When the Guns Start Firing (Preview)

Chapter One

Jillian McCarty didn’t even know the outlaws had come into the bank. Back turned to the entrance, she had just finished making a withdrawal from her account when a man’s voice rang out, echoing off the wooden walls.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gents! Sorry to interrupt your business, but we’ll only be a moment or two. Please remain where y’all are standin’.”

She watched the bank clerk’s eyes go wide as he stared toward the entrance. Then, Jillian turned slowly around. There were three of them, spread out and standing a few paces apart with weapons in hand. The one in the middle was carrying a shotgun. He was lean, whip-thin, with a sallow, pockmarked face lit up in a grin—obviously enjoying himself.

“If ya’ll ain’t realized it by now, this here’s a holdup,” the man said in a Southern accent. “You know the drill: don’t nobody move! Mr. Clerk?” He darted his gaze toward the counter, eyes resting for a moment on Jillian. He looked her up and down before glancing behind her.

“Yes, sir?” the clerk said in a shaky voice.

“Clean out the vault, and make it quick. My colleague here will kindly provide you with a gunny sack for the purpose.”

The thief to the left of the speaker strode forward with a pistol in one hand, canvas sack in the other. He threw it over the counter and the clerk caught it.

“The rest of ya’ll just relax. No one’s gonna get hurt unless some damned hero of a Yankee tries something stupid,” the man said, his eyes scanning the room. “I killed quite a few of ya in the war but believe me, I’m not against adding a few more to the tally if I have to.”

It was early on a Monday afternoon in the town of Rayner, Dakota Territory, and Jillian reflected to herself that of all the times a person might choose to rob a bank, Monday afternoon was probably the busiest.   

Maybe Johnny Reb here likes to play to an audience? He sure seems to be enjoyin’ himself.

As the clerk squatted in front of a huge iron safe, quickly stuffing money into the sack, Jillian observed the thieves closely, trying to get as good a description as possible to relay to Sheriff Larson afterward.

Shortly after the holdup began, the third outlaw had taken up a position near the door of the bank. He leaned against the door frame with his pistol in hand, bobbing his head and rubbernecking through the glass window.

Obviously trying to make sure no one accidentally walks in on them.

The other outlaw remained in front of the counter, watching the clerk as he stuffed the gunny sack, occasionally glancing around the room at the customers. Behind Jillian, there had been two other people in line: a blonde woman in her thirties and an elderly farmer. They both stood stock-still now, only their frightened eyes darting back and forth.

“Got it, Boss!” the thief at the counter said, grabbing the sack of money from the clerk. “Let’s go.”

“Ladies and gents, I thank you for your patronage,” the boss said with a wicked smile. “Sorry if any of you were planning to withdraw cash today—better luck next time.”

As he turned away, the man at the door let fly with a stream of profanity. “Looks like the sheriff’s headin’ this way.”

“Somebody must’ve saw ya and ratted us out,” the moneybag man said.

“You, Miss Red Hair!” The boss pointed at Jillian. “Come over here.”

“Why don’t you leave the girl alone, boys?” the elderly farmer piped up.

“Shut up, granddad, and stay where you are. I told ya, we don’t want any Yankee heroes.” He pointed the shotgun at the farmer, who fell silent and stared back at him with a fierce glare.

“The sheriff drew up at the next building over, Boss. He’s walkin’ this way,” said the doorman.

“Tell him we’re leavin’ and we got ourselves a woman hostage.” He grabbed Jillian roughly by the arm.

The doorman smashed the window with the butt of his Colt pistol, sending shattered glass to the floor. “That’s far enough, Sheriff!” he yelled through the hole. “We’re comin’ out with a woman hostage. Stay where you are!”

***

The sound caught the attention of a young ranch hand walking toward the bank from the opposite direction. As he saw Sheriff Olavi Larson stop in his tracks, Steven O’Riley instinctively grabbed the butt of the pistol sticking out of his holster.

O’Riley was twenty-three years old, a seasoned cowpuncher for a local outfit, the Bar Z. Tall and red-haired, muscular and fit from years of labor, he turned his green Irish eyes toward Sheriff Larson standing on the other side of the bank.

Larson drew his pistol and took cover behind the post of an awning, turning his body sideways to provide the least amount of vulnerability in case shooting started. Unfortunately, his large belly still made an obvious target. The sheriff glanced over at O’Riley and nodded, acknowledging that he had seen him.

The cowhand drew his pistol and stepped behind the corner of the building to his right. O’Riley had met the sheriff several times and he knew the lawman was aware that O’Riley was unafraid of a fight.

“We’re comin’ out now, Sheriff!” a Southern-accented voice announced from inside the bank. “Any shootin’ and the girl is the first to die. You understand?”

“You damn cowards leave the girl behind,” Larson shouted back. “And I won’t shoot you down in the street like you deserve.”

The voice in the bank cackled with adrenaline-fueled energy. “You’re a mighty fine negotiator, Sheriff, but she’ll be ridin’ out with us, anyway. I’ve got my Colt stuck in her ribs and I promise you, if there’s any shooting, I will fire it immediately.”

Larson shook his head and said nothing more.

As O’Riley watched from around the corner, a man emerged slowly from the doorway. He was holding a young, red-haired woman by the arm. His other hand was indeed pointing a pistol at her ribs.

As the couple made their way toward the horses at the hitching rail, two other men walked out of the building. One of them held a shotgun in his hands, pointing it warily at the sheriff. The other held a gunny sack in one hand and was sweeping a raised pistol back and forth across his field of vision.

O’Riley pulled back from the corner and glanced at his horse tied in front of the mercantile store twenty feet away.

In that instant, he decided that if the outlaws rode off with the girl, he would follow them. If they split up, he would go after the man who had the woman. He would do whatever was needed to get her back.

“Get up on the horse,” the kidnapper said gruffly to the girl as he held the reins. She put one foot into the stirrup and swung up while he kept the pistol trained on her midsection. “That’s it, darlin’… nice and easy now. Remember where this gun is pointed.”

She was a beautiful redhead, O’Riley noticed, with Irish features. He wondered if this was the source of his resolve to rescue her. She didn’t seem afraid at all in the face of this mortal danger. On the contrary, the woman carried herself with a calm dignity. Wherever his resolve came from, watching her only seemed to make the feeling stronger.

The kidnapper swung up into the saddle behind the redhead as Larson stood behind the beam with his pistol pointed at the man.

“Relax, Sheriff.” The rebel smiled. “I know you’re not going to shoot me with this fine specimen of womanhood sitting in the saddle. Don’t try shootin’ me in the back, neither, because if you do, I swear I’ll take her with me to hell!”

He nodded toward his comrades, and the two of them nudged their animals forward. He spurred his horse and it lurched ahead, picking up speed as they moved away from the bank.

Suddenly, the rebel let out a strange, high-pitched shriek. Then he turned in the saddle and shouted, “The South will rise again!”

O’Riley moved quickly to his horse, untied it, and called to Larson, “I’m going after them, Sheriff.”

“Don’t be a fool, O’Riley, it’s three against one! Wait until I get ahold of the deputy and we’ll track ‘em down together.”

“I can’t risk losing ‘em while they’ve got the girl, Lars.” He stepped into the saddle and swung his horse around without another word.

***

Jillian McCarty held a hairpin tightly in her hand as the outlaws sped out of town. She was quite sure that Johnny Reb hadn’t seen what happened when they were standing inside the bank. She had casually reached up as if to scratch the back of her head, then pulled out the pin and palmed it.

Once the trio had ridden a distance away from Rayner, the reb looked behind them and put his pistol back in the holster. He let out another shrill whoop that made Jillian’s skin crawl.

“We done it, boys! And I got me some extra booty to boot.”

He squeezed her between his legs as he sat in the saddle behind her. Jillian could sense his breath on her neck and the sour smell of whiskey.

Guess these cads stopped in for a drink before going to work.

Occasionally, the man let go of one of the reins and wrapped an arm around her stomach, pulling her closer to him. She could feel an unmistakable hardness in his pants when this happened, and it disgusted her. However, she tried to stay focused on clutching the hairpin without the rebel seeing it, waiting for the right opportunity to make use of it.

The pace of the horses slowed once they were a couple miles outside of Rayner, and the outlaws seemed to relax a little as the adrenaline of the escape subsided. Then Jillian saw one of them glance sharply to the rear.

“Someone followin’ us,” he announced tersely. “One rider.”

When the rebel turned his head to look, Jillian stabbed the hairpin into the horse’s neck. The animal cried out shrilly and reared up on its back legs, throwing both of them from the saddle.

They hit the ground together in a tangle of limbs, bodies, and dust. Jillian tried to crawl away, but the man caught hold of her foot and dragged her backward.

“Not so fast, sweet thing!” He cackled as she kicked at him furiously with the other leg.

“Leave her be, Hank! Let’s light a shuck,” the man with the moneybag shouted.

“Get my horse, we’re taking her with us,” he grunted, fending off kicks and punches as he tried to get control of his prisoner. “I want this wildcat for myself.”

“To hell with it! That rider behind us is right on our ass—I’m gettin’ out of here.” The robber spun his horse around, taking off at a gallop.

The doorman looked at his colleague retreating with the moneybag. Then, he glanced at the rebel on the ground. “Sorry, Hank, you’re on yer own.” He spurred his horse away at a gallop.

“You damned turncoats!” the rebel shouted. “Yankee bastards!”

Suddenly, the sharp toe of a cowboy boot dug into Hank’s back and he rolled over with a grunt. O’Riley jumped onto the man’s stomach and pummeled him with his fists, smashing the rebel’s face until he was unconscious, blood streaming from his mouth and nose.

Removing the pistol from Hank’s holster, O’Riley looked over at Jillian. “You okay, miss?”

“I’m fine,” she said, still breathing heavily from the struggle. “Thank you for rescuing me.”

“Looked like that horse had a hand in rescuing ya, too, the way it threw you off like that.” He chuckled, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

“It was my hairpin. I jabbed it into the horse’s neck when he saw you following us.”

Steve looked at her in surprise. “Good thinkin’. You ain’t no gal to mess with, I see.”

She extended a hand. “Jillian McCarty.”

“Steve O’Riley,” he said, shaking her hand. “Pleased to meet ya.”

Chapter Two

The next day, Sheriff Larson sent a message to the Bar Z addressed to the attention of Mr. Steven O’Riley.

The young cowboy received the message after work. As the ranch hands sat down for dinner in the cookhouse, Callahan the foreman handed him a folded piece of paper. “Message for ya, Steve.”

“Thanks,” he said, opening the note curiously. “Huh—it’s from Larson, says he wants me to drop by his office.”

“Probably wants to give you a medal for saving that Irish lass yesterday,” Callahan joked.

“Or pin a tin star on ya,” a grizzled old cowhand said from across the table. “Lars lost his latest deputy in a gunfight last month. He’s probably lookin’ for some fresh cannon fodder to keep his ass out of the line of fire.”

“Ya reckon?” O’Riley chuckled, green eyes sparkling. He had never pictured himself working in law enforcement but felt excited at the prospect of being asked.

“Sure thing. You’re a damn hero, Stevey! Ain’t no better candidate than that to be Lars’ next bodyguard. Don’t let the old dog push ya around, though. You’ll get yourself killed right quick.”

“I dunno. Why’d he wanna hire a kid like me, still wet behind the ears?”

“Like Jack said,” Callahan added, “Lars is probably lookin’ for a fresh body. I’d think twice if I was you—if that’s what he wants to see you about.” He slapped O’Riley on the back. “Besides, we’d hate to lose a top hand.”

***

Callahan let O’Riley off work early the next day to go and see Sheriff Larson. The betting among the hands at the Bar Z was strongly in favor of Steve being offered a deputy’s star. Callahan was confident that the invitation was only about the robbery and kidnapping case. He was so confident, in fact, that he put five dollars on it.

“Howdy, Sheriff,” O’Riley said, poking his head in the door of the lawman’s office late in the afternoon. “You wanted to see me?”

Larson looked up from his desk. “Yes, come on in. Glad to see ya, O’Riley. Thanks for stopping by.”

“No problem, sir,” he replied, taking a chair in front of the desk at the sheriff’s invitation. “What can I do for ya?”

“Well, I’ll get right to it. I was impressed with the way you handled the situation at the bank the other day. Very impressed.” Larson sat back in his chair and crossed his legs. He was a heavyset man with graying hair and a well-trimmed goatee. He peered at the cowhand with intense brown eyes as he made his pitch. “The whole town seems to be talkin’ about your rescuing Miss McCarty like that. Damn fine work it was.”

“Thanks,” O’Riley said, remembering how Larson had advised him at the time not to go after the kidnappers because it was too dangerous.

“You ever thought about workin’ in law enforcement, son?”

“No, sir.”

“Well, I think you’ve got what it takes to by my next deputy, if you’re interested.” He looked at him seriously. “The job don’t pay much more than bein’ a cowhand, but I reckon you’d be a top-notch addition to the sheriff’s department, Steve. What do ya say?”

O’Riley sat quietly for a moment and sized Larson up. Would he really want to work for a man like this? A sheriff known for his lack of courage and for putting other men’s lives on the line for no good reason? “I heard your deputies have a reputation of not lastin’ very long at the job, Sheriff. If I became a deputy, how do I know that things would be any different for me?”

Annoyance clouded Larson’s face. This clearly wasn’t an answer he was expecting the young cowpuncher to deliver. O’Riley sat back in his chair, crossed his legs, and waited for a reply.

“Well, I… there’s no guarantees workin’ as a lawman, of course. You never know what’s gonna happen,” he stammered.

“So I’ve heard. A couple of your tin stars have ended up dead—more than usual for this line of work, so they tell me.”

Larson looked like he’d been slapped in the face. “Who tells you?” he asked testily. “Like I said, it’s just the chance a body takes when he becomes a lawman. You want the job or not, O’Riley? I ain’t gonna ask you again.”

O’Riley looked at him calmly. “Depends. At the bank, you told me I was a fool to ride after them kidnappers. Now you say I’m the hero of the town and it was damn fine work. Which is it?”

Olavi Larson shifted uncomfortably in his chair.

“I ain’t gonna follow some fool order and get myself killed for no reason,” O’Riley continued. “Because they say that’s what happened to a couple of them other deputies. I’ll only take the job if you let me make the calls as I see fit, Sheriff. If you can live with workin’ like that with me, okay then.”

Olavi Larson drew a deep breath and exhaled. “You drive a hard bargain, kid.” He paused and his eyes traveled across O’Riley’s face. “I know I’m not the best sheriff in the world. That ain’t news. But believe me, I never put one of them deputies in the line of fire figurin’ they’d get killed, and I never put ‘em in because I was scared to go myself. You need to know that if we’re gonna work together.”

“Alright, fair enough. What about this business of gettin’ the girl back being damned fine work? It’s not what you said at the bank.”

Larson looked down at the papers scattered on his desk. “I just changed my mind about it, that’s all. After it was over, I saw what you did was the right thing. Nothin’ to do with everybody saying how great it was. I may not be a good sheriff, but I know somebody who’s got the makings when I see ‘em. You did what needed to be done and you did it fast. Frankly, that’s the kind of man this town needs.”

“Hope you’re not bullshitting me,” O’Riley said, looking him in the eye.

“Nope. And to let ya in on a little secret: I’m plannin’ on retiring soon, once my term’s up. If you take this job and do well at it, you’d stand a good chance of gettin’ elected sheriff.”

O’Riley felt himself getting excited. He didn’t even know what the conversation was going to be about when he had first walked in. Now, Larson was saying he could be the next sheriff of Rayner County. Despite some lingering doubts about working with the man, he felt grateful for the opportunity and the encouragement he’d been offered. “Thanks for bein’ straight up with me, Lars,” he said, thrusting out his hand. “I’m lookin’ forward to working with you.”

The two men shook hands and got to their feet.

“Glad to have you on board, Steve. I appreciate your bein’ straight-up with me, too. It ain’t easy being one of the lousiest sheriffs in Dakota Territory.”

“Well, we’re gonna improve that record.” The new deputy grinned. “Then you can retire on a high note, Boss.”

“I wouldn’t complain none if that happens,” he replied somberly.    

***

O’Riley was elated as he rode back to the Bar Z. Despite all the bets and speculation of his coworkers at the ranch, he really hadn’t expected to be invited to become the sheriff’s deputy. Now that it had happened, he felt thrilled at being given the job.

It was a warm spring evening, the sun nearing the horizon as he rode into the ranch yard about supper time. He unsaddled his horse, forked it some feed, and walked over to the cookhouse.

“Hey, there he is!” Callahan called out as O’Riley came in the door. “We were just wonderin’ what happened in town today. What did Larson have to say?”

“The old codger chewed me out somethin’ fierce for disobeying his orders at the scene of the holdup,” O’Riley replied. “Tore a strip out of my hide.”

“What? The coward!” Jack spit in disgust. “He should’ve been grateful you saved the girl’s life, instead of jumpin’ down your throat ‘cause you didn’t take his lame-ass advice. What the hell is wrong with that man?”

Callahan grinned at the older man and held out an open palm. “Pay up, Jack. You owe me a fiver.”

Jack scowled, shook his head, and began digging in his pocket for the money.

“Hold up there, Jack. Callahan had best be diggin’ in his jeans instead,” O’Riley smiled. “I was just pullin’ your leg, Boss. Lars offered me the job and I took it.”

Callahan did a double-take and Jack burst out in a loud guffaw, slapping his knee in mirth. “Haw! You done had us both goin’ there, Stevey. I love it!” He stretched out his palm toward the foreman. “Pay up, Boss.”

“I’m sorry to lose a good man,” Callahan conceded, fishing a five-dollar bill out of his jeans and handing it over. “Good luck to ya, kid.”   

Chapter Three

Jillian McCarty had recently come out West with her uncle to start a new life, and she had quickly resolved never to go back to the New York City seamstress industry, with its chronically low wages and oversupply of labor. Working piecework with fifty other girls in a hot, crowded room for twelve to sixteen hours a day, then bringing home all of twenty-five cents to show for it was not for her.

Jilly, as her uncle called her, hoped to establish her own business sewing clothes in the town of Rayner.

Her uncle Shamus McCarty was a tinsmith—not a tinker, as he was quick to point out, though much of the work was essentially the same. His trade was making and repairing household items: everything from mugs, cookware, and baking pans, to lanterns and stovepipes. Like his niece, Shamus had grown weary of the oversaturated Eastern market and the limitations there. He’d decided to come West with her to start afresh.

A few days after the bank holdup, they were eating breakfast in their rented lodgings—a small apartment in a boarding house—and she caught Shamus once again looking at the bruises on her arms with concern.

“How are ya feelin’ this morning, Jilly?” he asked. “Those bruises are still lookin’ a wee bit nasty.”

“I’m fine, Uncle. Really. They look a sight but don’t even hurt.” Well, it wasn’t a lie, after all. The bruises on her side were the ones that stung like a wasp whenever she moved. Her arms were just fine.

Jilly had never fallen off a horse before and never wanted it to happen again, much less to be fighting for her life against an outlaw.

“Good. The bruises will be fadin’ away soon, then.” Shamus smiled. “The young heal so much faster than old fogies like meself.”

“You’re only forty-five! Don’t be makin’ out like some decrepit old man, now,” she scolded good-naturedly.

“Yes, you’re absolutely right, my dear. Still fit as a fiddle, too.” He clenched his fists, flexing his biceps to show off the muscles. “All these years in the shop have paid off after all.”

Shamus was indeed a fit man for his age. A lifetime of physical labor and the blessing of a healthy constitution meant he rarely fell ill from colds or flu. He had a fondness for the bottle, however, which meant suffering regular hangovers. He laughed them off as best he could, since the hangovers weren’t a real sickness—just the harmless consequence of having a little too much fun.

“Maybe today will be the day we’ll find the right place for our shop,” Jillian said hopefully.

“I hope so, girl,” he replied with a sigh. “It seems like we’re running out of prospects in this town. Not that we need anythin’ fancy, just a shed with a couple o’ rooms will do.”

The pair wanted to house their businesses together on the same premises if a suitable place could be found. The tinsmith shop would be in one ‘department,’ her clothing ‘boutique’ in the other.

“I’m so glad we have enough money to build our own shop if we have to.” She smiled. “Despite that dreadful incident at the bank, I still like this little town.”

“Aye, me too. It seems a fine place for people to live. Don’t worry, girl, there’s plenty left in the kitty if we need to build somethin’. Our people were so generous when they passed the hat for us back in the city… I’m still gobsmacked by it.” He shook his head and Jillian saw his green eyes begin to mist up a little.

Dear Uncle Shamus, such a tender heart beneath the bluster and the blarney.

Their community of Irish working poor in New York had raised a substantial sum of donations for the two of them. The people had so little for themselves, so little to spare, yet they had given from their hearts when it was known that two of the McCarty clan were leaving to seek greener pastures in the West.

“Yes, God bless them one and all. It’s amazing, isn’t it?” Jillian marveled. “The kitty not only covered our train fare and flat, but we can afford to build a little shop if need be.”

She reached over and patted Shamus’s hand as it rested on the tabletop. “We’ve been so blessed, Uncle.”

“Yes,” he replied, wiping tears at the corner of his eyes with the other hand. “Let’s not let ‘em down, Jilly. Let’s make a success of ourselves out here.”

“Yes, let’s do it for the Irish of New York as well as ourselves. Finish your breakfast and we’ll go see what the day has in store for us.” She smiled at him and picked up her plate to go wash it.

***

As Shamus and Jillian walked down the main street of Rayner, they passed the bank where the holdup had occurred. This was the first time she had seen the building since the incident, and the sight made Jillian feel uneasy at first. But the feeling quickly passed.

“Look, Jilly, they’ve replaced the shattered door pane. Good as new.”

“Wonderful. I’m so glad the bank got the money back from the robbers. We’d a-been stuck without it, wouldn’t we?” She paused; the uneasy feeling was returning. “Uncle, I’m wonderin’ if you’d be okay to make the withdrawal next time? I don’t wanna be in that building again for a while. It’s givin’ me the willies just lookin’ at it.”

He gazed at her with empathy in his eyes. “Aye. I understand, lass. I don’t blame ya one bit for not wanting to be goin’ back in there after what happened.”

As they continued walking along the wooden sidewalk, a familiar voice suddenly came to Jillian’s ears. “Miss McCarty? Hello there.”

She turned and saw Steven O’Riley sitting his horse in the street, smiling her way.

“Oh, hello, Mr. O’Riley! I didn’t see you there. How are you?”

“I’m fine, thanks, ma’am. It’s good to see you again.”

“Yes, likewise.” She grinned. “Mr. O’Riley, this is my uncle, Shamus McCarty. Uncle, meet the brave man who gave chase to the outlaws and rescued me.”

“Pleased to meet ya, sir,” the cowboy said. “That’s a mighty fine compliment from your niece, but she had a hand in the rescue, too. Miss McCarty, if you hadn’t pricked that outlaw’s horse with your hairpin, it would’ve taken me a sight longer to catch up with you.”

“I see you’re not only courageous but modest as well, Mr. O’Riley.” Shamus walked over to shake his hand. “Pleased to meet you. Thank you so much for what you did for Jillian. We’re both in your debt.”

“I just did what I had to do. How long you two been in Rayner?”

“We’ve only just moved here—got to town a few days before the incident at the bank. We’re both hopin’ to start new businesses with our trades.”

“Great to hear it. What’s your trade, Mr. McCarty?”

“I’m a tinsmith. Jilly is an accomplished seamstress. She makes very lovely dresses, as well as all sorts of clothes for the whole family.”

“So, you’re not only a very brave woman, but a dressmaker as well? That’s great,” Steve said to her. “Are you lookin’ for a place in town to set up shop or will you be working from home, Miss McCarty?”

“Please, call me Jillian. Uncle Shamus and I are hoping to work out of the same building—if we can find one to rent.”

“Well, I’ll keep my eyes open and let ya know if I see anythin’ that might fit the bill.”

“That’s very kind. Thank you.”

“My pleasure. How would you folks like to join me at a Rayner barn dance this Saturday night? It’s a real good way to get to know folks in town, and a lot of fun, too. We put on quite a spread. Some hands make a day’s ride just to get here for it.”

Jillian and Shamus glanced at each other with excited smiles. “That’d be lovely, Mr. O’Riley, thank you so much,” Jillian said. “I will look forward to that.”

“And I, as well,” Shamus added with a nod. “Thank you kindly.”

“Alrighty then, folks. Call me Steve; everybody else does. I’ll drop by around seven o’clock Saturday night.”

After getting their address, O’Riley turned his horse and rode off with a wave goodbye.

“A very friendly young man, isn’t he?” Shamus noted. “I like him.”

“I like him, too,” Jillian agreed as she watched his horse saunter down the street.

---

“When the Guns Start Firing” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Steve O’Riley is a young cowboy, who stumbles onto the scene of a bank robbery in progress. After catching the Sheriff’s attention with his bravery and skills, he is offered the job of deputy, and shortly, he becomes the most beloved sheriff in Dakota. Yet the young sheriff’s success comes back to haunt him when Hank Fletcher, a dark figure from his past returns thirsty for revenge. Will Steve manage to bring the ruthless criminal to justice once again? With his great talent and virtues, will he succeed in keeping his town safe, or will his life and career start falling apart right in front of his eyes?

After saving Jillian McCarty from the hands of a dangerous criminal, Steve falls in love and marries the young woman, promising to protect her for the rest of their lives. While they are convinced that luck is on their side and nothing can stand in the way of their happiness, the outlaw from the unforgettable bank robbery breaks out of jail to finish what he started. To make matters worse, he vows to destroy Steve by taking away the only thing that truly matters to him; his beloved wife. What is Steve willing to sacrifice in order to protect Jillian? Will he destroy Hank’s evil plans and reestablish peace not only in his town but also in his own life?

Just when he thinks that he has it all under control, O’Riley finds himself in an epic battle with his fast gun being the only ally that can help him survive. Will the fearless Sheriff manage to capture a ruthless outlaw who wants to see the world burn? Or will he fail in this dangerous undertaking, bringing not only his own but also Jillian’s demise?

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“When the Guns Start Firing” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 60,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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