A Perilous Mission for Justice (Preview)

Chapter One

Abigail Adler carried a tray of stuffed mushroom caps through the crowded first floor of the Double Q’s ranch house, through spacious rooms packed with waistcoats and cravats and white gloves. Most people barely noticed her at all, some stooping so low as to give her a nod of recognition as they plucked the morsels from her tray, almost always following it with a disdainful glance, up and down.

Abigail was demure in her bonnet and modest dress, as was befitting a servant. But she still attracted the admiring glances of the gentlemen in the room, silently taking in her compact body and perfect proportions, the tight waist of the servant’s uniform accentuating her own natural curves. And her face was still smooth and young, unlike so many of the women at the party, whose faces were lined by years of indulgence and disgust at those whom they believed to be their inferiors. And the coloring of her Northern Ireland heritage – black hair, pale skin, and blue eyes – always seemed to draw the men’s attention and some of the ladies’ attentions as well.

Abigail knew she was not considered one of them, even while she had a sense that any of them would prefer to have her face, her body, her youth. All Abigail wanted was for the night to be over. The big house smelled of smoke from countless different cigars and cigarettes, the stale smell of tequila and too much perfume, and it was making Abigail’s stomach turn.

They’d come into Bridgerton from all over Texas; from Waco, forty miles southeast, from towns all along the Brazos River. They’d come to the house of Mr. Doyle Garrett, and at his behest.

Doyle Garrett’s blond hair had gone almost entirely gray, and was combed back over his head. He’d exuded his usual charm, hosting his guests with a certain élan that few in Texas could match. But Abigail could sense a nervousness in his manner, shrewd eyes shifting around the crowded house as he chomped on his cigar. White smoke gathered around him like a halo, but he could find little respite at his own party.

Garrett was a man of power, and such men were always the target of somebody’s interests.

Abigail noted a particular tension between Garrett and young Tom Coffey, who was small and lean, with brown hair hanging over his intense expression. They’d always been close, and Abigail was surprised to see the men exchange a few muttered words in one corner of the house before breaking off, each eyeing the other with a certain intensity that Abigail couldn’t miss.

But there were other men at the party that Abigail recognized, and a few of the women from Bridgerton as well, and they all gave her pause to reflect even in the busy course of her duties.

A man Abigail knew as Maxwell Sullivan, tall and lean, almost skeletal in his appearance, in a conclave with another of Garrett’s business associates, neighboring rancher David Connor. Connor was beefy with the work of a rancher, contrasting Sullivan’s lean, work-shy physique. The men glanced around as they spoke, then broke apart and shared nods and glances from across the room. But unlike the tense, nervous looks shared by Garrett and Tom Coffey, the silent exchanges between Connor and Sullivan seemed to be ones of agreement, of conspiracy.

Abigail knew better than to enter into any exchanges with any of Garrett’s guests, but her inquisitive nature was hard to resist and it was easy enough to drift around and accidentally hear things without seeming out of place. Abigail had become quite adept at the art of it, and she’d learned some of Garrett’s intricate business dealings at nights such as this. She told nobody of what she knew, of course, knowing it would get her expelled at best, and disappeared at worst.

What little Abigail knew of Garrett’s businesses frightened her, but she knew that men of power often dealt in such things; gun-running, land grabs, things Abigail could only imagine and had no wish to. She only wanted to remain employed, stay alive, perhaps find a man to marry, and to know she was not living and working in the service of a maniac or a monster.

“He won’t give an inch,” Connor said, “I say we act now.”

Sullivan whispered, “Keep your voice down, man! Are you mad?”

Abigail felt conspicuously close to them, making sure to keep her back turned to them and step away very slowly and naturally so as not to draw any more undue attention to herself. “You can afford to wait, Sullivan, I can’t!”

“Damnit, Connor, be still!”

Abigail went on serving her guests, earning a glare from Mrs. Ruthie. Nothing Abigail did ever seemed to please the house mother, but Abigail knew she treated the cook and the gardener with the same stern hand. Abigail pretended to ignore her and went about offering the mushroom caps, spread across a white doily on a silver tray.

They disappeared fast, and Abigail knew she’d be going back to the kitchen soon enough. She could already imagine Miss Ruthie’s thick Irish brogue berating her for doing nothing more than walk around the room, looking pretty and giving the guests their appetizers.

On the way across the room, Abigail could hardly miss Mr. Garrett himself ascending the staircase to the second floor, cordoned off from the guests by common practice. Garrett kept his eyes fixed dead ahead as he walked up the stairs, the cloud of cigar smoke marking his path. Abigail looked over to see Tom Coffey watching his mentor walk up those stairs, and he wasn’t the only one.

The men Sullivan and Connor were watching too, each from a different corner of the room.

But Mrs. Ruthie’s mean glare once again grabbed Abigail’s attention, and she turned away to walk directly back to the kitchen.

“Don’ you be sidin’ up t’the men like that,” Mrs. Ruthie said as Pepe loaded the tray up with roast jalapeño peppers stuffed with ground and grilled armadillo meat. “You’ll no find a husband there!”

Abigail didn’t answer. It wasn’t entirely true, of course. Abigail was careful and demure and never flirted with the guests, which was decidedly not the case when it came to the men’s behavior toward her. She was often squeezed on the backside, her breasts brushed against improperly and deliberately by men who claimed not to know and many who didn’t even bother to make that claim. Abigail knew that was perfectly well that in their province, she was subject to whatever their whims might be. More often than not, Abigail was pleased enough that a quick grab of her buttocks was all that was asked of her. But she certainly never enticed or welcomed their advances, or more, as Mrs. Ruthie suggested.

But the old woman wasn’t altogether wrong either, Abigail had to silently admit. She longed for a family and a household of her own; not to be lording over servants or to be among the rich or powerful. They lived lives Abigail couldn’t quite understand and didn’t really want to. But a good man, noble and strong, untouched by corruption or greed or love of luxury; Abigail did hope to meet such a man, she couldn’t deny that. And with most of her life spent at the Double Q ranch, she had little chance of finding such a man anywhere else.

Abigail had to wonder if she’d ever find such a husband. The desert was filled with rugged and hard men, but few who had the tenderness of heart and of soul that Abigail longed for. Brutes came around every corner, savages and bandits and banditos, but these men were of no interest to Abigail. But as Abigail approached her twenty-third birthday, she began to wonder if that miracle would ever happen at all.

“Darling? Darling!” Abigail turned to see Meghan Garrett stepping toward her. The brassy redhead moved as if she had the air of royalty; and in Bridgerton, Texas, she truly did. The only daughter of the town’s most powerful man, Meghan seemed intent on enjoying every bit of her status.

Meghan left a trail of admiring glances in her wake as she crossed the room, but she travelled alone. Abigail knew enough of the master’s daughter, and what she was doing when not flirting with the local boys, though not clearly with whom.

“Would you do me a favor, sweet Abby?”

Abigail forced a smile and offered a little curtsy.

“Very good,” Meghan went on. “My boot heel has seemed ever so wobbly of late. Would you mind having a look?”

Abigail knew what the woman was doing; lording her superiority over her, as she delighted in doing at every turn. Abigail was no threat to her, and she could only wonder what made the woman so antagonistic toward her. Meghan had a beauty many men enjoyed, and at least one of them seemed to enjoy it quite often. And she had all the wealth and power she craved, of which Abigail herself had none at all. Abigail saw no real reason for Meghan to treat her with such jealousy, but it seemed clear enough in any case.

Abigail nodded. “If you’ll leave the boots by the door, Miss, I’ll see to them after my other chores.”

“Oh no, dearest Abby, no no no no no … you see, they’re wobbly right now, and I can’t very well go about my father’s party, among his many powerful friends, with a wobbly heel, now can I?”

Abigail knew the proper answer, but she didn’t dare say it. Instead, she said what she knew she had to say. “No, Miss, of course not.”

“Well then?”

The two stood in an awkward silence. Abigail had an idea of what Meghan wanted, but she couldn’t assume it to be true. She wouldn’t comply unless she absolutely had to.

Abigail cleared her throat and said, “Shall I see you to your room, Miss, help you choose another pair?”

Meghan looked around with her red brows high on her pale face. By then, her rich friends were gathered around her, smiling at Meghan’s taunting, chuckling along with her at Abigail’s humiliation.

“But … I can’t just leave the party! And these are the only boots that go with this dress!”

“Oh,” Abigail could only say, hardly able to believe what she was about to have to do. “I see.”

Meghan asked, “Do you? Can you see my wobbly heel … from way up there?” Her friends chuckled, turning to Abigail to see what she’d do next.

Knowing she had no choice, Abigail set the tray of mushroom caps on a nearby table and slowly knelt to Meghan’s feet. Megan’s friends chuckled and tittered as Meghan reached over and took hold of that booted foot. She checked the heel, giving it a little shake.

Meghan demanded, “Well?”

“They … they don’t seem wobbly to me, Miss.”

But of course it wasn’t about the wobbly heel; it was about Abigail having to bow to her mistress, to assume that position of contrition, of supplication.

“Oh,” Meghan said, “well, perhaps it’s you who’s the wobbly one!” Her friends broke out laughing and shaking their heads. Abigail could only stand up, take up the tray, and turn to slink away.

In the corner of her eye, Tom Coffey looked down from halfway up the stairs. He’d been on his way to see Mr. Garrett in his study; that was instantly clear to Abigail, just as clear as his stunned sympathy for her unnecessary humiliation and disgrace. Their eyes met, and he turned before making his way up the stairs.

He’s a good man, Abigail told herself, a man very much like the type I’d like to know. But he’s … he’s been tainted somehow, and he seems to know it. Such a man could never love a woman fully … because he does not love himself. At war with himself, at war with the world; how does such a man survive?

Tom knocked on the study door, then he stepped in and closed the door behind himself.

“He’s cheery, int he?” Abigail turned to see another familiar face, rounder and just a bit older than Meghan’s, blonde hair getting brighter as the years went on.

“Miss Susan,” Abigail said.

“Nice to see you, Abigail,” Miss Susan Hawks said with a gentle smile on her round face. “Are you well enough, dear?”

Abigail knew the portent of the question. With a smile and a little curtsy, she answered, “Quite enough, Miss Susan. Thank you.”

“Are you, dear? I mean, what a demonstration.” Miss Susan shook her head. “Disgraceful, really. I’m so sorry for you, dear.”

“Don’t be, Miss Susan, it’s … it’s less burden than others must bear.”

Abigail tried to turn away, but Miss Susan’s hand on her forehead bade that she stop and listen, whatever her true interest. “Surely there must be more to life than that! I mean, you’re young, and very pretty. You could do better, young lady.”

Abigail knew what offer was forthcoming, one she did not want to have to refuse. But she knew she was going to refuse it, no matter what.

“If it’s God’s will, Miss —”

“Ah, but God helps those who help themselves, dear Abigail, you know that. And He loves those who love each other.” After a long, suggestive silence, she went on, “I’d like to help you, if I could.”

“Well, that’s … that’s very kind of you, Miss Susan, but —”

“Oh come now, sweetie, there’s no reason to be so old-fashioned! It’s just hospitality, that’s all. Part of the hotel business, like the restaurant or the bar.” But Abigail knew what kind of hospitality she’d be asked to provide, and how much money she could make doing it.

“No thank you, Miss Susan.” Abigail caught sight of Mrs. Ruthie glaring at her from across the room, for once glad to be feeling the silent sting of her rebuke. “Duty calls,” Abigail said to Miss Susan, “if you’ll excuse me.” Abigail walked away, but she could feel Miss Susan’s eyes upon her as she made her way across the house.

Abigail pushed herself into the crowd. Their faces began to blur together, many of them recognizable, some of them new. But that was the way of the times; strangers coming in and some staying, others moving on, the tide of progress moving inextricably west. Abigail went back to the kitchen, which was hot and steamy, with Pepe hard at work cleaning the dishes. But even that sweltering clamor was a comforting respite from the percolating power plays happening in the main floor of the house.

How can they live like this, Abigail had to wonder, thinking themselves so far above it all when really they are, in many ways, the lowliest of all? Are we all so blind to our own follies, our own sins? Is Mr. Garrett himself any better, or the worst of them all? Even that seemingly good and noble Tom Coffey seems blighted, blemished, smeared by guilt.

Is there anybody who can rise above?

Abigail took a deep breath and prepared to step back out among the Bridgerton area’s richest and most powerful people, just hoping to get through the night.

Bang! Bang!

The two gun shots rang out, and Abigail felt instantly that they’d come from upstairs.

Garrett’s study, Abigail was certain.

She ran out of the kitchen to see the guests standing in the lower level, dumbfounded, all eyes collecting toward the study at the top of the stairs. Nobody seemed willing to go up until Mrs. Ruthie herself assumed the lead. Abigail followed, the two creeping up the stairs as the others watched, men following behind them and women behind the men.

Abigail and Mrs. Ruthie reached the top of the stairs, the old woman reached for the door and knocked lightly. “Mister Garrett? Mister Garrett, sir?”

No answer came back. Missus Ruthie turned to share a worried glance with Abigail, who nodded. Ruthie reached for the doorknob, old fingers wrapping around it and slowly opening the door.

A chill poured through Abigail’s body to see the two men lying on the floor of the study, a widening pool of blood beneath each. Garrett lay collapsed on his fallen desk chair in the corner, Tom Coffey facedown near the door.

Abigail couldn’t help but scream, terror ringing out through the house of the late Doyle Garrett.

Chapter Two

Tobias knew his life would end this way; his father had met the same sad fate only two decades before, and very nearly to the day. The men that came for him had been much like the men who came for Tobias on that day, angry whites with twelve foot of rope and a heavy grudge to bear.

“Please,” Tobias spat out as they tied his arms behind his back, two men holding each arm while the third pulled those cords tight.

“Hold him, Robbie,” Archie Martin said to his younger brother, “don’t let his ass get away.”

“He ain’t goin’ nowhere,” the third Martin brother, Jake, said, following it up with a mean chuckle.

Archie pulled the rope tight and tied it off. “You gotta learn a lesson, boy.”

“I never done nothin’ t’you!”

“That ain’t the lesson,” Archie said as Robbie took another long length of rope, already fixed in a hangman’s noose. He lashed it around Tobias’ neck, his instincts telling him to buck and struggle and run like hell, even though there was nowhere to run.

And he’d be in hell soon enough, at least for a brief and terrible time before making his final journey home … to heaven.

“What you an’ every other uppity coon’s gotta know’s this; we decide how things are here, we decide who stays and who don’t. An’ yer kind … don’t!”

“I’ll go, I’ll go!”

“Too late, son. Somebody gotta hang, be a warnin’. That’s you.”

Heavy clouds drifted in over them, casting a shadow over the four. Jake tossed the hanging rope over the branch of the cedar elm they were standing under, and Tobias threw his last bit of energy into a desperate bid to escape. But once that rope passed over the branch five feet or so above his head, Tobias knew he was dead.

Tobias didn’t beg any further. He knew there was no point, no use. So he braced himself to die with dignity, spending his last moments to reflect on a life that was not bereft of love, not without family and hope and faith and all the things that make a life.

Goodbye, Lois, wherever you is. My sweet Alice, I’ll be wichoo real soon, I reckon.

“All right,” Archie said to his brothers, “grab that rope, let’s get this over with”. The other two each grabbed the length of rope on their side of the branch.

The whites, he thought, where do they get all this hate? Why do they despise us, and the Mexicans, the Indians, even each other? Will they hate everything to death the way they have with me?

They gave him a quick pull, the pressure instant and intense around his neck. His feet pulled up off the ground, legs kicking as the pressure nearly pulled that rope straight into his neck, through his skin and muscles and straight through.

Instead, he dangled, legs kicking from the white-hot agony. His arms stiffened, pulling at the rope that bound his wrists behind his back. He could find no escape, no respite. Every pull of his legs only increased the pressure around his neck, tissues caving in unseen under his purple flesh.

He spun on that rope, able to see where they’d tied off the rope, against a second, lower branch; the men standing pointing and laughing, enjoying his death and their amusement.

Pkew!

The pressure suddenly released Tobias from above, the Earth quick to reclaim him as if to the very grave. Tobias hit the desert ground hard, pain shooting through his legs, back, backside. He rolled to his side, uncertain of what had happened, but grateful for whatever it was.

Archie Martin said, “What the hell?” He and his brothers drew their weapons and aimed, but instead of firing they looked around, confused.

“There he is,” Robbie Martin said before a gunshot burst a red hole in his chest, sending him toppling backward and to the ground.

“Robbie!” Jake turned to aim and shoot, one eye squinting.

Bang, bang-bang!

Jake’s head burst open in a cloud of red mist, his body functioning from sheer instinct before destiny finally claimed him.

Tobias choked and gagged, struggling to clear his throat, to get his heart pumping again, to recover his senses and makes sure he’d go on living, at least for one more day.

He looked up to see a rider circling the tree, moving too fast to identify. He wasn’t a local Apache; Tobias knew that by the markings. And he didn’t look like a bandito to Tobias’ strained eye. That left few choices, one ringing in the back of Tobias’ head.

The law? Can’t be any white law fightin’ fer some black, no way.

But Tobias could only look on as the third Martin brother was struck in the shoulder, dropping his Colt pistol and staggering back, still on his feet as the white man approached. He was tall in the saddle, broad shoulders, his face unafraid, framed by long brown hair and beset with two big brown eyes.

Archie barked, “What in tarnation you doin’?”

But Tobias had already spotted the tin badge on the man’s vest. “My job,” he said, eyes glaring from atop that speckled stallion. “Who’re you … and who were these others?”

“We’re the Martin brothers, you son of a bitch, and we’re bringin’ you right down to hell with us!”

He tipped his hat. “Sorry, but you might get there a ways ‘fore I do. N’that case, you tell ‘em Sheriff Lee Coffey sent ‘cha.”

Sheriff Coffey climbed down off his horse and walked up to the man even as he stooped to pick up his fallen pistol. The sheriff threw a hard right cross right into Archie’s face, sending him flying back. Sheriff Coffey strode casually forward, toward his floored adversary. He kicked the gun out of the way and glanced at Tobias.

“You all right?”

“Yes, suh.”

“Can you get up?”

Tobias nodded. “I’ll try, Sheriff.” Tobias leaned forward and to the side to get to his feet. From there, climbing to his feet was easy. Believing that he was still alive was something else again.

“You traitor,” the stricken Archie shouted at the sheriff. “You go against your own kind? Yer the worst kinda devil!”

“The law’s the law,” the sheriff said. “A lot of good men on both sides fought and died in a war to say that this is the law.” After a long, deliberate pause, Sheriff Coffey said, “I uphold it … and I agree with it.”

“Then yer a traitor, like I said! An’ a murderer too!”

“Neither one,” the sheriff said, walking around to cut Tobias’ hands free. Blood was slow to return to his swollen hands, fingers immobile. “You’re coming back to Skylark to stand trial.”

“Fer what? I’m the one dyin’! That thang’s the one oughta stand trial!”

“Attempted murder,” the sheriff said, turning to Tobias. “You’ll testify?”

Tobias stood there, his neck spared and his hands freed by that white sheriff. But it wouldn’t come without a price. Ain’t nothin’ ever do, Tobias had to remind himself. And it was all too easy to imagine himself yet meeting the fate he’d escaped that day. To stand as a witness against a white man in a murder trial would be to invite murder from almost every white man in Texas. But he also knew that he didn’t have a choice; that he didn’t deserve the life he’d been given once again if he didn’t do the right thing and put back on the line.

Tobias swallowed hard. “Yes, suh,” he forced out, “I’ll do whatever you wants me to, suh.”

“Just tell the truth,” the sheriff said. He pulled out a knife and handed it to Tobias.

Archie said, “No, don’t let him cut me!”

Lee sneered at Archie, then turned to Tobias. “Cut the snakebite, suck the venom out, best you can. We’ll get you to the doc soon as we get back.” Turning his attention back to the stricken Archie Martin, Lee said. “Let’s go for a ride.”

Chapter Three

Sheriff Lee Coffey didn’t have much regret about trussing up Archie Martin and securing his bound wrists to the horn of his own saddle. The man winced and grunted and bled a bit more, and there were chances that he wasn’t going to survive the ride back to Skylark. He certainly didn’t harbor any rue about laying the two dead men over the saddle of one horse and tying it behind Archie’s, nor giving the other horse to poor Tobias, who didn’t even seem to have a last name.

Well, Lee thought, at least he’s got his life, and his dignity, and a horse. Much weaker men have done a lot more with considerably less.

Lee led the small group back to Skylark slower than he’d come out, on word that there was trouble on the outskirts of town. The black cherry and Texas ash drifted by slowly, their prisoner becoming weaker in his saddle. Gray clouds loomed behind them, slowly approaching.

“You know the townsfolk ain’t gonna stand fer it,” Archie said, head lolling on his shoulders, a mean little chuckle rattling out of his mouth. “One o’them, talkin’ ‘gainst a white man … in a court o’ law? You’ll have a riot on yer hands, Sheriff. They’ll string you up an’ give me the badge.”

“Then you’ll know what it’s like,” Lee said, disinterested in the conversation. “But anybody who disrupts the peace or breaks the law will have to stand for it; whoever it is, whatever they do or for whatever reason.”

“Yeah, we’ll see …”

They rode on, Lee glancing at Tobias, who seemed to be recovering his strength with every mile. “What’s your name, friend?”

“Friend,” Archie repeated in a disgusted tone, chuckling and shaking his head.

“One more word outta you and you take the rest of the trip bent over that beast facedown, we’ll see how you talkative you are then … with your little funnies.”

A stiff silence followed before Tobias said, “Name’s Tobias, suh. And I’s mighty grateful fer what yuh done f’me, suh.”

“Call me Sheriff, but you can think of me as Lee.”

Tobias nodded and his posture seemed to straighten even more, shoulders back, pride visibly returning to his beleaguered air.

“How’d you come across these prairie dogs, Tobias?”

Tobias glanced at Archie, then back at Lee. “I was jus’ comin’ into town fer a doctor, Sheriff suh. I live out on the Brazos, got bit by a rattler bad, suh.” It was only then that Lee noticed that the man’s left leg was badly swollen and discolored purple. “I’s in some considerable pain, sho’ ‘nuff.”

Lee nodded. “All right, well, well got a good doc back in Skylark, Doc Johnson, he’ll see t’ya.”

“I sho’ is obliged, Sheriff.”

“You got no family, out on the Brazos?” Tobias shook his head, then dipped it forward a bit, as if in shame. Lee could tell that there were years of sorrow and loss behind the answer, their weight bearing down on the man, nearly enough to crush him if he didn’t get some help. “All right,” Lee said, “well, we’ll get you seen to, don’t you worry ‘bout that.”

After another tense pause, Tobias asked, “An’ you, suh? If’n I may ask?”

Lee cracked a little smile, glad to share the information with both men. “Used to Deputy Marshall back in Dodge City, wound up here in Skylark as sheriff. Wife killed by Apache a few years back, no kids.”

“Oh, I’s right sorry to hear’d that, Sheriff.”

“Oh,” Archie Martin repeated, “I’s right sorry to hear’d that, suh! What a couple of dandies!”

Lee said, “Watch it, Martin.”

“Y’all reckon y’know what it’s like? Me an’ my brothers grow’d up in the Black Hills, up near Deadwood. Lived out in the woods, lived as road agents soon as we could manage. We was somethin’, boy!”

“Sure was,” Tobias said, voice low and growly.

“You shut cher mouth, darkie!”

Lee snapped, “You shut your mouth, Martin, or I’ll leave you for the buzzards!”

They rode on in silence, finally finding the road into Skylark. The farms and ranches on the outskirts of town passed slowly, the more tightly compressed buildings of town coming into clear view as they rode in.

Some of the pedestrians and even horsemen and carriage drivers looked askance at their white sheriff, revered, ride in with a bound and bleeding white man and a black man, unbound, riding next to him. But nobody in Skylark would take umbrage against Lee. He’d been with them for years and had earned their respect, their admiration, their gratitude. They wouldn’t question him, at least not directly.

Lee rode up to the sheriff’s office, which was also the jailhouse in town. He untied Archie from the saddle horn and pulled him down from his horse, wincing in pain from his still-open wounds. He said to Tobias, “Doc Johnson’s at the end of the street, little white house. Bring him, would you?”

“Yes, suh, Sheriff, right away, suh.” Tobias scuttled off and Lee shoved his wounded prisoner into the office, locking the door behind him.

Deputy Hal Walden jumped up from behind the desk he shared with the sheriff, quick to recover an alert posture. “Sheriff! You all right?”

“Cell, Deputy.”

“Right, Sheriff!” Deputy Walden scrambled to take the keys from the nail in the wall and open the cell.

“I need the doc,” Archie said.

“You’ll get him,” Lee said. “And I’ll be here in the cell while he examines you … with a gun to your head.”

Lee stepped out and slammed the door closed, stepping away to confer with his young, eager apprentice.

“Rumors turned out right, Sheriff?”

“Sure did, Hal, good work. Everything quiet while I was gone?”

“No problems, Sheriff. I told you, I can handle it.”

“I know, Hal, I know.” With a glance at their new prisoner, Lee knew he had to admit, “I hope that’s enough.”

A cluster of knocks fell on the door before the door pulled open and young Willie Beans, as he was known, stepped in with a small piece of paper in his hand. “Somethin’ from the wire, Sheriff.”

Lee pulled out a dollar coin and handed it to the small boy, who was deformed at the leg since birth but shining with ready courage despite his disability. They traded the paper for the coin with the added grace note of a tipped hat and an enthusiastic farewell from the erstwhile messenger boy.

Lee unfolded the paper and read it, his blood going cold to follow the words as they crawled across the page.

Dear Sheriff Lee Coffey:

With my professional respect and personal admiration, I am bereaved to have to deliver the sorrowful news that your brother, Timothy Coffey, has died. The circumstances are complicated, and the body awaits your arrival or instructions for delivery to your preferred place of rest. I hope to see you personally on the matter should you choose to come her to Bridgerton, roughly forty miles northwest of Waco, off the Brazos River.

With my condolences for your loss,

Sheriff Silas Lawrence, Bridgerton, Texas.

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“A Perilous Mission for Justice” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Sheriff Lee Coffey of Skylark travels from Texas to nearby Bridgerton to claim his estranged brother’s body, who has been murdered under mysterious circumstances. Unlike the local authorities stating that this murder is a straightforward case, Lee knows that there’s more to the story. Without blinking an eye, he decides to investigate his brother’s death, putting at risk his career, dignity, and even his own life. Be that as it may, the only thing that he wants is to find the truth, and serve justice no matter the price. Will Lee manage to solve a labyrinth that threatens to lead him straight to his grave?

The Sheriff’s mission involves the most powerful people in the region and includes desperate ranchers, dubious investors, star-crossed love affairs, and betrayals of every sort. Luckily for him, he meets the kind chambermaid Abigail Adler, who helps him shed light on the mystery of his brother’s death. Will the Sheriff set things right and find the key to a heinous crime? Will his love with Abigail flourish despite the challenging circumstances?

The stakes are life and death, and nobody can guess who the guilty party is. When Lee thinks that he nearly found the killer, a new revelation will turn his investigation upside down, leaving him unable to trust anyone. In a spirit of dishonesty and greed, will the Sheriff manage to honor his dead brother by finding the answer to the mystery?

A story of explosive action and riveting drama that will leave the reader on the edge of their seats. A must-read for fans of Western action, with a touch of romance.

“A Perilous Mission for Justice” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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