vibrations from a passing train rattled the room. Thank goodness, I’ll only be here for one night. She removed a creased envelope from her purse, unfolded the paper, and reread her aunt’s letter.

Dearest Annabelle,

Ruth wrote to me of your engagement, and I’m sure that by the time you receive this wedding gift, you will already be a blushing bride. Mail doesn’t move too swiftly out here.

To make a long story short, I sunk my life’s savings into a gold mine, and I’m the richest woman in this part of the Dakota Territory.

If you and your new husband ever decide to venture out west, it would please me very much for you to visit me in Red Gorge.

All my love and best wishes,

Aunt Julia

My new husband. A tear dropped from her cheek and stained the pink paper. Annabelle closed her eyes. Jacob Miles’ death had occurred a few months earlier, and the memory still lingered fresh in her mind.

"I’m sorry, Mrs. Miles, the doctor had said. Your husband has expired."

Expired? My husband is dead. A newspaper subscription expires. People die.

"I tried to tell Jacob that his heart wasn’t strong enough to perform…well…the duties of marriage at his age."

In truth, Jacob had only performed his marital duty one time. And surely, those two minutes on their wedding night wasn’t enough to kill him. If anything, it had been harder on her.

"So what do I do now?"

"Send for the undertaker," the physician had answered with a shrug of his shoulders.

It had taken more than a week to lay Jacob to rest. His son, Byron had insisted on having his father’s body autopsied by the professors at the medical college. He’d wanted to be certain that she hadn’t poisoned Jacob to get her hands on his money—as if that had been the reason she’d married him. No, our marriage was mutually fulfilling. Jacob had rescued her from an intolerable situation, and in return, she’d offered him the companionship he’d needed. Unfortunately, Jacob hadn’t changed his Will during their all-too-brief marriage. He’d left her nothing—not one penny to sustain herself. Every worldly good that he’d owned went to Byron.

Receiving Aunt Julia’s letter had been a beacon of hope to her. Her aunt’s generous gift had paid for her travel expenses. With only the clothes on her back, she had bid goodbye to Baltimore to begin…what? I guess that remains to be seen.

She refolded the stationery and stuffed it into the envelope. Eying her bedding, she wondered when the linens were last changed. Life with Jacob had spoiled her for the finer things. Beggars can’t be choosers. She removed her hat and loosened her dark brown tendrils from the tight bun on top of her head. Without undressing, she reclined on top of the bed covers and somehow managed to fall asleep.

The wail of the whistle and the slow jerking of the train as it came to a stop filled Annabelle with anticipation for the longer, harder journey she still had ahead of her. All off for Yankton, the porter called out. She stood on wobbly legs and followed several other passengers out of the car. She glanced around at the good-sized town that served as the Dakota territorial capital. The hotel and restaurant across the street from the depot appeared to be quite nice and inviting. However, she hoped that she would only have to wait a short time before continuing on to Red Gorge by stagecoach.

After collecting her luggage from the platform outside the baggage car, she walked toward the stagecoach ticket office adjacent to the train depot. A tall man, wearing a round badge engraved with the words Territorial Marshal, emerged from the depot. He held the door open for her and removed his hat, raking his fingers through his sandy blonde hair. His steel-blue eyes met hers.

Ma’am, he said with a tilt of his head.

Nodding in return, she let her gaze take in the sight of him. The brown pants he wore caressed muscular thighs. His knee-length tan duster coat and dark vest accentuated his strong shoulders. She hadn’t meant to stare. She’d never seen such rugged and raw masculinity—not in her privileged, sheltered world back east. She continued to watch him as he mounted a horse and rode off at a gallop.

May I help you, ma’am?

She turned to the agent. I need to inquire about transportation to Red Gorge, she said.

From here, the man told her, It’s a seven-day journey. Luckily, the stagecoach should be here in less than an hour if it’s running on time so you won’t have to wait long.

Annabelle smiled. For once, things appeared to be going her way.

I’d like to purchase a ticket, she said while opening her drawstring purse. Do you think I’ll have time for a quick meal before it arrives?

The hotel restaurant might not have the fastest service for you, but you can get finger sandwiches and cookies at the tea room. It’s a short walk down the street, and you’ll see the stage come in from that direction so you won’t miss it.

She thanked him and pressed a hand to her growling abdomen to quiet it. Perhaps a small meal is best. She’d read the dime novels that told of how grueling stagecoach travel could be—not to mention the possibility of being held up by bandits. Oh, I hope I have an uneventful journey to Red Gorge.

Sated on teacakes, she boarded the stage and sat next to an older gentleman who held onto his brown leather valise as if his life depended upon it. She attempted to make conversation with the man. He looked to be the same age as her late husband but was nowhere near as friendly as Jacob was. Another man sat across from her. He smirked and eyed her in a salacious manner, despite the widow’s black dress she wore. A boy and girl sat next to the man, but she doubted that he was their father. They didn’t bear any resemblance to him or pay much attention to him, either. She opened her favorite book, Wuthering Heights. She’d read it several times and always found it to be a good way to pass time. Burying herself in a book was also a good way to keep to herself.

At twilight, on the third day of the journey, the stagecoach stopped in what appeared to be some kind of settlement but not quite a town. Annabelle could see several buildings and a two-story inn. The stage driver, along with the other man who rode shotgun, jumped down from their perches. The driver, a young man who couldn’t have been much older than herself, opened the door.

We’ll spend the night here. He paused and addressed Annabelle. A room in the inn is a dollar and fifty cents. Looking towards the gentleman, he said. A bed in the bunkhouse is free.

I’ll be staying in the inn, as well, the man said.

Annabelle suppressed a chuckle. The starched-collared businessman with his slicked-back hair had probably never been anywhere near a bunkhouse.

She was glad to see someone waiting to pick up the two children. At least, the young ones wouldn’t have to endure four more days of rough, bumpy trails. A pretty, red-haired woman, who from the size of her belly, seemed to be close to giving birth emerged from the inn. She waited on the porch for Annabelle and the two gentlemen. She introduced herself as Daisy Hansen and showed them upstairs to their rooms.

The outhouses are behind the stables, she told them. And the bathhouse is outside the kitchen door. A hot bath is fifty cents. A cold bath is a quarter.

Annabelle was more than willing to pay the price. She hadn’t had a