The Gallant Outlaw Read online

  The Gallant Outlaw

  House of Winslow [15]

  Gilbert Morris

  Baker Publishing Group (2005)

  * * *

  House of Winslow Book 15- Betsy Winslow had always thought that she never measured up to her beautiful older sister, Lanie. So Betsy was deeply flattered when a handsome stranger began showering her with attention-for once she felt beautiful and desirable. Foolishly deciding to elope, Betsy and Vic leave for Indian Territory. Envisioning a life of grandeur as a rancher's wife, she is sorely disappointed when all her dreams come crashing down. When Lanie hears the news about her sister, she is certain that something is wrong and immediately sets out to help. But Lanie discovers that the only hope of finding Betsy is a shiftless outlaw named Lobo.

  © 1994 by Gilbert Morris

  Published by Bethany House Publishers

  11400 Hampshire Avenue South

  Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

  www.bethanyhouse.com

  Bethany House Publishers is a division of

  Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

  www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

  Ebook edition created 2011

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—with the prior written permission of the publisher.

  The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  ISBN 978-1-4412-7041-2

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, D.C.

  Cover illustration by Dan Thornberg

  Cover design by Josh Madison

  I dedicate this book to Aaron McCarver.

  Sometimes a man chooses his friends—but sometimes he gets chosen. When someone selects me out of all the people on the planet to be a good friend, I am both grateful and humbled.

  What an honor that is—to be a friend! Better than silver or gold; better than office or fame!

  So, thank you, Aaron, for choosing me. Our friendship is a treasure to me, and I thank God for drawing us together!

  CONTENTS

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  PART ONE

  The Runaway

  1. Whirlwind Courtship

  2. “Don’t Hate Me!”

  3. A Sad Awakening

  4. Trip to Fort Smith

  5. A Broken Plan

  6. Needed—One Killer

  7. “I Won’t Work for a Woman!”

  8. Wolves Don’t Have Rules

  PART TWO

  The Chase

  9. “I’m Not Anybody’s Woman!”

  10. No Escape

  11. Some Things Are Lost Forever

  12. A Change of Mood

  13. The Best Laid Plans

  14. Death in the Desert

  PART THREE

  The Trap

  15. “He’s My Kind of Man!”

  16. A Party of Two

  17. Right Through the Front Door

  18. The Way of a Woman

  19. A Costly Loyalty

  20. A New Kind of Feeling

  21. A Woman Can Change

  22. Waiting

  23. The Holdup

  24. A New Name

  About the Author

  CHAPTER ONE

  Whirlwind Courtship

  “I don’t really think you ought to take Thor this morning, Miss Winslow. He’s too much of a horse for you to handle.” Mac Williams, the town’s stableman, looked down at the girl and tried to soften his words. “I mean, you’re a fine rider but—”

  “I’m perfectly able to handle this horse, Mac!” Betsy snapped. “Now give me a hand up.”

  The stableman shrugged, but he knew better than to argue with the girl. Putting out one hand for her foot, he hoisted her easily into the saddle, then handed her the reins. The big buckskin stirred uneasily, turning a wary eye toward his rider, and seemed to be contemplating some outrage.

  “Don’t worry about me, Mac, I’ll be all right,” she said, then spoke to the horse and touched him with her heels. Immediately he started down the riding path at a sedate walk.

  Betsy Winslow, in the year of 1890, was, if anything, more sensitive about her horsemanship than her stature. She was a petite young miss with gorgeous deep red hair that one often sees in Irish women, startling blue eyes, and a shapely figure—but the freckles dusting her nose were an abomination to her. She always wore the highest heels she could find to add to her height.

  Mac Williams shook his head. “Dang fool girl!” he muttered. “If she breaks her neck, it’ll be me that gets blamed for it! But you never can tell her nothing.” He went back to his work, still muttering and worrying. He’d tried his best to warn her. Betsy Winslow might be small, but Mac had decided a long time ago she was one of the most stubborn girls in all creation. He raised his eyes and shook his head as if to confirm his assessment as he watched her moving steadily along.

  Betsy held the reins tightly, knowing that if the big horse ever got the bridle between his teeth he could do as he pleased. Her own little mare, Star, had been lame; and it was only after a heated argument that she had convinced Mac to let her ride the big buckskin, Thor. Actually, now that she had won the argument, she was rather nervous about the whole thing. The ground seemed very far away, and the muscles of the big animal rolled and rippled beneath her in a way that was somehow ominous. However, as she made her way down the path, she gained confidence and said, “C’mon, Thor. Let’s try a trot.”

  The big horse responded swiftly, taking off at a rough gait, rougher than that of her own horse. It made her bounce along dangerously as she desperately fought to keep a good seat. Horses could read riders, she knew only too well, and if Thor sensed any hesitation, he would be in control of her, instead of the other way around.

  June had begun as a hot month two days earlier, and the noonday sun beating down through the huge elm trees partially shading the riding path made Betsy hot and sticky, though she had gone less than a tenth of a mile. She delighted in the strength of the big horse; riding Star had become too tame for her taste lately. In the three years she’d had the small mare, Betsy had grown increasingly impatient with the horse’s unexcitable pace.

  I’ll tell Daddy to buy me another horse—one with some spirit, she thought as they jogged along. Maybe he’ll buy me this one. She rode another twenty yards and thought, No, he won’t do it; he’d tell me it’s too dangerous. I wish he’d stop treating me like a baby!

  She was being jolted by the horse’s rough gait so decided to try a gallop. “Thor, let’s go!” she commanded. At once the big buckskin moved into a smooth stride. Betsy was on her guard; she had heard stories from Mac and Mr. Simmons, the owner of the stable, about what a handful a big horse could be when he got an idea in his head. Thor had thrown some men who were considered pretty good riders, Mac had told her when trying to convince her to stay off the animal. Actually, Thor seemed to be an easy horse to ride.

  She became so adjusted to Thor’s smooth, flowing gait that she forgot to keep a close watch on him. He was crafty as well as big, she had been told, and had learned that with an inexperienced rider he could jerk his head back suddenly and grab the bit in his teeth. Then the rider couldn’t control him by yanking the bit back against his jaws.

  They were well out of sight of the stable with only one other rider in sight when—without breaking stride—he did this very thing. As soon as he grasped the bit with his powerful teeth, the animal stuck his head out and broke into a dead run. Betsy yanked back on the reins, but she might as well have been whistling �
��The Star Spangled Banner” for all the impression it made on Thor. He leaned low to the ground, the big trees just flashes of green as he sailed by with his rider. Betsy sawed frantically at the reins, shouting, “Whoa! Whoa!” But, to no avail.

  They rounded the turn, narrowly missing another horse and rider moving slowly in front of them. The other horse reared as they swerved, and Betsy caught a brief glimpse of the man struggling to keep from being thrown. Then they were past him, Betsy hanging on for dear life.

  When the horse made a sudden bolt to the right, she lost one stirrup. Then, in trying to regain it, she dropped the reins. Now she could only cling to the little English saddle.

  The thunder of Thor’s mighty hooves pounded in her ears as they plunged along the path. Slyly he drifted over to the edge so the branches began to beat at her. “You beast!” she cried, aware from what Mac had said that the horse knew perfectly well what he was doing. Then he began throwing his weight from side to side. Betsy was no match for this trick, and she began sliding off, panic shooting through her like lightning.

  She was falling to the right side, struggling desperately to hang on, but it was no use. Since there was no pommel she couldn’t grasp anything. Her heart raced. Suddenly she heard the sound of another horse, coming up hard. Glancing back, she saw the man she had passed. He was leaning low over the saddle, driving his big black at full speed.

  The next second the man yelled “Here!” and reached out to her. Betsy had no choice. His arm circled her waist, fastened like a steel hook, and then she was free of Thor. The arm holding her was so strong that it cut her breath off, but at least she was safe!

  “Whoa—whoa now, Bobby!” the man commanded loudly. His horse promptly slowed down and began jittering sideways until the man spoke to him again. “Stop that, now!” he yelled, slapping the horse with a sharp jerk of the reins. The horse finally obeyed, his sides heaving from the exercise.

  The man lowered Betsy to the ground, and she discovered she was trembling. This was unusual for her. She had been a tomboy while growing up, but the possibility of falling under the slashing hooves of Thor had flooded her vivid imagination with a colorful picture of her own death.

  “Are you all right? Come over here, sit down on this log.” Betsy felt the man’s hand on her arm, but she didn’t have the courage to look up. He led her over to a large log lying beneath one of the huge trees, sat her down, then seated himself beside her. “That was a close one,” he said, winded.

  Betsy gripped her hands together to control the shaking. Taking a deep breath, she glanced up at her rescuer. He was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. No more than twenty-five or twenty-six, he had bright yellow hair and strangely colored eyes, more hazel than anything else. He was, she noted, a big man, over six feet tall, and very muscular. His clothes were expensive: black shiny boots, a gray riding suit, and a white shirt that was open at the throat, revealing a deep tan.

  “I . . . I don’t know how to thank you,” she said timidly.

  “Glad to be of help,” he returned cheerfully. He smiled broadly, revealing even white teeth. He ran his hand through his hair and said, “My name’s Vic Perrago.”

  “I’m Betsy Winslow.”

  “Glad to meet you, Miss Winslow. Most first meetings aren’t quite this exciting, are they?” He pulled a tobacco pouch out of his pocket and rolled a cigarette in an accomplished manner such as she had never seen. He lit up with a flourish, and Betsy realized he was giving her time to recover from her frightening experience. He smoked for a moment and then said idly, “Well, I don’t think we’re going to catch that big buckskin. Suppose we go on back to the stable. You ride and I’ll walk.”

  “Oh no,” Betsy protested. “Let’s both walk. Or, really, you don’t have to go back with me at all. I’m all right now.”

  “Why, of course I’ll go back with you!” Perrago smiled warmly. He rose and helped her to her feet. Holding the reins of his horse in one hand, he kept his left hand lightly under her arm, as if she were something very precious.

  Betsy was not accustomed to being treated in this manner—especially by a big, fine-looking man! It happened much more often to her sister, Lanie. As she walked with him, a current of excitement ran through her. When she discovered that he was a rancher, her interest knew no bounds. “How wonderful!” she cried, her eyes sparkling in the summer sun. “I’d rather live in the West than anywhere in the world. Tell me about your ranch!”

  By the time they arrived at the stable, Betsy had forgotten all about her near fall. When Mac came running out, she said nonchalantly, “Thor got away from me, I’m afraid. This gentleman saved me from disaster.” She saw Mac open his mouth to reprimand her, so she hurried on. “I know, I know! You were right! Thor’s too much of a horse for me right now.”

  Perrago offered gallantly, “Why, Miss Winslow, a few riding lessons at my ranch and you’d be riding fellows like that in no time!”

  “Do you really think so?”

  “Of course.” Perrago handed the reins of his horse to Mac and said to Betsy, “I suppose someone is coming to pick you up?”

  “No, I’ll hail a carriage.”

  “Please allow me to see you home.”

  This was a little bit too fast for Betsy, who knew what her parents would say. “Oh no, I couldn’t do that,” she said.

  She half expected Perrago to argue, but he didn’t. Instead, he kept up the conversation, and then saw her into the carriage. Before the coach pulled out, she put her hand out, saying, “I’ve never been so grateful to anyone in my whole life! Thank you very much.”

  Perrago shrugged his broad shoulders. “I’ve always wanted to be a knight in shining armor and rescue a damsel in distress.” His smile flashed as he said, “I’ll be seeing you. Goodbye, Miss Winslow.”

  As Betsy rode toward her home, she decided to tell no one about her adventure. Her father would forbid her to get on a horse like Thor again, and her mother would forbid her to speak to a handsome stranger again.

  ****

  “Betsy! You can’t go looking like that!” Lanie Winslow had entered her younger sister’s room to find her wearing an ugly brown dress and her hair in careless disarray.

  “I’m not going down to the station!” Betsy said petulantly, looking up from the Harper’s Weekly she was reading. “He’s your suitor, not mine.” Her face was sullen as she went on. “You’re dressed up enough for the whole family, Lanie. You ought to be able to catch him, if clothes will do the trick.”

  Lanie Winslow stepped forward and jerked the magazine out of her sister’s hand. “Nonsense!” she snapped. “In the first place, he’s not my suitor! Wesley’s a friend of the family, and you’re going with me to pick him up and that’s all there is to it! Now, let’s see . . .” Moving to the huge walnut chifferobe, she flung the door open and began to ruffle through the dresses, a frown on her face. Selecting one, she pulled it out, then turned to say, “This will have to do, I suppose. But next week you are going with me to do some shopping! It’s a shame the way you’ve let your wardrobe deteriorate, Betsy. Not a single dress in style!”

  “What difference does it make?” Betsy muttered defiantly. “I look like a stump, whatever I put on!”

  “Don’t be silly!” Lanie said crisply. “You have a nice figure, and if you’d take care of your hair and your clothes, you’d be very attractive.” Lanie, at the age of twenty-three, behaved more like a mother to the girl than a sister. And unlike Betsy, who was merely pretty, Lanie was beautiful by any standard. Tall and stately, her figure was certain to bring admiring looks from men and resentful glares from young women. She had the high cheekbones of her father, but her rich auburn hair and brilliant green eyes came from her Welsh mother, as did the high coloring that required little artifice.

  But if her physical appearance was relatively easy to trace, her emotional makeup was more complex. She seemed to have some qualities from each parent. She had the mystic strain of Welsh blood from her mother, and an inn
ate stubbornness from her father, Zach Winslow. At times she would be at the mercy of her emotions, but she was also capable of following through doggedly on any project she set her mind to. She could be carried to the heights of joy, or plunged to the depths of despair—but somehow there was a rock-like quality that overrode this side of her character, giving her a practical side as well.

  Both of these facets were evident in Lanie’s dealings with her sister. She loved Betsy, and of all the siblings, she was her pet. But Lanie was impatient by what she perceived as her sister’s weakness. Lanie was aware that Betsy considered herself the “ugly duckling,” a fact that the older girl was honest enough to admit was some cause for complaint. Because of this, she planned to spend more time fussing over Betsy, working on her appearance and her clothes. But Lanie had become exasperated, and did not recognize that what she was doing was trying to force her sister into becoming the same type of person she herself was. This tendency to bully people into “bettering themselves” was a trait that her father Zach had lectured her on from time to time—with no effect whatsoever.

  Betsy submitted to Lanie’s whirlwind manner, allowing Ellen, one of the maids, to work on her hair and help her dress. She looked in the full-length oval mirror and muttered, “What does it matter what I look like? Nobody ever sees me anyway, not with Lanie there!”

  “Why, Miss Betsy! That ain’t no way to talk!” Ellen protested. “You look very nice! I’m sure Miss Lanie’s young man will be very impressed.” This was a fabrication on Ellen’s part, for she was aware that Betsy would never receive much attention from a man while her sister was present. But Ellen was much fonder of Betsy than Lanie, having been on the receiving end of the older girl’s sharp tongue too often. “Now, you just put a smile on your pretty face! Go on now, before Miss Lanie has to come back for you!”

  “Oh, all right,” Betsy said disgustedly, and went downstairs.