When the Lawman Returns (Preview)

Chapter One

Galveston, Texas, 1870

“Whoa, whoa.”

Nash Carter pulled his horse to a stop five hundred feet from the listing shack clinging to the edge of the sand dunes. The hut hugged a gray strip of beach just south of the docks. It was the Gage shack, an eyesore that uglified the waterfront and had been breeding outlaws for at least twenty years. The two oldest Gage boys were in prison, and Otis and Mitchell still lived at home with their ma.

A rusted tin chimney trailed a thin spiral of smoke. It was the same color as the rusted roof, its tin sheets peeling away from the frame. The bleached clapboards were cracked, too, because that shack had never seen the first swipe of paint. 

The Gage boys had plenty of time to booze, wench, and steal, but never any time to fix up their mother’s house, and no ambition to leave it. Trash and empty beer bottles littered the sand all around the porch, and Nash’s eyes followed the Gage’s pack of starving dogs as they loped down the beach, fighting one another for whatever scraps they could find on the ground.

Nash’s mouth curled in a faint smile. He could just hear the former sheriff, Leonard Westbrook, lamenting in that gravelly voice of his: “It’s all I can do to keep the Ladies’ Auxiliary of Galveston from marching out to that place and burning it to the ground. I believe they’d put on masks and ride out there with torches if I wasn’t here to stop ‘em!”

It was a funny mental image, but the Gages were a bigger problem than the Ladies’ Auxiliary could solve. That was why he was there.

The pearl-gray sun winked off his badge as he dismounted his horse and looped the leads around a bush. The breeze off the ocean ruffled his blonde hair as his boots slogged through ankle-deep sand. That morning he was after Otis Gage, an ugly, simple-minded wretch who’d been rolled at a waterfront bar the night before. Most men would’ve had a fistfight over it. Otis went for his gun. 

He was faster than he looked. That was probably what had doomed the two would-be sharps. Otis was skinny, open-mouthed, and dull-eyed. His head wasn’t quite bald and not quite covered in hair: he had unsightly tufts of long, thin strands in weird patches on his head, a thin mustache, a weak chin, and missing teeth. Nash shook his head, and compassion sparked in him. Truth be told, Otis probably belonged in a home or something, but now he’d killed two men, and he had to answer for it.

Nash stifled a sigh as he walked. He didn’t relish having to take Otis in, but it had to be done.

When he got close enough to cross the borders of the Gage yard, the creaking front door slapped open and Old Lady Gage appeared on the porch, her hands balled into fists on her ample hips. She tossed her head at him contemptuously, and her brown hair sifted down from the sloppy bun on her head.

“Well, well, look who decided to pay us a call! What are you doing out here with us poor folks, Mr. High and Mighty Sheriff? Ain’t been in the job a month, and already he’s thowing his weight around.”

Nash turned to face her. He kept a respectful distance but called, “I’m here for Otis, Mrs. Gage. Ten witnesses said they saw him kill two men last night at the Bucket of Blood Saloon in town. Tell him to come out, or I’ll have to come in.”

The woman set her jaw and replied stubbornly, “He ain’t here. He never came back last night.”

Nash’s glance moved from her to the window on the left side of the house. Two faces were peering out at him, and one was clearly Otis. The other face belonged to a kid, probably the youngest boy, Mitchell. He looked about fifteen.

“I see him in the window, Mrs. Gage,” he drawled. “Tell him to come out. I won’t ask you again.”

The faces at the window stayed there, staring at him in silent antagonism. The boy was dark-haired, with heavy black eyebrows, a straight, thin nose, and a stubborn chin. The kid flashed him an obscene hand sign, and the older woman crossed her arms, spat tobacco juice off the porch, and turned to go back inside. “Tell him yourself,” she growled, and the door slapped shut after her.

“Otis, it’s Sheriff Carter,” he called. “I have to take you in for those two men you killed last night. Don’t make me come in after you. I don’t want your mother or Mitchell to get hurt.”

The faces at the window vanished. Nash stood there, waiting, as the seconds rolled into minutes. The tide was coming in, and the hush of the waves behind him and the eerie cry of the gulls floating over the house were the only sounds. The wind off the ocean caught a shutter hanging off one hinge and shoved it smartly into the side of the house: Bang.

Nash let a few more seconds pass, then drew his Colt and took a step toward the house. Otis broke the window and stuck his revolver through. The sound of breaking glass was followed by the whine of gunfire and sand spattering over his boots. Nash crouched down and glared at the window. 

Otis’ voice jeered, “I know who you are, I heard about you! Folks think I can’t read, but I saw your name in the paper! ‘The Golden Star,’ my shiny behind! You made your name killing poor men like me. The paper talked you up like you was a hero, but you ain’t nothing but a fetch and carry boy for the fat cats in Galveston. I hope they pay you good for selling out!”

There was another pop, and the sand sprayed his boots again. Nash glimpsed Mitchell’s face over his brother’s shoulder. His brows twitched together.

“Come out, Otis,” he yelled. “You want him to get caught in the crossfire? Be a man and face me. Don’t hide behind your mother and that kid!”

Otis’ face twisted, but when he called out again, his tone was wheedling. “They cheated me at cards,” he replied in a whining voice. “What was I supposed to do, just sit there and take it? They thought I was stupid, but they found out. They found out!”

“Come out of the house, Otis. We can talk about it out here.”

The door popped open, and Mrs. Gage’s furious face appeared in it. She shook her fist at him and screamed, “Get off my property and stop trying to confuse my boy! He ain’t like the others. People take advantage of him. There’s only so much a body can take before he snaps!”

Nash ignored her. His eyes were on Otis’ face. “You’re gonna have to come in with me, Otis. We can do this the easy way or the hard way. If you come along peacefully, we can figure it out in town.”

Otis’ voice jumped to a shout. “I seen what the easy way is with you!” he cried. “There ain’t no talking. Just a bullet through the gut!”

“If you throw down your gun, you have my word that I won’t shoot you,” Nash called. “I haven’t broken it yet. Come along with me, and nobody will get hurt.”

Otis’s voice trembled on the edge of tears. “I’m innocent,” he quavered. “I was just sticking up for myself, like anybody would do. They cheated, I tell you.”

Nash licked his lips. The longer this dragged out, the higher the chance that the old woman or the kid would get hurt. He tried another way.

“I believe you,” he called. “I believe you did what you thought was right at the time. If you throw your gun down the judge will go easier on you than if you try to fight. It could make a difference. You’re a smart man, Otis. I know you’ll do the smart thing and come with me.”

There was another long, heavy silence. Mrs. Gage looked scared and turned back inside the house. Otis disappeared from the window, and Mitchell followed him. The sound of agitated voices wafted to him through the open front door, Mrs. Gage’s angry voice at first, then Otis, then Mrs. Gage again. Her voice had changed from anger to grief. It sounded like she was wailing now.

Nash held his revolver loosely in his hand, but his eyes were riveted to the house. “Otis, come on out! Throw your gun down and I won’t shoot.”

Otis’ voice called through the open door. “I’m coming out!” 

Mrs. Gage’s voice rose in a long string of garbled pleas. Nash frowned and kept his eyes on the open door and the darkness behind it.

Gradually, a pale figure materialized in it. Otis slowly stepped out into the light, as white and thin as a ghost. “I’m coming out,” Otis quavered. “You gave me your word!”

“Toss your gun out here and put your hands up where I can see them!”

A revolver arced through the air and landed with a soft thud in the sand. Nash nodded. “All right, put your hands up and walk toward me.”

Otis came walking down the creaking wooden steps, one slow step at a time. His eyes were on Nash’s face as he came.

“Put your hands up, Otis!” Nash’s fingers tightened around his revolver as his eyes moved to the other man’s hands. Something in the air shifted and time seemed to slow down, as it always did for him in a moment of decision. Nash’s spine prickled and his glance sharpened on every detail of Otis’ gun hand. It was drifting down and backward, and Nash shouted, “Raise your hands or I’ll—”

Otis grabbed something behind his back and swung his hand up as Nash let his revolver go. Three lightning-fast pops sent Otis spinning, chin first, into the sand. 

Nash swore in frustration and stared at the dead man in baffled pity, but there was no doubt: there was a gun in Otis’ right hand. He’d been about to fire.

He holstered his gun and was just taking his first step when Mitchell rushed out of the open door. His face was twisted in grief, and he threw himself on his dead brother. He pressed his cheek to Oti’s back, sobbing and stroking his arms.

“Otis, Otis!”

Nash barked at him. “Get back!”
Mitchell raised a tear-stained face and shrieked, “You lied, you lied! You promised not to shoot him and you did it anyway! Dirty liar! I hate you; I hate you!”

Nash closed the distance and grabbed the gun out of Otis’s limp hand. Past experience had taught him that grieving family were capable of anything. But he held the gun up and replied quietly, “I had to stop him.”

Mitchell’s face was a mask of rage. “No he wasn’t, he tossed his gun out to you! He kept his word and you killed him!”

The boy flung himself at Nash, pounding his skinny fists on his chest as he screamed, “I hate you, I hate you, I hope somebody blows your head off!”

Mrs. Gage appeared in the doorway, took one look at her son and uttered a cry that made the blood drain from Nash’s face. She came down the steps as fast as she was able, sobbing and wailing. She reached for Mitchell, and the boy ran to her. She folded him to her chest and rocked him back and forth as she wailed, “My boy, my poor boy! You was three steps behind from the day you were borned. Nobody ever treated you right, and now they’ve kilt you! Oh, Otis!”

Nash watched her in pity. “I’m sorry it happened this way, Mrs. Gage,” he told her. “But Otis gave me no choice.”

She raised her anguished face to Nash’s, and it hardened to a mask of rage. “Get off my place, you murdering devil!” she screamed. “Get off before I shoot you!”

Nash moved toward the body, and they backed away as he came on. “I’m taking your son down to my office,” he told them quietly. “You can come get his body there tomorrow.”

He picked up the dead man, carried him to his horse, and threw him over its back. As he tied the body down, his eyes flicked to the grieving mother a few dozen yards off, head bowed over her half-grown boy. 

Nash lowered his eyes. His heart was as heavy as a stone as he took his horse and turned its head back toward town. He’d been forced to kill a lot of men in his short career, but this one was by far the worst, and it was going to stick with him a long time. 

As he led his horse over the sand, Mitchell’s shrill, childish voice beat on his back. 

“I’m gonna kill you when I grow up, I’m gonna kill you! Wait and see!”

Chapter Two

The gulls wailed and circled over Nash’s horse as he walked it slowly down the beach. He glanced up at them as they floated overhead, and they returned his look with their sharp, predatory eyes. He grimaced in distaste. Everybody thought gulls were pretty birds, but once you’d seen them peck a dead man’s eyes out, you didn’t think of them that way anymore. That was why they were following him. They smelled death, and they were already trying to light on Otis’ back. If he stopped for more than a minute, they’d try to peck the body. He’d have to chase them away.

He gazed down the beach to take his mind off it. It wasn’t very pretty close to the docks. The sand was gray, like the sky that morning, and littered with debris: black sticks, driftwood, dead fish, broken shells. The tide as it lapped in carried the smell of the grimy end of the beach: salt air mixed with rotting wood, a heavy overlay of sulfur, and an odd metallic taste at the end that landed in the back of his mouth, like a penny.

He lifted his eyes. As he rounded the curve of the beach, the piers on the outskirts of the docks appeared in the distance, long black landings on spindly stilts, walkways to nowhere ending abruptly in the ocean. And farther still, the dark smudge that was the huddle of warehouses that made up the seamy industrial end of the waterfront, with one tiny smokestack belching white clouds into the haze.

His horse plodded along beside him, and he let his eyes wander to the horizon. All kinds of ships dotted the water lanes: schooners, paddle wheelers, masted sailing ships, steamships. He liked to watch them, especially the big masted ships. They took his mind off the sad, heavy feeling in his chest. 

He was good with a gun, good at killing. Maybe too good. He told himself that being a lawman was an honorable profession, a necessary profession. He’d taken it up as soon as he came back from the war. But there was no denying it had taken a toll on him, even though his father-in-law had needed a replacement and the town had needed a strong hand.

He stifled a sigh. Galveston was growing fast, or so they told him. He hadn’t lived there long enough to really compare. His previous life had been as a sheltered young man in Louisiana. He hadn’t planned to settle in this raw seaside town, or to take over when Sheriff Westbrook retired. It was just the way things had worked out.

But that had way more to do with his wife than his father-in-law.

Funny what love could do to a man. Nash gazed out over the gray haze. Yeah, he wouldn’t have chosen to live in Galveston for its own sake. But he’d live in a leaky tent if Madeline was in there with him. He nudged his horse to pick up its pace. 

He was pulling even with the warehouses now, a row of two- and three-story clapboard buildings, salt-stained and grimy. Faded red letters read Cotton Exchange and Galveston Freight and Storage. Cotton bales were stacked on ramps like burlap walls and crates and wooden barrels lined the interior of the cavernous double doors. Dockworkers hustled to and fro, yelling to one another, shouting orders and arguing in English, Spanish, and a Louisiana patois few but him could probably understand. 

Some of the men glanced at him, then glanced again. The scent of fish, fresh and rotten, blasted across the sand like heat from a furnace as he passed, and he turned his head as the horse plodded on. 

On the far side of the warehouses, the docks themselves rolled into view. They were rough, worn, wet, and ragged, but his eyes jumped from them to the ships moored to them, looming far above the warehouses with their soaring masts straining to the sky. Even the decks were far above the shore, and Nash had to look up to see the sailors at the rail. As he watched, a crew lowered the sails of a masted ship as it strained against them in the wind. The creak of the ropes and their sharp, anxious voices wafted down to him.

“Ease off!”

The sails ballooned one last time, then collapsed inward, and skilled hands brought them down, hauling hard on the ropes.

Nash led his horse past the brick buildings on the other side of the dock, the shipping agents, the cotton brokers, and on a few more blocks to the street he lived on: the main thoroughfares with banks, boarding houses, doctor’s offices, and mercantiles. The center of Galveston looked like any other town, only breezier, busier, and with more languages. The street was full of wagons and mule teams hauling everything in the world. It was dusty, crowded, and noisy. As he passed, Nash heard two men arguing in Spanish, a woman calling her child in French, and a woman shrilly cursing a mule driver in Cantonese.

The driver turned to answer the woman with an English profanity, but they both froze and went silent as their eyes fell on the body swaying on the back of his horse. Nash nodded to them and touched his hat, but neither of them replied. They stared after him as he passed, then turned quickly and moved on.

Nash turned a corner, and his horse stumbled suddenly under the extra weight it was carrying. The motion drew more attention, more startled glances, more hushed commentary. But now that he was nearing his office, some greetings, too. A row of men were standing outside a mercantile, and they nodded to him.

“Looks like you’ve been getting after it this morning, Nash!”

“They don’t call him ‘The Golden Star’ for nothing. Always gets his man!”

“Is that Otis Gage? I knew he’d get plugged sooner or later. All those Gages are crow bait. Good for nothings!”

Nash nodded to them and untied the body and emptied out the contents of the dead man’s pockets. “He drew.”

The men glanced at each other, then at him. One of them offered, “You want me to go down and tell Clarence you got one?”

Nash glanced over his shoulder. “I’d take that as a favor, Charlie. Saves me a trip.”

The man set off to notify the undertaker, and Nash took off his hat and walked into the sheriff’s office. He dumped the odds and ends in his hands onto his desk. It startled his deputy.

Nash crossed the room to his big file cabinet. “How’s business, Kit?”

The other man was in the act of sweeping the office floor. He ducked his head and went back to it. “Nothing much. What happened out to the Gage place?”

Nash didn’t answer. He opened the drawer that held the big report book. He tossed it onto the desk, and Kit’s eyes widened as Nash sat down and entered the death report. He grabbed a pen, dipped it into an inkwell, and repeated the words as he scratched them onto the page.

“June 24, 1870. Male suspect in bar shooting, Otis Gage, shot and killed by Sheriff Nash Carter outside the Gage residence. Suspect drew a weapon during apprehension.”

Kit stood there open mouthed for a second or two, then shook his head and went back to sweeping. “That’s a shame, Sheriff. But it was gonna happen sooner or later. Otis just wasn’t right.”

Nash tossed the pen away and pulled a hand over his face. “Do me a favor. Look outside and see if Clarence has come.”

Kit propped the broom against the wall and opened the door to lean out, then closed it again. “Just left,” he reported. “He’s got a couple of men carrying Otis away.”

Nash shook sand over the wet page and rolled a blotter over it, then closed it up. “Good. Hold down the fort the rest of the day. I’m going home.”

“Sure.”

“I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”

He stood up, walked outside, and ignored the curious faces on the street as he mounted his horse. He sent it trotting away with his eyes on the horizon and his back ramrod-straight.

But as soon as he got out of sight of town, his shoulders sagged, and he pulled his hand over his eyes.

Chapter Three

The thing Nash liked best about his house was that it was on the far side of the island, out where the buildings dwindled to nothing and the beach was pretty much as wild as it had ever been. There were no docks or warehouses out there. Just driftwood and foam-rimmed water and sandpipers. Just the hush of the waves and the scuttling of tiny crabs that disappeared into the sand.

Nash pulled his horse to a slow stop and sat there staring at his home, far down the beach. It wasn’t much to look at: a pale yellow clapboard cottage with a dark gray roof, no different from a hundred others just like it closer to town. 

It had been bought by the city of Galveston as part of the sheriff’s salary: a decent place to live on the outskirts of town. Not fancy, but adequate for an older couple, or a young one without children.

He saw Madeline’s lace curtains flapping through the open windows. They kept all the windows open constantly to catch the breeze off the ocean. It kept the house cool, and it was pleasant to have the clean salt air flowing through the rooms like a current. 

Madeline’s lantanas were a riot of color at the front of the house. She had big beds of them all around it: red, yellow, and orange, pink, white and lavender. He smiled and shook his head. She even had her prized yellow roses in a pot around back, and she babied those blasted things like they were last ones in the world. 

She loved flowers.

She appeared in the front doorway as he watched. She had her dark hair tied up in a kerchief, and she was holding a rug in one hand and a rug beater in the other. She was beautiful no matter what she was wearing: her oval face, her big eyes, her lovely arms. 

She threw the rug and beater down at the sight of him and came walking out to meet him. She paused a few paces away and shaded her eyes with one hand. 

“What’s wrong?”

Nash looked away. He’d only been married two years, but he’d learned quickly that Maddy could read him like a book. 

“I had to go out to the Gage place this morning.” He sighed. “I had to kill Otis Gage.”

Her hand crept to his leg. “Oh, Nash, I’m sorry. Come inside.”

He reached down to squeeze her hand. “I’ll be in as soon as I tend to the horse.”

She stepped back to let him pass but called after him. “I’ll draw you a bath. We can have lunch after.”

He looked back at her over his shoulder. “Do I stink of the docks?”

She giggled a little and shot him a mischievous glance, and he smiled as he turned to stable the horse.

When he got back fifteen minutes later, Madeline was ready with a cup of coffee. He took it gratefully then raised his brows. It was better than usual, mostly because she’d laced it with bourbon. He shot her a respectful glance. “Thank you, ma’am.”

She moved behind him and slid her hands along his neck. He closed his eyes and groaned as she massaged his muscles. He didn’t know how much he needed a neck rub until then.

“You’re all knotted up,” she murmured as her gentle hands worked his muscles. “Go take your bath, it’ll help relax you. I’ve drawn the water. It’s nice and cool.”

“What would I do without you?” he wondered aloud and gave her a quick peck before moving to the back of the house, coffee in hand. He took another sip as he walked into the bathroom. Salt air was flowing in through the open window and the big clawfoot tub was full of clear, cool water. A snowy towel was draped over the side and big block of soap was ready in a wire holder.

Nash bent to pull his boots off. Sand sifted over the floor, then more sand as he came out of his shirt and pants. And when he stepped into the cool bath, a fine layer of sand drifted to the bottom of the tub as he settled in. 

But on such a hot, muggy day, that cool, clean water felt as good as Maddy’s hands, and he reached for the coffee cup and closed his eyes. He polished off the last of it, set the cup down, and leaned back in the tub.

He wanted to relax, but somehow he couldn’t. His mind kept yanking him back to the other end of the island, to that tawdry shack, to the sight of Otis lying face down in the sand, to the sight of his lank hair blowing over the back of his head.

He knew it wasn’t his fault. He’d done what he had to do. 

He’d killed a lot of men in his career, even though he was not yet thirty. Usually he handled the aftermath pretty well, but this time it was different. Killing an addled man wasn’t the same as killing a man in his right mind. Killing a man in a bank or a side street wasn’t the same as killing him in front of his mother.

Nash rubbed the little throbbing spot between his eyes. He kept hearing the old woman scream, that high, shivering wail when she saw her son lying on the ground. It was like no sound he’d ever heard in his life, and it was gonna haunt him.

Madeline appeared in the doorway, and he rolled his head back to look at her. She picked up the empty coffee cup and smiled at him. “Well that was quick. Would you like another cup?”

He shook his head. “Bring me the bottle.”

Madeline’s smile faded, and she crouched down beside the tub to take his hand. She caressed his brow.

“I know shooting Otis had to be hard,” she whispered. “But you’re the sheriff. Things happened the way they were bound to. You can’t protect a man from himself.”

Nash looked away, because his vision was blurring. He didn’t want Maddy to see the tears in his eyes. “He was addled, Maddy. Still trying to convince me, and maybe himself, that he was innocent.” 

Maddy looked down at him, her sorrowful eyes full of all the things he felt and couldn’t say. “I’m sorry it happened that way,” she murmured. “But addled or not, Otis killed two men. You did your job, Nash. Somebody had to do it, and you’re the only one strong enough. This town is lucky to have you.” She leaned in to kiss his brow, and he closed his eyes as her petal soft lips brushed his skin.

“I’ll bring you the bottle if you want it,” she breathed. “But I don’t think you need it. A bottle is for a man with a guilty conscience, and you haven’t done anything wrong.”

He opened his eyes and reached for her. He kissed her, sighed, and kissed her again. “You can bring me the coffee,” he murmured, and a smile of triumph dawned across her face. She was so transparently pleased that he smiled in spite of himself.

“Yeah, you’d have me drinking nothing but lemonade and buttermilk if you could,” he teased, and she smirked a bit as she stood up. 

“I’ll do it, too,” she retorted as she left. “Just give me a few more years.”

Nash sighed and stretched out in the tub, and the cool water sloshed over his chest and ankles. Maddy was right, as usual. But his brows still twitched.

There was a difference between being right, and feeling right. And nothing that had happened at the Gage place felt right to him.

Then again, maybe his funk wasn’t even about Otis Gage. Maybe it was his whole past catching up with him. He’d earned the nickname “The Golden Star” for being fast with a gun, for always getting his man. He’d been faster than a lot of big-name outlaws. He’d sent a lot of men to the graveyard.

Maybe sometimes when he didn’t have to.

He hadn’t allowed himself to think much about those deaths. He’d smashed his feelings down over the years. But those feelings had hovered on the edge of his mind like a small gray cloud rising over the horizon, always there, always getting a little bit bigger and closer. Now that cloud was hanging over his head, ready to break.

Maddy’s voice drifted to him from the other room. “Maybe we need some time away,” she called. “I just got a letter from my sister Mary today. She’s got that big cattle ranch up in Colorado and ever since Evan died, she’s got no man to run it. She told me she was looking for help.”

Nash glanced at the empty doorway in wonder. Sometimes it was like Maddy could read his mind. She’d been hinting around for months that Mary needed help, but not because Mary needed help.

Because he needed it. or at least, needed a long rest. And for the first time, it sounded like something he might want to do. 

He tilted his head, as if conceding a point. “I’ll think about it.”