An Outlaw in Wonderland Read online

  Praise for Beauty and the Bounty Hunter

  “Austin’s finely drawn characters and riveting tension will knock you out of your boots! Her books are like the smoothest whiskey—they go down easy but pack a punch. Everyone is sure to fall in love with the fiery Cat and the wily Alexi.”

  —Sabrina Jeffries, New York Times bestselling author of ’Twas the Night After Christmas

  “Riveting, poignant, and unforgettable, Beauty and the Bounty Hunter by Lori Austin is a page-turner that reminded me why I love Westerns. I adored the unique characters and the depth of their story lines. Lori Austin is a brilliant and talented storyteller who doesn’t disappoint.”

  —Lorraine Heath, author of She Tempts the Duke

  “Refreshingly different, Beauty and the Bounty Hunter leaps off the page. You’ll fall in love with the characters and the American West.”

  —Susan Mallery, author of Summer Days

  “Lori Austin knows how to build tension and keep the pages turning. With this action-packed tale of revenge and redemption, the reader is in for a wild ride.”

  —Kaki Warner, author of Bride of the High Country

  “From the first page, this book takes off like a horse tearing across the prairie—hang on and enjoy the ride!”

  —Claudia Dain, author of the Courtesan Chronicles

  The Once Upon a Time in the West Series by Lori Austin

  Beauty and the Bounty Hunter An Outlaw in Wonderland

  AN OUTLAW IN WONDERLAND

  ONCE UPON A TIME IN THE WEST

  LORI AUSTIN

  A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK

  SIGNET ECLIPSE

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,

  New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group visit penguin.com.

  First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library, a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  Copyright © Lori Handeland, 2013

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  ISBN 978-1-101-60898-2

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Acknowledgments

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  PART II

  CHAPTER 10

  CHAPTER 11

  CHAPTER 12

  CHAPTER 13

  CHAPTER 14

  CHAPTER 15

  CHAPTER 16

  CHAPTER 17

  CHAPTER 18

  CHAPTER 19

  CHAPTER 20

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  CHAPTER 32

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thanks to the usual suspects: Robin Rue, Beth Miller, Claire Zion, Jhanteigh Kupihea, Kim Miller, Nancy Berland, Kim Castillo. Everything would be so much harder without you.

  PART I

  CHAPTER 1

  Gettysburg, 1863

  Dammit.” Ethan Walsh turned away from the bloody wreck that had so recently been an infantryman of the 69th Pennsylvania. “I didn’t become a doctor to watch people die.”

  He lifted a hand to rub at his burning eyes, saw the blood dripping off his fingers, and lowered it again.

  “Why did you become a doctor?”

  Ethan was so tired and his ears were so abused from the rattle of artillery that had ebbed and flowed near Taneytown Road for hours upon days upon nights that he didn’t respond. He wasn’t sure if the question was real or imagined. Right then he wasn’t certain if he was awake or asleep, alive or dead.

  “Sir?”

  Ethan lifted his gaze to the speaker. They were the only living, breathing, moving bodies in the makeshift Union hospital that had been set up at the Patterson Farm. Until now, the place had been full unto bursting. Their commander, Justin Dwinnell, estimated five hundred wounded soldiers had passed beneath the broad branches of the orchard and through the stone barn the first night.

  How many had come wasn’t as important as how many had left alive. Ethan didn’t think it was anything close to the number he’d hoped.

  “Who are you?” Ethan demanded. “And—” The chill deepened. “Where is everyone?”

  Had a shell landed on the barn? Was he dead? His visitor certainly appeared to be.

  The man was gray, and Ethan didn’t mean Confederate, although it was impossible to distinguish the affiliation of the ash-covered uniform. The man had no hat. Perhaps he’d lost it crossing the River Styx.

  Ethan coughed to cover the unseemly chuckle that threatened to escape. Of late, he’d found himself inordinately amused at situations that were far from amusing. Which was only fair, considering he also often fought tears that rose for no reason at all.

  “You are Ethan Walsh?” The man shook his head, and particles of Lord knew what sprinkled the blood-dampened ground. His hair might be blond, or light brown when washed, but really, what did it matter?

  “And who might be askin’?” Ethan fell back on his father’s brogue, something he often did when overtired or just plain sad.

  The fellow’s smile cracked the dried paste of dirt and blood on his cheeks. He was younger than Ethan had first thought—perhaps closer to thirty than forty. “If you take a seat, I’ll explain.”

  Frustrated, annoyed, and so damn tired, Ethan kicked over the nearest empty bucket, sat, and spread one bloody hand in a mocking “after you” gesture.

  The man, unperturbed by the mockery or the blood, dipped his head. “At present my name is John Law.”

  At present? What did that mean? Ethan’s confusion must have shown, for “John” continued.

  “Last week I answered to Jonas Height. A month ago, Jacob Black.” He winked. “I like my first name to begin with a J. I’m not sure why. I work for the government. The Union government,” he clarified, smoothing his palms over a uniform that bore no distinguishing marks. “Though when traveling across battlefields, it’s best not to be too specific.”

  Tired as he was, Ethan had a flicker of understanding. “You’re a spy.”

  John winced. “Nasty word. Apt to get a man hung.”

  It had, in fact, done just that a year past. Despite an unwritten agreement to exchange spies and not execute them, the Confederates had hung Timothy Webster in Richmond for his sins.

  “I work for the Intelligence Service,” Law cont
inued.

  “Never heard of it.”

  The smile reappeared. “Considering our occupation, gathering intelligence, that’s good news.”

  Ethan’s gaze was drawn to the dead boy on his table. “If intelligence could be gathered, there’d be a lot less stupidity in the world.”

  “Clever,” John Law murmured. “That will help.”

  “Help with what?”

  “We have a proposition. One we think will be instrumental in ending the conflict with less bloodshed.”

  “That ship has already sailed.”

  “This war could last a good while yet.”

  Ethan’s attention moved from the dead body to the live one. “How long?”

  “No one believed it would last this long.”

  Both the North and the South had rallied around the idea that the war would be over in weeks, certainly within months. No one could have ever been more wrong.

  The North had the men, the munitions, the money. The South had Robert E. Lee and a cause. When Stonewall Jackson sent the larger Union force scurrying back to Washington after the first battle at Bull Run, the Yankees realized they were in for a fight and called for five hundred thousand additional troops. The Rebs realized they’d crossed a line they couldn’t uncross and called for more troops as well.

  That had been two years ago, and despite the apparent Union triumph in Gettysburg, Ethan didn’t think a complete victory was imminent. The South had only just begun to fall. They weren’t going to surrender until there weren’t enough folks left to hold one another up.

  “The Union lost Bull Run because of a spy,” John continued. “First Manassas is what they call it.”

  Us. Them. North. South. Friend. Enemy. Ethan hated it all.

  Shouts from the orchard caused Law to cut short his tale. “I’ll get to my point. If we had someone at the center of the Confederacy, providing us with intelligence, we could put an end to . . .” He swept out his arm. “This.”

  “When you say the center—”

  “Richmond.”

  Where Webster had died.

  “When you say someone—”

  Law’s mouth curved. “I mean you.”

  “I can’t just dance into their capital and start stealing secrets.” While some days Ethan thought he’d have to die just to get some rest, he’d prefer not to do so at the end of a rope.

  “Stealing is such an unpleasant word.”

  “Yet it fits so well with spying.”

  “Two different things. Stealing is taking what doesn’t belong to you. Spying is merely listening, a little following, perhaps some light reading.”

  Still sounded like stealing to Ethan.

  “Wouldn’t you like to leave all this behind?” Law asked.

  On any other day, Ethan might have said no. But today . . . His gaze returned to the dead soldier. Today was different. More shouts from the orchard made him realize the truth.

  “I’m a doctor.” He’d never wanted to be anything else.

  Despite his mother having died in childbed bearing his brother, Ethan had still looked upon medicine as a kind of magic. He’d been fascinated with the potions and lotions, the shiny implements, even the blood. He’d followed Dr. Brookstone, the local physician, until, in exasperation, the man had snapped, “If you’re going to be underfoot, you might as well make yourself useful.”

  So Ethan had fetched water, scrubbed floors and tables, mucked stables until he was old enough to become an apprentice. His brother had then taken over Ethan’s duties, and instead of scrubbing dirt from beneath his nails each night, Ethan had scrubbed blood.

  He had never felt such a sense of rightness, of completion, than when he healed someone. Which might be why he felt so wrong, so incomplete now. Ethan hadn’t healed anyone in a very long time. Still . . .

  “If I leave, people will die.”

  “They’ll die anyway.” Ethan winced. Law saw the opening and took it. “You’d continue to be a doctor. At one of the largest hospitals in the country.” He shrugged one shoulder. “Just not this country.”

  Ethan added large hospital to Richmond and got—“Chimborazo.” The other man smiled at the interest Ethan couldn’t keep from his voice.

  Chimborazo was indeed the largest hospital of its kind. Located near the convergence of five railroads, most of the Confederacy’s wounded that survived field surgery were sent there for further treatment and recovery.

  “The South might have wooed the best of West Point,” Law continued, “but the North came out ahead on the doctors.”

  Ethan wasn’t certain if that was meant to be flattery or merely a simple statement of fact. The North had bigger cities, larger universities, more money; it only followed that they’d have more physicians.

  “I don’t see what their lack of medical staff has to do with me.”

  “You said if you leave, people die. If you go, people would live. Do you really care if they wear the gray or the blue?”

  Ethan couldn’t and call himself a doctor.

  “They need you there more than we need you here. We need you there more than we need you here. If you want to save lives, join the Intelligence Service. You’ll be doing a damn sight more toward that end than you’ve been doing thus far.”

  And because he was tired, and sad, because his last patient had died despite everything he’d done, and because John Law had begun to make sense, Ethan sighed and said, “What do you want me to do?”

  Law grinned. “I’ll speak to your superior; we can leave straightaway.”

  “No.” Law’s smiled faded. “I can’t leave in the middle of a battle. When this . . .” Ethan waved his hand; at least the blood had dried, and he didn’t spray any of it about. “When this is done, I’ll go with you. But not before.”

  “This is done.” Law’s gaze turned to the darkness outside the doorway. “The Rebs just don’t know it yet.”

  “Nevertheless—”

  “All right. While you finish trying to save the unsavable, I’ll find a go-between.”

  “Not everyone is unsavable,” Ethan muttered, though from the pile of bodies outside, he would have a hard time defending that statement. “What do you have to find?”

  “Someone who can bring information from you without getting themselves caught or killed in the process.”

  “I know just the person.”

  Law lifted a filthy hand. “No offense, sir, but I’ll recruit my own men.”

  Obviously accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed, he left.

  “No offense, sir,” Ethan murmured, “but there’s only one man I trust.” Ethan kept his gaze on Law until, between one blink and the next, he disappeared. “And you aren’t him.”

  • • •

  Michael Walsh rode south in the wake of his brother.

  From the moment Mikey could walk, he’d followed Ethan. He hadn’t had much else to do. Their mother had gone to God; their father was a blacksmith, and the forge was no place for children. So Ethan and Mikey had spent all of their time together.

  Ethan had gotten sick of his little brother being underfoot all the time. What big brother wouldn’t? But he wasn’t mean. He’d never thrown rocks or shouted. Instead he’d hidden and then snuck away. Which was how Mikey had learned to find him.

  In truth, he’d always had a talent for it. If Da couldn’t locate a tool or his belt or sometimes his shoes, Mikey would close his eyes, let his mind grow quiet, and the next instant he would go directly to the item, wherever it was. He did the same thing while tracking. Close his eyes, see the area in his mind; then, when he opened his eyes, the broken branch, the half footprint, the drop of blood would be so clear he couldn’t understand why he was the only one who could see it.

  Some folks thought Mikey was spooky. They avoided him, whispered and pointed. Until they needed something, or someone, found.

  He waited until the two men were nearly fifty miles from Gettysburg. He watched them make camp, listened to them talk by the fire. />
  “If you walk into Richmond speaking like a Yankee, you’re going to get hung.”

  “What do you suggest?” Ethan asked.

  “How are you at Southern?”

  “Well, I don’t rightly know, sir. How’s this?”

  His companion winced. “God-awful. That’ll get you hung even quicker.” He tilted his head. “What about Irish?”

  Ethan had often imitated their da’s voice, though never in his hearing. He did so now, and the sound gave Mikey the shivers. It was as though Da were whispering from the grave.

  “And would this be good enough fer ye, me boyo?”

  “Better. Lots of Irish down South. It’ll help you blend in.”

  Mikey remained in the shadows while they fell asleep. When he approached, not even the horses heard him coming. He gathered the weapons and hunkered down to wait.

  Dawn flickered across the stranger’s face. He opened his eyes, blinked, cursed, and reached for the rifle that was no longer there. Neither were his pistols. Mikey might be big, but he wasn’t slow—in body or in mind.

  “What is this?” Confusion darkened the fellow’s gaze to the shade of a thunderstorm at midnight.

  Ethan shoved back his bedroll and sat up. “You need a go-between, Law? I happen to have one.”

  “He’s . . .” The fellow’s mouth tightened, and his head tilted as he contemplated Mikey.

  Mikey had hoped that someone known as an intelligence agent might have more brains than to repeat the same words everyone else said the first time they set eyes on him. However, instead of “huge” or any of its variations—“gigantic,” “gargantuan,” “massive”—the man blurted, “Twelve.”

  Mikey stiffened. “I am not!”

  Law turned to Ethan. “You expect me to use this child as a go-between in sensitive intelligence operations?”

  “Yes,” Ethan said simply.

  “No,” Law returned.

  “Did you hear him come into our camp?” The agent frowned. “Did you feel him take your holster and your rifle?” The frown deepened. “Did the horses snuffle, snort, or whinny? Did you have a single glimmer that we were being followed since Gettysburg?”