Free The Bride Wore Blue by Mona Hodgson

outside.”
    “You find a gun?”
    Boney shook his head. “Mac’s huntin’ rifle was still under his bed. Hadn’t been fired. Must’ve shot the interloper with the crook’s own gun.”
    Carter looked up at the whittled cross hanging on the wall. Why hadn’t it been enough to protect Mac? His own father? He blinked hard, then returned his attention to Boney. “You notice anything else? Color of the horses? Hats?”
    “The stocky man rode a chestnut and wore a derby. The bent man was on a dapple. Wore a big straw hat. Wanted to go after ’em, but … Turned out I was too late to do Mac any good. And then too late for me and Sal to catch up.”
    “Wouldn’t have done any good for you to get killed too.” Frankly, Carter didn’t know what Cripple Creek would do without the ever-ready miner and his sassy mule.
    “You think maybe this is the same rascals that robbed the train and the banks?”
    “Completely different crimes. And nobody was killed at the banks or on the train.” Carter wasn’t sure if he was trying to convince Boney or himself.
    “Been hearin’ talk of a gang that come over the Rockies.”
    Carter nodded. “The police chief over in Victor and I think that gang could be responsible for the other robberies. The two who did this could be part of a gang or just lazy poachers. Whoever they are, if they have the nerve to stay around here, we’ll find them.”
    He had to. He’d been trained by the best, and now it was time he put his father’s legendary legacy to the test.
    “In the meantime, Mac needs a proper burial.” Boney slapped his hat back on his head. “I’ll go fetch the undertaker.”
    Carter watched the miner’s bowlegged amble to his mule while dread soured his stomach. He had to wire Peter McHenry’s wife and children with the news. First, he and Jon had a killer to track.

V ivian hung her purple suit in the wardrobe. Had it really been just this morning that she’d bid her aunt farewell and taken the train to Victor? She’d had such high hopes, but she’d failed to secure a job with the only fashion designer in the valley. To top it off, she’d encountered Deputy Alwyn—the man she had vowed to avoid.
    Her heart had been so full of adventure and hope on her trip to Victor. On her return to Cripple Creek, two images taunted her: Mrs. Etta Ondersma in a cycling getup, telling Vivian she couldn’t afford to hire her, and a certain deputy tipping his hat her direction and riding away.
    Sighing, Vivian pulled a checkered housedress from the wardrobe. She wiggled into the dress and slid her feet into house slippers. All she wanted to do now was crawl into bed and drift into a numbing sleep, but Miss Hattie was expecting her company at the supper table.
    As she made her way down the stairs and into the kitchen, the lively song playing on the phonograph poked fun at her maudlin disposition. Her robust landlady set a dish on the round table in the corner and looked up at her. Sympathy softened Miss Hattie’s blue-gray eyes. “If your shoulders were any lower, dear, they’d be resting on your bosom.”
    Vivian didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Miss Hattie had her own special way with words.
    “Either you’re sorely missing your aunt, or you didn’t fare well in your visit with Etta.”
    “She didn’t hire me.”
    “That is disappointing news.” Miss Hattie removed her apron and hung it on a hook near the pantry. “I’m sorry that didn’t work out.”
    Vivian carried two cups of steaming tea to the table and seated herself. “Mrs. Ondersma doesn’t have enough business for a second designer or another seamstress.”
    Now Miss Hattie’s shoulders sagged as she set a basket of biscuits on the table and sank into the chair across from Vivian. “The poor woman is recently widowed. A bad case of influenza got him. Quite the adjustment to make.” Miss Hattie’s voice faded for a moment. “I feel bad that I raised your hopes, dear.” She patted Vivian’s