Free Liz Ireland by The Outlaw's Bride

most restrictive, small-minded viewpoint, to discourage them from thinking for themselves. Like men. But the thought of turning into Constance O’Hurlihy terrified Emma more than becoming Midday’s pariah.
    “You always were the strangest girl, Emma,” Sara said, holding her head loftily. “But I never thought you’d show such poor judgment.”
    She and Sara had been schoolmates, but right now Emma felt as if she had been reared on another planet from Sara. “Some of the less fortunate around Midday mightnot think it’s poor judgment,” she said sharply. “Those are the people who concern me.”
    “Well!” exclaimed Mrs. Dunston, drawing up in offense. All three women were huddled together, gaping at her like offended peahens.
    “Thank you for the whiskey, Joe.” Emma turned to him. She had to hold herself back from running out the door, but she wasn’t going to give the ladies the satisfaction of seeing how much they ruffled her.
    “I don’t stock that much liquor, you know,” Joe grumbled, looking almost disappointed that she was averting an all-out social war. “Didn’t used to at all till Arvin died and his barroom shut down.”
    “Maybe you should consider stocking more,” Emma advised. “In fact, you could turn this whole place into a very fine saloon. All it needs is velvet curtains, mirrors and pictures of unclad women.”
    She spun on her heel and bit back a smile, leaving the store clutching her bottle close to hide the fact that her hands were shaking. She could practically feel the shocked glares burning into her back as the door slapped closed behind her.
    It was silly, but she felt a rush of pride after the confrontation. All her life she’d been meek and dutiful, devoting her life to studying, and taking care of others, taking care of her father. She’d never done a daring thing in her life, and certainly had never sassed anyone. Now look at her—helping the outcast! Consorting with outlaws! Buying liquor! She was out of control, sliding down an icy slope, free-falling off the mountain of dull Midday respectability.
    Worse yet, she was glad. She’d been avoiding coming to town since her father died; now she wondered why. She was alone, but she wasn’t powerless. She had money, for the time being, and she owned property—and she intendedto use both for the town’s good, even if Midday had to be drawn kicking and screaming into acceptance of her hospital.
    She marched down the street with a grin until she passed a pole and came face-to-face with Johann’s steely glare. Only it wasn’t Johann’s, really. The expression on the man’s face was mean, direct, ruthless, as if the sketch had been drawn of Johann’s evil twin. The prime difference between them was that the man in the picture was clean shaven, with a deep cleft in his chin, and Johann had a dark scraggly beard—she doubted she’d recognize him without it. The picture also contained none of the brooding sadness she’d seen in Johann’s expression, or the teasing brilliance of his eyes when he played cards with her, or the shock and disbelief that had crossed his face when she’d told him that Lang Tupper was wanted for murder.
    It was that last expression that stuck in her mind the most. Because if Johann were really the coldhearted murderer pictured here on this pole, he wouldn’t have blinked an eye at being informed he was wanted for murder. In fact, if Johann were the vicious desperado the authorities were searching for, she had little doubt that she would have been a goner already.
    How, then, to explain Johann’s arrival at her house on the very night the law was searching for him, and his wounds, and his similarity to the Wanted portrait?
    There was a one-hundred-dollar reward on his head, and she would have liked to believe that the lure of that money didn’t tempt her. But it did. She would need money for her hospital. The only thing preventing her from marching right up to Barton Sealy and offering up her