Chapter 2

Dallas

Whiskey River, Wyoming

"Hold it right there, mister." A man wearing a black cowboy hat cocked his gun, walking into the Whiskey River Bank with two other men. Three more waited outside, standing guard. The leader pointed his six-shooter at the bank teller. "Give me all your money… now."

"Nobody move!" one of the men with him shouted, pointing his gun at the other men in the bank. "If you try to stop us, you're all dead!"

The other bank teller and a few other men held up their hands. Virgil Williams, a muscular man in a dark brown suit guarding the bank, reached quickly for his gun and killed one of the robbers, but the leader killed him before he could get off another shot.

"If anyone else tries to stop us, you'll be lying there right beside him." He motioned with his gun to Virgil lying dead on the floor but made no effort to check on his man that had been killed.

Dallas King slowly pulled two guns out from under his desk, holding one in each hand, and stood. "Drop your weapons, gentlemen, and I just might let you live."

Both men laughed, along with the other three standing just outside keeping watch.

Dallas shrugged. "Have it your way then." He shot one of the men between the eyes, and the man wearing the black cowboy hat ran out the door, alone.

The three men outside jumped on their horses and rode off, along with the man in the black cowboy hat, carrying a bag filled with money.

"Susan, go get Doc Morgan!" Dallas yelled, running out the door. Susan Mallory was his secretary.

Dallas jumped on a horse and tore out after the riders when Sheriff Daxton Clark and Deputy Colton Hill caught up with him. They whipped out their six shooters and fired, and the gang fired back. Dallas shot one and he fell off his horse. Colton shot another as the sound of horses' hooves pounded against the ground, resonating around them. The last man, wearing the black cowboy hat, got away.

Dallas pulled his horse to a stop and ran over to one of the men lying on the ground. He had taken a bullet in the shoulder and was panting hard. "Who the hell are you, and why did you choose to rob my bank?"

"Go to hell!" The man tried to scoot away, reaching for his gun a few inches from him.

Dallas stepped on his hand, and the man screamed. "I asked you a question." He picked up the man's gun and shoved it into the back of his trousers.

The man snarled. "And I gave you an answer! Go to hell!"

"You first." Dallas stepped on the wound on his shoulder, and he screamed in agony.

"My brothers are going to come after you for this!"

Dallas kept his foot on the man's shoulder and leaned in when Daxton and Colton rode up. "Did you get ‘em?"

Sheriff Clark shook his head. "One got away. But I'll go over the Wanted posters to see if I can find him."

Dallas stepped harder on the man's shoulder as he screamed in pain. "I have a better idea."

The sheriff tapped Dallas on the stomach twice with the back of his hand. "Let him up. We'll find out what we need to know when we get him to the jail." He pulled the criminal to his feet. "Okay, buddy. Time to go."

"When my brothers hear about this, they'll shoot you down!" he yelled as Daxton tied his hands and shoved him across the saddle. "Oh, come on! At least let me sit in the saddle!"

Colton laughed. "For what? To let you ride off and warn your ‘brothers'?"

"You just wait!" He squirmed, trying to free his hands behind his back. "Mark my words! My brothers will come for you, and they'll kill everyone in this town!"

"And we'll be waiting." Dallas punched him in the jaw, knocking him out, and then straightened his gray morning coat. "I was getting sick of hearing him anyway."

Sheriff Clark's eyes opened wide. "Good for you!"

Colton smirked. "I didn't know you had it in you."

Dallas's head snapped up, frowning as he slid onto his horse and took the reins. "Just because I own a bank doesn't mean I can't handle my own affairs."

Colton suppressed a smile.

Dallas shook his head, knowing why Colton had smiled at the mention of affairs. Colton had fallen in love with Dallas's former fiancée, Ella Raines, when she had come to town as Dallas's mail-order bride. But now she and Colton were happily married with twins.

But Dallas had no hard feelings toward either of them. After all, everything had seemed to work out, except that he still didn't have a wife. And in society, important men always had lovely wives.

"Well, I'll leave you to it, then." Dallas mounted his horse. "I need to get back to the bank and check on everyone."

Sheriff Clark mounted his horse, and so did Colton. "I'll come by later to check on things."

Dallas nodded. "Thanks, sheriff."

Colton arched an eyebrow, his expression serious. "How many were killed?"

Dallas let out a deep breath as they all headed back toward town. "Three. Two were criminals and the other was one of my men."

Sheriff Clark nodded sympathetically as Colton turned somber, listening. "Who?"

Dallas sighed. "Virgil."

"What about Butch, Milo, and Jake?"

"They're still standing, so they're fine."

"And the tellers?"

Dallas laughed without humor. "Probably scared out of their wits, but I'm sure they're okay. I think they were hiding behind the counter."

Sheriff Clark grinned.

Yes, Russell Reyna and Alonzo Slater were good tellers, but they weren't fighters. Dallas smiled, remembering the look on Russell's face when the outlaw pulled the gun on him. His blood boiled at the thought.

On the way back to the bank they picked up the other criminal, who had been shot in the leg. He took one look at his brother, lying limply across the horse, and yelled, "Brock! What have you done to him? You killed him! You killed my brother!"

Dallas slapped him hard across the face with the back of his hand. "No, he's alive, you idiot. He just has a glass jaw."

"And if you don't shut up, you're going to join him." Colton bound his wrists and pulled him to his feet.

"Hey! Watch it!" the man yelled.

"And what are you going to do about it?" Colton asked, amused.

"My brothers will—"

"Yeah, yeah." Sheriff Clark helped Colton throw him over the back of the horse with his brother. "We know. Your brothers are coming for us. They're going to kill us all. Blah, blah, blah."

The man looked at him, his eyebrows pulled together, confused. "Yes," he agreed, and then recovered himself. "They'll be here in three days' time."

"Shut up, Gentry," Brock ordered groggily, coming to. "You always did have a big mouth."

"Shut up before I kill you both!" Dallas mounted his horse. But this time, he waited for Sheriff Clark and Colton.

Colton chuckled, enjoying their discomfort a bit too much.

When they got back to the sheriff's office, Colton helped Daxton throw Gentry and Brock into separate cells.

"Aren't you going to take us to the doctor?"

The sheriff laughed. "You aren't going anywhere. We'll bring the doctor to you." He stepped close to the bars, a smile lighting his lips. "When he's finished disposing of your two brothers."

Gentry grabbed the bars and the sheriff backed away. He looked over and his eyes fell on Dallas. "You there! You're the one who killed my brothers!"

Dallas shrugged. "Well, that's what happens when you rob a bank… my bank."

Gentry's face screwed up as it turned red, gripping the bars of the jail cell so tightly that his knuckles turned white. "When my brothers hear of this, they'll come after you!"

Dallas lifted his chin. "Let them come."

"I'm going to kill you, banker!" Gentry yelled, shaking the immovable cell bars. "You're a dead man! Do you hear me, banker? They'll come after you!"

Dallas ignored the outlaw, nodding his thanks to the sheriff as he walked out. Gentry's voice became muted as the door swung tightly closed behind him.

The following Monday, the U.S. Marshall came from Laramie to take away the two men who robbed Dallas's bank. Dallas wanted to be there when he came. He figured that the sheriff and Colton would need all the help they could get.

"My brothers will come for you!" Brock yelled, pointing his finger at Dallas, as the sheriff and Colton pulled the two men out of the jail, kicking and screaming the whole time.

"Yeah, yeah," the U.S. Marshall mumbled, shoving the outlaws into the back of a tumbleweed wagon—a prison cell on wheels—flanked by several armed guards and a driver. "Tell it to the judge." Once inside, he chained the prisoners to the floor to prevent escape.

"Yeah, mark his words… er… my words! Our cousins will come for you!" Gentry didn't seem as bright as his brother, and that was saying something.

"You can't do this to us!" Brock yelled, grabbing the bars of the tumbleweed wagon, pressing his face against them, snarling like a caged animal.

"The hell we can't." The U.S. Marshall walked over to Daxton and offered him his hand. "Sheriff Clark, thank you for the apprehension of these men. We've been looking for ‘em for a while."

"You know them?" Sheriff Clark shook his hand as Colton and Dallas looked on.

The U.S. Marshall nodded. "They're part of the Yates Gang." He looked around at the surrounding country. "A friendly word of warning: Watch your back. These men don't work alone." He let out a deep breath as he took off his hat.

"How many?" Daxton asked.

The marshal ran his fingers through his hair and then put his hat back on. "Not sure, but quite a few. There've been a lot of robberies in these parts attributed to them." He mounted his horse, preparing to leave as the men who were with them did the same.

"You need any help?" Daxton adjusted his hat. "I can ride with you while Colton stays here to watch the town."

The U.S. Marshal shook his head. "No, we'll be fine." A sly grin spread across his lips. "And I'm not alone. I have plenty of help."

The four other men with him chuckled.

"Fair enough." Daxton shook his hand. "Thanks for taking these two off my hands. They were so loud they were giving me a headache."

The marshal laughed. "Glad to do it."

"Be careful on the way back, marshal." Dallas shook his hand.

"Will do." Then the U.S. Marshal turned to his men. "Let's go!"

"I'll get you, banker! Mark my words!" Brock yelled through the steel bars.

Gentry chimed in, too. "Yeah, we'll get you!"

"Shut up, Gentry!"

"No, you shut up!"

The two took turns yelling and arguing as the wagon pulled away.

"I don't envy the marshal." Colton chuckled, shaking his head as he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers. "He has his hands full."

"They all do." Dallas laughed.

Later that night, Dallas sat by the fire in the parlor of his ranch house, enjoying a brandy and a cigar after dinner, rocking back and forth in a rocking chair. He took a puff and blew out a smoke ring as the sweet cigar scent filled the air.

"Would ye be needin' anything else before I go?" Mrs. Daly asked as she slid her reticule onto her wrist and adjusted her cloak. She had been working for Dallas King since he came to Whiskey River. "I'll be retirin' here momentarily."

Dallas smiled. "No, thank you, Mrs. Daly. I can manage."

She nodded. "Very well, then. I'll be here bright and early in the morn', sir. Don't ye fret." Mrs. Daly and her husband had moved to Whiskey River from Ireland when they were newly married. When Dallas moved to Whiskey River, he needed a housekeeper, and she fit the bill. Dallas had also hired Mr. Daly to help with the horses. Come to find out, he was a good horseman. Dallas had set up a private cabin for the two of them a good ways away from the bunkhouse for privacy.

Over the years, Dallas had come to depend upon Mrs. Daly. She did his laundry, cooked his meals, and cleaned the house. But what he lacked was companionship.

Dallas swirled the brandy around in the glass before taking another sip, letting the alcohol warm him. He ticked off the names of the women of marrying age in Whiskey River but none of them interested him. That was why he had contacted Madame Samantha Chase, Matchmaker, and had taken out another advertisement for a mail-order bride. He just hoped that he had made the right decision… and that it worked out better this time than last.

His mind went to his failed foray in the mail-order-bride business a few years before. Ella Raines—now Ella Hill—had been his mail-order bride, but she had fallen in love with her escort, Colton Hill, on the way. But when Dallas made arrangements with Madame Chase this time, he'd made sure to tell her not to send an escort with his betrothed.

He took another sip of his brandy, swirling the caramel-colored liquid. It reminded him of his father, a drunkard whose entertainment was beating his wife and children when he was drunk. When he was sober, he was the nicest, most caring and charismatic man in the world. But when he drank, it was another story; he became another man entirely.

Luckily, alcohol had never affected Dallas that way; it just soothed and relaxed him. But he was also sure to drink in moderation. However, he had to work to control his temper which he inherited from his father. It was an aspect of his character that he was working on.

Dallas guessed that he inherited his sense of perfectionism from his father, as well. Not that his father had been a perfectionist. Oh, heavens no! But over the years, Dallas had worked hard to achieve perfection in an effort to break the bonds of his past.

When he was growing up, Dallas felt he always had to be perfect. If he had been, then he wouldn't have received the beatings. Looking back, it seemed that Dallas had always done something to set him off, triggering the beatings. But of course, the beatings always happened when his father was drunk. And the more his father beat him, the more perfect Dallas tried to be. After all, his father was beating him because of his imperfections, wasn't he? Dallas found that the less mistakes he made, the less attention he attracted from his father when he was drunk, then the less beatings he received.

As a child, Dallas wondered why his father beat him. He had come to this conclusion early in his life: Because of his imperfection, he was unlovable. After all, if his mother had loved him, she would have stopped the beatings. Wouldn't she? And if his father had loved him, why would he beat him? Being unlovable was the only conclusion he could manage.

Dallas had also grown up poor and remembered walking for what seemed like miles—sometimes in snow and rain—to get an education in a one-room schoolhouse in Minnesota. His own father, John King, had been educated at home by his mother and had never received a formal education.

John's father, Wesley King, would expect him to work in the fields during harvest time, and school was pushed to the wayside. Wesley had never gone to school and believed that an education was a waste of a man's time, preventing him from learning the meaning of a hard day's work. Every hand was needed at harvest time, no matter how small. The survival of the family became much more important than an education.

As a result, Dallas's parents had struggled to support him as a child and money was scarce. Christmases often consisted of fruit, a few pieces of store-bought candy, and the treats that his mother made for him.

Learning from his childhood, Dallas had been determined to break the cycle of poverty. Although John scoffed at his getting an education in his youth, he never stopped Dallas from going to school. And the more he learned, the more he craved. And Dallas soon found he had a nose for business.

John taught Dallas how to farm so he would always have a trade to support himself. But Dallas was eager to make a break from his life and was determined to make something more of himself. Dallas's teacher, Mrs. Menton, had taken a liking to him and had helped him to apply to a university. As a result, Dallas left home for the University of Chicago in May 1861 at the age of seventeen. His teacher had graduated from the same university. Stories she had told the class about her time there had captured his fantasies and hope for a different life.

When his teacher asked him if he would have rather applied to a local university, Dallas balked, telling her that he wanted to start a new life. Miss Menton had cautioned him not to forget where he came from, but it didn't matter to Dallas.

In college, Dallas's grades were so good that he received a scholarship, but he had to work in the cafeteria and took odd jobs tutoring other students to make enough money to stay. That was when he met Charles Whitfield.

He and Charles became fast friends when three students had cornered Charles in a dark alley. Dallas was on his way to the dorm from the library after a long night of studying. When he saw what was happening, he stood by Charles's side. Together, they took on the three other students. When they were finished, no other student bothered Charles again.

Dallas eventually learned that Charles came from a very well-to-do family in New York, the Whitfields. They were as wealthy as the Astors and Rockefellers, maybe wealthier. Charles could have gone to any university in New York but had decided to attend the University of Chicago to get away from the influence of his family's name and achieve success on his own.

Charles reminded Dallas a lot of himself, and the fact that Charles came from money had never mattered to Dallas. Over the years, Charles and Dallas had remained friends through thick and thin.

In an effort to repay Dallas and to help him get started, Charles set Dallas up in business as manager of the bank in Whiskey River. Dallas had balked at first, telling Charles that he didn't have to do this because they were friends. Charles had insisted that it was because Dallas was so good in business, but deep down, Dallas knew better. In truth, Dallas was one of the few people that Charles could trust.

Over the next few years, Dallas had saved and persuaded Charles to sell him the bank. Charles gave him a loan and soon Dallas had paid back every penny with interest. Despite their business dealings, he and Charles had remained friends over the years. In fact, Charles was the closest friend that Dallas ever had.

Now, watching the fire, Dallas took a drink of his brandy as thoughts of taking another mail-order bride went through his mind. Would it work this time, or would it end in disaster just as it had the first time? But he guessed that the first endeavor hadn't been a total failure. After all, there were two other lives in the world now because of it, and Ella was happy. And it wasn't as if Dallas had ever loved her. Now, he was happy for her. It was better this way.

He glanced over at the table and noticed a letter that he hadn't seen when he first walked in. Mrs. Daly had probably picked it up for him from the postmaster when she was in town. He stood and strode over to the table. He fingered the edge of the letter as he read the return address label: Madame Samantha Chase, Matchmaker. It had a New York postmark.

"Don't tell me she's found me a bride so soon," Dallas mused aloud, his heart pounding. He picked up the letter and sat back in the rocking chair. Could the woman in this letter be the bride he had been looking for?

Dear Mr. King:

Thank you for your kind request for a mail-order bride. I have good news! Out of all the women who have answered your advertisement, I feel this young lady is the most suitable for you. Her name is Miss Megan Shannon. As per your request, I have included a photograph and added it to your bill, but she has light auburn hair and green eyes. She is lovely and has a great personality. If it is not objectionable to you, she is also from Ireland but is now an American citizen.

Let me know your thoughts. She is willing to travel soon.

Best Regards,

Madame Samantha Chase, Matchmaker

Dallas smiled as he read. Not objectionable? His housekeeper and stable manager were both Irish and it hadn't mattered to him one bit. But in these times, he guessed it had to be said. So many people objected to the Irish coming here and taking the available jobs. He let out a sigh.

When he looked at the photograph, his breath caught. Even in black and white, the woman in the photograph was beautiful. He could imagine what she looked like in real life.

But this time, he planned to marry her right away, not wanting history to repeat itself. He would talk to Reverend Caleb Henley, the town preacher, to see if he could marry them upon her arrival.

Without delay, Dallas sat down at his writing desk and penned a letter to the matchmaker, stating that Miss Shannon was the perfect choice and that he couldn't wait to meet his new bride. He also wrote that she should come as soon as possible, and that he planned to marry her upon her arrival in Whiskey River.

Dallas just hoped he was making the right decision… this time.