Second Chance: Second Chances, #1

CHAPTER 1

Dear Lord, deliver me from a hanging on a Missouri summer day.

Sweat trickled down Katherine Logan’s temple. She was caught, with no way out of the crowd surrounding her short of scattering the people like flies before the horses. Stamping her foot on the wood floor of her wagon, she sighed in frustration. Patience was not one of her virtues.

The gathering emitted a festive air. Women, dressed in their Sunday best for the outing, held picnic baskets with brightly colored ribbons threaded through the handles. Shop owners and clerks had set up chairs on their front porches to watch the show.

At the far edge of town, Katherine spied a group of children in the schoolyard. Attracted by the noise, they peered down the long, dusty street. What the devil was Ruth thinking to let them watch something like this? But even as the thought crossed Katherine’s mind, Ruth Sanderson, the schoolteacher, herded them back inside.

Katherine and her foreman, Dillon Swade, had come into town that morning for supplies. They had separated to collect the necessities. It had been unusually busy in the shops and it wasn’t until an hour later that Katherine made her last purchase at the general store.

By the time she’d returned to her wagon, stationed to the left of the jail, the milling crowd had surrounded it. Only then had she seen the hastily constructed hanging platform in the center of the town square. It must have been there that morning, but she had been too preoccupied with all she needed to accomplish to notice. Had she known a hanging was to take place, nothing could have enticed her into town.

Accepting that she was in for a long wait, Katherine settled back against the wagon seat. Despite the calendar reading mid-May, the stifling weather reminded her of an eastern July.

At least she’d had the forethought to dress for the heat that morning. Her faded blue day dress covered only a chemise instead of the usual corset, petticoats, and hoop needed to produce a fashionable bell shape. She had bound her thick, pale blonde hair into a braid and confined the mass under her late husband’s Union cavalry hat. The broad brim shaded her face as effectively as a sunbonnet without restricting her vision the way a woman’s head covering would.

The townspeople thought her a scandal in this attire, but she no longer cared. Even as a child, she had spent more time climbing trees than practicing ladylike pursuits. She’d carried her precocious ways into adulthood. This had driven her husband, Sam, who had expected her to live up to her frail, angelic appearance, to distraction.

The slam of a door turned her attention to the jail. Two men stepped into the bright sunlight. Sheriff Jessup held the arm of his prisoner tightly, though such vigilance was unnecessary since the man was handcuffed, his feet hobbled.

Katherine had heard about the uniform of the Confederate guerilla, but she had never actually seen the ensemble until now. She recognized Confederate cavalry pants—gray with a yellow stripe on each side—tucked into black boots extending to the knee.

The most fascinating piece of clothing on the man, however, was the infamous guerilla shirt. Composed of several different colors of cloth, the shirt was cut low in front with a slit narrowing to a point above the belt. The slit was bound shut with lightweight fabric of a brilliant red. Four large pockets of bright yellow graced the light blue fabric covering the prisoner’s chest, and a long shirttail trailed to the middle of his thighs. The outfit was a patchwork of confiscated clothing and remnant materials.

Got the camera set up? The sheriff gestured to a rat like little man nearby.

Yessir. The photographer scurried forward. If you’ll just step over here, I’ll get started.

A flurry of activity ensued as a series of men posed for a photograph with the dangerous criminal. The photographer’s wagon provided the necessary darkness needed to prepare the materials. The man took the plates coated with silver nitrate from his assistant, replaced the holders on the large camera, and refilled the gunpowder for the flash after taking each photograph. He would then disappear beneath a black cloth for several minutes to compose a picture on the plate before reappearing to instruct, Don’t move, please. The process was time-consuming but fascinating in its novelty.

The criminal ignored the men and the photographer as he surveyed the crowd and the open area beyond. He appeared to be searching for someone, and Katherine studied the outskirts of town, expecting the Coltrain Gang of guerillas to ride in for a rescue.

But nothing out of the ordinary met her gaze, and no dust arose from the land surrounding them to indicate an incoming group of riders. Unless the Coltrain Gang could fly, and there were those superstitious enough to believe they could, there would be no daring rescue today.

Glancing back at the jail, Katherine was startled to find the prisoner watching her. Under his steady gaze Katherine grew warm in a way that had nothing to do with the sweltering sun.

He was handsome for a criminal, with hair so dark it glinted blue beneath the sun and light eyes the color of which she could not distinguish over the distance. Several days’ growth of dark beard shadowed the lower half of his face, but the skin over his high cheekbones glistened bronze and supple in the merciless sunshine. No man had a right to be that beautiful.

Suddenly the prisoner narrowed his gaze on the man in black climbing the jail’s steps. The town undertaker, tall and sallow, was nonplussed by the evil looks he received from his quarry. Going about his business, he measured the prisoner for a coffin.

The men on the porch were too busy with the photographer and each other to notice the criminal’s anger. Before anyone could stop him, the man raised his handcuffed wrists and shoved the undertaker down the steps.

The thud as he hit the ground caught Sheriff Jessup’s attention. He whirled, his hand going for his gun, but he hesitated at the sight greeting him. The condemned man leaned against the porch rail, his gaze on the undertaker, who was entangled in his measuring string and unable to get up from the dirt.

Jessup dropped his gun hand to his side. What’re you pickin’ on old Marley for, Banner? The man’s just doin’ his job.

Seems to me he could do it just as well after I’m dead. It’s not polite to measure a man for a coffin when he’s still around to be offended by the gesture.

Not only was he a handsome criminal, but he had a soft, deep voice with a slight trace of the South. That voice brought back memories of home and treasured male relatives. Those men were as dead as the South these past five years since Appomattox Courthouse.

The sheriff motioned for one of the men to help the undertaker up from the dirt. Then he removed the chains from Banner’s legs and led him down the steps.

A path opened as they walked through the crowd. The men came directly toward Katherine, but she barely glanced at the sheriff. For some reason she felt the need to know the color of Banner’s eyes. Katherine drew in her breath as eyes of emerald green met her own. The prisoner stopped next to her wagon and seemed about to speak, but the lawman jerked him away.

As the men climbed the wooden stairs to the hanging platform, their steps echoed dully in the heavy air. Banner towered over Sheriff Jessup who, at six feet, was previously the tallest man in town.

Katherine contemplated Banner’s wide shoulders and strong legs. The man was not a stranger to physical labor. With the sad lack of ranch hands in their area of Missouri, it seemed a shame to waste a firm set of muscles that could be used for honest work if only given the chance.

The moment had arrived. Death hovered in the air. Katherine heard its approach in the shuffle of the crowd. They were there to watch the end of a life, and Katherine was disgusted. She wished herself anywhere but in Second Chance, Missouri, for a hanging. But her wish went unanswered as the sheriff took a deep breath in preparation for his customary speech to the crowd.

Good people, our ancestors founded this settlement on the principle of second chances. The oath of my office requires me to ask: Will anyone give this criminal, Jake Banner, a second chance after he took part in the robbery of our bank?

The noise of the crowd faded to a murmur, and Katherine’s eyes met the stranger’s. She felt an affinity she could not define. The noise, the heat, the crowd receded as everything moved slowly before her eyes.

Jessup waited his obligatory minute for an answer, and then he proceeded with the hanging. He placed the rope around Jake Banner’s neck, and tightened the noose around his strong, brown throat.

Stop!

All eyes in the crowd turned to her. She stood on the seat of her wagon, towering over the crowd. The illusion of height created a sense of power. Katherine enjoyed the feeling.

Did you say somethin’, Mrs. Logan? Sheriff Jessup shouted, as if she were hard of hearing, as well as a bit crazy.

Well, no help for it now. Katherine would have to brazen her way through this or the town would consider her more foolish than they already believed her to be.

Cut him loose, and I’ll take him back to the Circle A with me.

The sheriff gaped. Obviously no one had ever before answered his routine question.

Katherine resisted the urge to giggle at the idiotic look on Jessup’s face. Laughing at this point would not help her cause. Instead, she adopted the stern face she would have used with her most difficult student back in Williamsburg, Virginia.

Close your mouth, Harley, and cut him down as I asked. I don’t intend to spend all day discussing this with you in the heat.

But, Mrs. Logan, no one’s ever been given a second chance in Second Chance. Jessup scratched his head. Leastways, not since I can remember.

Just because you’ve never seen a thing happen doesn’t mean it can’t. Cut the man down.

What are you doing, Katherine?

Katherine look down—directly into the angry gaze of Dillon Swade. The dratted man was a nuisance. From the first day three years ago when she arrived at the Circle A, a twenty-five-year-old bride who had met her husband only a month before in Williamsburg, Dillon had grated on her nerves.

He forever hovered over her, correcting her and telling her what to do, as though his superior age gave him that right. Even though she now owned the Circle A, he would not stop treating her like a child—a useless city child. If she had been a frail flower, desperately in need of his strength and wisdom, she had no doubt Dillon would be much happier and easier to get along with.

One of his few redeeming qualities was his talent with a gun. He had spent many hours teaching Katherine to shoot—hours for which she would always be grateful. Still, if he weren't such a good manager she would have fired him the day her husband died while breaking a wild colt no one else would touch. Despite her need of his skills, the time had come to give Dillon Swade a set-down.

None of your business, she said. You work for me, remember?

Were it possible, Dillon’s small, watery blue eyes narrowed further. Embarrassed, he glanced at the crowd. The smirks on some of the ranchers’ mouths caused a red flush to creep up his face and across his bald head.

She wants to give the thief a second chance, someone yelled from the crowd.

Ignore her and do your job, Jessup, Dillon said.

Katherine was so angry at the easy way Dillon dismissed her she wanted to kick him. But such an action would only make her seem more irrational to the sheriff.

I’d worry about my own job if I were you, she said so softly that only Dillon could hear. Then she turned to the sheriff with a sweet smile. "Mr. Swade works for me, Sheriff. Ignore him and do as I asked."

Jessup scratched his beard. He was slow at the decision-making process. But his sense of fair play and an eagle eye with a gun enabled him to perform his job adequately if not well. Katherine held her breath while he pondered. If Jessup denied her request, the entire town, along with Dillon, would be laughing at her.

Ma’am, I can’t let you take him. He’s a member of the Coltrain Gang. We’ve got to set an example or they’ll be thievin’ around here forever.

Katherine’s heart sank, but she had learned not to back down once she made up her mind. She jumped from the wagon seat and picked up the reins to her team.

Sheriff, cut him down so we can all get out of this heat. I have work to do before the sun goes down today. She cast a scathing glance at the townspeople, who watching a hanging on a Tuesday afternoon as if it were a holiday.

Throughout the discussion Banner’s green eyes following the conversants, a smile on his face whenever Katherine spoke. His cool demeanor seemed to irritate both the sheriff and the crowd. Several of the ranchers jabbed angry fingers in his direction. Complaints of cold bastard and laughing at us filled the air.

With a muttered, Sorry, ma’am, Jessup checked the tightness of the noose.

If you didn’t mean what you said then you shouldn’t have said it.

A woman screamed when Katherine put a rifle to her shoulder and pointed the barrel directly at the condemned man. The crowd scurried away from her wagon, and the sheriff made a move for his gun as she fired. The bullet sliced through the rope above Banner’s head.

Jessup still held his gun, gaping at the now useless rope. At the sharp crack of the reins against her team’s flanks, the crowd scattered. When the horses raced past the platform, Banner leapt into the back, and they disappeared into the cloud of dust rising from the earth of Second Chance.

CHAPTER 2

Ahalf-mile out of town Katherine slowed the horses from their breakneck pace. The wagon rolled along the dirt road lined by fields and prairie grass. The seat dipped beside her, and she met the green gaze of the man she had saved from the gallows.

Thank you.

His voice overlaid with a soft southern accent, the sound reminded Katherine of the warm maple syrup her Aunt Adelaide poured over their pancakes on cool Virginia mornings.

I seem to have a knack for getting myself into things I shouldn’t. We’ll just have to make the best of this situation.

The realization seized her that she was alone with a criminal—a thief and, for all she knew, a murderer. Katherine stifled a groan. What had she done in the name of pride? Hadn’t she learned by now that rash actions, more often than not, led to everlasting regret?

Slowly, stealthily, she used her foot to pull the rifle closer to her across the floor of the wagon. As an added precaution, she kept her booted heel firmly on top of the weapon.

What was that speech the sheriff made about second chances? he asked.

Katherine relaxed her white-knuckle grip on the reins. He seemed genuinely curious and what could it hurt to tell him about the small quirk of Second Chance that had helped her to save his life? Insane impulse though it was.

The original settlers of the town were minor criminals from England. Every so often the prisons became overcrowded and convicts were released with the provision that they leave the country. Over a hundred years ago, several of them came to America and settled in Missouri.

Katherine urged the horses to pick up their pace before continuing. The settlers named the town Second Chance because anyone in their jail could have a second chance provided someone took responsibility for them. The ex-convicts were alive because of their own second chance, so they wanted to offer the same benefit to others. The tradition continued over the years and finally became a law.

Anyone could have a second chance?

No. Murderers and . . . Katherine was unsure of how to state the other exclusion. Finally she held her breath and plunged ahead. Murderers and those who . . . who force women don’t qualify.

But bank robbers do?

There’s nothing mentioned about robbery as far as I know. No one’s taken advantage of the law in a long time. But it’s still the law.

Lucky for me. Jake shifted on the hard wooden seat.

The movement caused his leg to brush against Katherine’s, and she stiffened. She felt breathless with him seated so close.

Only because he’s a criminal, Katherine assured herself. What other reason could there be?

Now that I’ve got you, Mr. Banner, I have to find something to do with you. Have you ever worked around horses?

He flashed her a dazzling smile, which she nearly returned. She needed to be careful, to remember what he was or he would be charming her out of all she owned. Why, oh why, hadn’t she kept her mouth shut in town?

I love horses, ma’am. I was in a cavalry unit during the war. His voice reflected pride in the fact.

The guerilla units of the Confederacy were a type of cavalry. They were the best-armed fighting unit of their kind. The word around Second Chance was that the members of the Coltrain Gang had all ridden as guerillas.

Although Katherine hadn’t lived in Second Chance during the war, she arrived shortly after and knew the guerillas were considered outlaws, even by the army they had once belonged to. They had their own officers, rules, and plans of attack that did not coincide with the Confederate or Union forces. Excellent marksmen and riders, they were also bloodthirsty and vengeful—a dangerous combination in a trained force.

And she had just invited one of them to stay on her ranch.

You can sleep in the barn, Katherine blurted.

Jake raised an eyebrow but remained silent.

It’s just . . . I’ve never known a bank robber, or any criminal for that matter.

You’re babbling, Katherine.

I appreciate your helping me, ma’am, but there’s no reason to have me on your place if I make you uncomfortable. I’ll just leave now, and you can say I escaped on the way to your ranch. Jake made a move as if to jump off the wagon.

No! Katherine grabbed his arm, then pulled her hand away quickly, like a child whose fingers have been slapped. The day was hot, but his skin beneath his shirt had been even hotter. That was the only reason her palm still burned.

I already look foolish to everyone for taking you with me, she said. I don’t need to look more foolish by losing you before I get you home.

He gazed longingly at the trees lining the road. With his attention focused elsewhere, Katherine retrieved her pistol from beneath the wagon seat. She cocked the gun. From the way Jake froze, he was as familiar with that sound as his own voice. She held the Army Colt casually in her right hand, the reins in her left.

You’re certainly a collector of firearms, ma’am. He settled back on the seat.

Katherine lowered the Colt, but she kept a tight grip on the handle. He appeared to have abandoned his idea of running away, but it was better to be safe now than sorry later.

They remained silent for the rest of the ride to the Circle A. When the horses turned into a rutted lane, Jake sat up to catch his first glimpse of his temporary home.

A whitewashed house, barn, and bunkhouse, as well as other smaller buildings, sat in a hollow at the base of the lane. Horses grazed in fields of flowing grass beyond.

The expression on Jake’s face made her heart grow warm. Seeing her admiration for the land reflected in another’s eyes revealed a kindred spirit.

Katherine loved the Circle A with all the pent-up affection within her. She felt at home there, for once not pulled between her northern birth and her southern upbringing. The ranch was the