Paths Crossed in Vengeance (Preview)


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“Clay, honey, don’t twitch!” Martha called out as Clay played with his tie’s knot.

“I can’t wait to get back to the farm, Martha. I mean, our week in Wichita will live in my memory forever, but now that we are heading back to Black Rock, Texas, I can’t wait to unload the Hereford bull. He’s going to improve our herd. Folks don’t want tough longhorn meat anymore. They want tender beef like Herefords’ produce.”

“My goodness, there you go talking about your prize bull again. Well, at least I had an entire week without you constantly talking about the farm,” Martha said.

Clay reached over and squeezed his wife’s hand. “Martha, did I tell you today that I love you?”

“No, you did not, Clay Younger! I’ve been waiting all morning for you to tell me!”

Clay leaned over and kissed his new wife on the cheek.

The spinster, traveling alone in the seat across the aisle, made a clicking sound with her tongue.

Martha glanced over at the spinster. “We are on our honeymoon. We are allowed to kiss, thank you!”

“Hmph!” the woman said and looked out the window on her side of the train. “Why are we slowing down?” she asked.

Clay glanced out the window but didn’t see anything. “Maybe something is obstructing the tracks,” he said. “I hope the delay isn’t long, Martha. I am itching to get out of this suit and into my regular work clothes.”

“But, Clay, you look so handsome in a suit jacket!” Martha protested.

“Well, all I can say is I’m the luckiest man alive to have such a beautiful wife!” Clay said as the train came to a standstill.

“Clay, what are those mounted men doing?” Martha said as she stared out the window. “They have bandanas pulled up over their faces.”

Clay’s hand dropped to his side only to feel empty air. He had forgotten that Martha had persuaded him to leave his Army Colt at home. “Don’t worry, Martha. They are probably just after the strongbox in the mail car.”

“Well, they darn sure better not try to take my wedding ring!” Martha said as she looked down at the ring that Clay had given her. The diamond ring had initially belonged to Clay’s great grandmother but had been passed down. Since Clay was an only child, the ring had been left to him with his mother’s passing.

“Maybe you should take it off and put it in your purse,” Clay said.

Martha tried to pull the ring off her finger. “It won’t come off without some soap,” Martha said with a hint of panic in her voice.

“Calm down, baby. They will not notice the ring. Keep your other hand over the ring if any of the bandits walk down the aisle looking for valuables.”

“I’ll do that, honey,” Martha said and leaned her head against Clay’s broad shoulders. A muffled pop sounded somewhere in the near distance. “Pistol shots!” Martha exclaimed as she straightened up in her seat.

“Like I said, they are robbing the mail car. It’s going to be all right. They’ll take the strongbox and hightail it back to their hideout,” Clay said when the door between the passenger car and the mail car suddenly flew open.

Martha let out a gasp when a man holding a pistol stepped into the passenger car.

“It’s all right,” Clay said as he squeezed his wife’s hand. “Relax and do whatever he asks.”

The tall thin man with tufts of black hair sticking out from under his slouch hat pulled a bag from his pocket. He held it out in front of him as he stopped at the first seat, where a man held a carpetbag by its handle with both hands.

“Open the bag!” the gunman ordered.

“It’s just my clothes,” the salesman in a black suit said.

“Show me, I said!” the gunman yelled and struck the salesman alongside the head with the barrel of his pistol. The salesman lost his grip on the carpetbag, and the outlaw pulled it off the man’s lap. The masked man opened the carpetbag and glanced inside. “Pocket watches!” he exclaimed and struck the salesman on the head several times with the barrel of his pistol, causing the man to collapse, unconscious, in the aisle. Before he continued, he stuck the sack he held into the carpetbag.

“Clay,” Martha whimpered, “don’t let him hurt me!” She squeezed her husband’s hand. “Oh, my Lord,” she added quietly as the bandit headed toward them.

“You,” the masked man shouted at the spinster. “Drop your purse in the carpetbag! And be quick about it.”

The frightened woman’s eyes widened as she obeyed and tossed her purse into the carpetbag.

The man shoved the carpetbag toward Martha. “Pretty lady, your purse!” he demanded.

Martha’s hand shook as she dropped her purse into the carpetbag.

“You!” the man yelled at Clay as he leveled his pistol at him. “Empty your pockets!”

Clay hesitated as his face turned red in anger.

The outlaw’s thumb cocked the hammer of his Colt Dragoon. “Maybe you don’t hear so well.”

Clay reached into his pocket, pulled out his money clip, and tossed it in the carpetbag.

“Now, your pocket watch, and don’t tell me you don’t have one! A man wearing a suit always has a pocket watch.”

Clay reached into his vest pocket and pulled out his father’s gold pocket watch. He gritted his teeth in anger as he reached across Martha and placed the pocket watch into the carpetbag.

The bandit started to move on to a middle-aged couple sitting in the seat ahead of Clay and Martha when he stopped suddenly and glanced down at Martha’s hand.

“Holding out on me, are you?” he said as he bent over and stared down at the ring. “My oh my, I ain’t never seen a diamond that big. Take it off!”

“Clay!” Martha yelled as the man grabbed her hand. Martha struck out with her other hand, slapping at the man. Her hand knocked the man’s red bandana down, revealing an ugly, jagged scar running down the left side of his cheek.

“You shouldn’t have done that!” the bandit said as he fired the pistol. The bullet struck Martha in the chest.

Clay lunged for the bandit on instinct, but the outlaw cocked and fired again. Clay felt a searing pain in his left shoulder as he fell forward in the seat. He heard the spinster scream as another shot rang out before everything started to turn fuzzy. More pistol shots registered in the distance, but Clay barely heard them.

“Damn it, you shouldn’t have pulled off my mask!” the bandit yelled.

Clay sensed the outlaw fumbling around Martha, but he couldn’t lift his head and look.

Clay must have blacked out. The next thing he knew, someone was lifting him into a sitting position.

“This one is alive!” a voice called out.

Clay opened his eyes. “Martha,” he muttered weakly.

“Pard, if you mean your lady companion, she’s dead,” a man standing in the aisle said. “You are the only one left in the car alive.”

Tears rolled down Clay’s cheeks as the words sank into his consciousness.

“Martha! Martha!” he wailed mournfully. He reached down to pick up his dead wife’s hand. Feeling a stub instead of one of Martha’s fingers, Clay glanced down. A sob bubbled up his throat. The bandit had cut off her ring finger.

“There, there,” the marshal said in a soothing voice. “We’ll find the man that killed your wife and the other passengers. However, right now, we’ve got to get you to a doctor!”

“The bandit had a jagged scar on his left cheek!” Clay said.

“Anthony James,” the marshal said. “But he doesn’t usually shoot his victims, or rob trains for that matter. I guess he is breaking bad.”

“My wife pulled off his bandana.” Clay managed to say as a deputy walked over to help the marshal lift him out of the seat. “And he had other men riding with him.”

“Anthony panicked, I reckon,” the marshal said. “Well, now he’s going to be on a wanted poster, and bounty hunters are going to hunt for him and his gang,” the marshal said.

“Don’t worry,” the deputy called. “Bounty hunters will catch Anthony, and he’ll hang before the end of the month.”

Chapter One

Clay absently rubbed the scar on his left shoulder as he reloaded his single-action Army Colt. The plank placed across two barrels lay empty, the tin cans scattered on the ground behind the plank. A rare smile visited the broad shoulder, sandy-haired young man’s face as he holstered his Colt.

In the year since Martha’s death, Clay had left the farm mostly unattended. He hadn’t planted any crops in the spring, sold his cows to buy shells and feed his black gelding, Buckaroo, a cross between a morgan and a quarter horse.

Today, he planned on selling his prized Hereford bull. He hated to sell the bull, as it was the last link he had to his dead wife. But, with a sigh, he walked over to the barn to saddle Buckaroo. He had raised the gelding from a foal. He saw Buckaroo as his friend, and as such, he talked to him as he would a person.

“I’ve got to sell Bully,” Clay said as he walked into Buckaroo’s stall and tossed a blanket over his back. “I need the money for feed, shells, and whiskey.”

While Martha had been alive, even before they got married, Clay had seldom taken a drink of whiskey. With Martha gone, he had turned to the bottle to ease his pain and it had helped somewhat. Although his childhood friend, now Sheriff of Black Rock, Bill Haines, had frowned on Clay’s sudden taste for whiskey.

Finished saddling Buckaroo, Clay led the long-legged gelding out of the barn and mounted. Next, he rode over to the corral at the rear of the barn and opened the gate.

“Okay Bully, it’s time for you to find a new home!” Clay said as he rode inside and herded the Hereford bull out the gate.

Clay lived two miles from Black Rock and took it slow with the bull since Bully’s size made a long trip tiring for him. Luckily, the stockyards were at this end of town, as Clay didn’t want to have to herd Bully through the center of Black Rock and let the whole town know that he was down to selling his prized bull.

“Buckaroo, I reckon it won’t be a farm anymore when I sell Bully. It will only leave you and me, pard, and it takes more than a man and his horse to make a farm,” Clay said as he spotted the stockyards up ahead.

Walt Mathews must have spotted Clay driving the bull down the road; he walked out of the barn to meet him. “So, you are finally selling Bully?”

Clay paused to take a deep breath before answering, “Yup, it’s time.”

“What are you going to do with the farm now that it’s down to bare bones?” Walt asked.

“How much are you going to give me for Bully,” Clay asked instead of answering the question.

“Put him in the holding pen and step into the office and we’ll discuss the price,” Walt said.

“Don’t cheat me, Walt,” Clay said. “I ain’t got nothing of value left.”

“Yup, I know, and it’s a shame to see such a nice farm go to pot,” Walt said as he turned to head back inside the barn, while Clay herded the bull into a small holding pen and shut the gate.

Fifteen minutes later, Clay walked out of the barn with one less prized bull but five hundred dollars in his pocket. He didn’t look toward the holding pen. Clay didn’t glance back when he mounted his horse. “It had to be done, Buckaroo,” he muttered as he reined the gelding around and headed up the street.

“Heck, I reckon I better stop and tell Bill I’m heading to the saloon, or else he’ll give me hell for not doing so,” Clay told Buckaroo as he reined him over to the sheriff’s office hitching post.

Clay saw Bill’s chestnut appaloosa mare at the hitching post and knew he would find Bill inside. He walked into the office with Sheriff Haines going through a stack of wanted posters.

“Clay, what brings you to town so early in the morning?” Sheriff Haines asked as he glanced up from a poster he had been studying.

Clay looked at the face of his longtime friend and noted the concern in Bill’s eyes. He knew that it had been hard on Bill to watch him pull into himself after Martha’s death and slowly abandon the farm. However, Clay couldn’t control the thrust for revenge that ate away at him.

“I sold Bully.”

“Dang it, Clay, what are you going to do now! You bought the Hereford bull to build up a nice herd of prime beef.”

The image of Martha sitting next to him on the train flashed through Clay’s mind. Clay shrugged. “I needed the money.” He nodded toward the stack of posters. “Anything new on Anthony James?”

For a moment, it looked like Sheriff Haines wasn’t going to answer. Finally, he sighed. “Yup, the U.S. Marshal Service has increased the bounty to three thousand dollars on Anthony James.”

Clay arched his eyebrows and took a quick step toward the desk. “What did he and his gang do to get the reward that high?”

“He killed two U.S. Marshals while robbing a train in Kansas. Now maybe a bounty hunter will finally bring him to justice.”

Clay felt a moment of panic. He needed to be the one to bring Anthony James to justice, not some bottom-feeding bounty hunter seeking a big payday.

“Where in Kansas?” Clay asked as he tapped his fingers on the handle of his single-action Army Colt. “And how long ago.”

“A week ago, and James and his men are long gone. He never stays in a place after pulling a job. I’m sure he has already left Kansas.”

“Where?” Clay repeated, drumming his fingers harder against the hilt of his Colt.

“Abilene! Are you satisfied?” Sheriff Haines said.

“Bill, I ain’t going to rest until I know that Anthony James is going to hang at the end of a rope.” Clay had never told his friend that he wanted to be the one that caught James, though.

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “Anthony James can’t outrun the law forever! Sooner or later, a Marshal or bounty hunter is going to lay him low.”

“That’s just it, Bill. I don’t want a lawman or bounty hunter to catch James; I want to be the one!”

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “Clay, he’s a very dangerous man. Many professional lawmen and bounty hunters have squared off against Anthony James and are now resting in the ground on boot hill.” The sheriff sighed, and lowered his voice. “And you are a farmer.”

“I was a farmer, Bill. But Anthony James turned me into something different. I’m not a farmer anymore; I’m a man consumed by revenge. And I’ve had a year to hone my skills with a pistol. I ain’t scared to face off against Anthony James and his gang. In fact, that’s my life’s goal.”

The past year, Clay had used boxes and boxes of shells to target practice behind the house along with hours and hours drawing his Colt. He even slept with his gun belt on with his hand on the grip of his six-shooter. If anyone stood a chance against James, it was him.

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “Clay, I think you have a death wish.”

Clay smiled. “If I can take Anthony James to Hell with me, I’d gladly go today,” Clay said.

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “That’s plumb crazy talk.”

Clay shrugged. “It’s how I feel,” Clay said as he held out his hand. “Let me see the poster on Anthony James.”

Sheriff Haines handed it to Clay.

Clay studied the poster for a long moment, then folded it.

“What are you doing?” Sheriff Haines asked.

Clay placed the wanted poster in his shirt pocket. “I’m keeping it.”

Sheriff Haines shook his head and sighed.

“Bill, I’m heading over to the saloon for a drink, come along.”

“Ain’t it a little early in the morning to be drinking?” Sheriff Haines asked.

“Nope, whiskey tastes the same in the morning as it does at night. Are you joining me?”

“I reckin if nothing else, I can keep you from getting drunk,” Sheriff Haines said as he stood.

“I’m not sure about that, Bill. I feel like tying one on!” Clay said as he walked out the door first. And it was true; he felt like celebrating. He had a pocket full of money and a fresh lead on the whereabouts of Anthony James—both were a reason to let his hair down a little.

“Well, at least you ain’t sold Buckaroo,” Sheriff Haines said as they walked off the porch.

“I would never sell Buckaroo!” Clay said as he mounted the black gelding.

“Well, I don’t know what you will or won’t do in the mental condition you’ve been in the past year,” Sheriff Haines said as he mounted his appaloosa mare.

They rode the five blocks to the Branding Iron Saloon in silence. Clay had become a regular at the bar since Martha’s death. Although not a drunk, he hit the bottle pretty hard some days. They found empty spots among the dozen horses tied to the hitching post.

“Seems that others like the taste of whiskey in the morning, Bill,” Clay remarked as he looped Buckaroo over the post and headed for the porch.

“The whiskey ain’t going anyplace, slow down, Clay,” Bill said as he followed Clay onto the porch.

Clay pushed through the butterfly doors first. He found most of the men sitting at tables except one man wearing a black hat and duster who leaned against the bar with a bottle of whiskey in front of him. Clay, never one to sit at a table while drinking, walked across the room to the bar near the stranger in the black duster.

Sheriff Haines eyed the tables as though he would like to sit at one but followed Clay across the room to the bar.

“Chuck, give Sheriff Haines and me a shot of whiskey,” Clay called out when he caught the eye of the middle-aged, balding bartender.

“Clay,” Chuck greeted Clay. He glanced at Sheriff Haines. “Bill, ain’t it a little early for a lawman to be hitting the bottle?”

“I twisted his arm,” Clay said as he watched Chuck fill two shot glasses.

“Hmm, it must not have been his right arm, as it seems to be working fine,” the man in the black duster said when Sheriff Haines picked up his shot glass.

Bill glanced at the stranger. “Well now, lifting a shot glass ain’t heavy lifting.”

“After a spell, it can get that way,” the stranger replied as he studied Sheriff Haines and Clay with tired eyes.

“Well, I’m not planning on keeping my boots at the bar for that long,” Sheriff Haines said. He turned to glance at Clay, lifted his shot glass, and held it before him while Clay mirrored his movements.

“To bringing Anthony James to justice,” Clay said before he tossed down the shot of whiskey.

“Has Tony James gotten himself in trouble over here in Texas?” the stranger asked as he filled his shot glass. “I’ll drink to that ifin’ it’s the same Tony James that I know.”

Clay pushed away from the bar and turned to face the stranger, “Do you know Anthony James?” Clay asked in an eager voice.

“Well, I might ifin’ we are talking about the same James,” the stranger said after he tossed down the whiskey. “That tastes better than a mother’s milk,” the man said as he plopped the shot glass on the bar.

Clay fished the wanted poster out of his shirt pocket and unfolded it. He reached over and placed it on the bar in front of the man. “This is a picture of the Anthony James I’m looking for,” Clay said. “Have you seen him?”

The man picked up the wanted poster and studied it for a long moment. “Wow, who did Tony kill the warrant such a big reward?”

“He killed two U.S. Marshals and robbed a slew of trains from Texas to Kansas and has left a slew of dead folks in his wake,” Sheriff Haines said.

“Have you ever seen him?” Clay asked eagerly.

“More time than I can shake a stick at. Heck, I grew up in the same town with Anthony and his brother Andy, White Oaks, New Mexico. He left White Oaks as soon as he could afford a horse. His momma worked in the Watering Hole Saloon. Because of his momma’s occupation, Tony and his brother didn’t get much respect as kids. It didn’t seem to bother Tony’s brother, Andy, but it did Tony until he learned that if you hurt someone bad enough, everyone will leave you alone. He broke a boy’s legs with a two-by-four during a fistfight when he was ten years old.”

“When did you last see James?” Clay asked as his hand trembled.

“The last time I visited White Oaks, about five months ago. Tony can’t seem to get White Oaks out of his blood. He often returns to lay around the saloon, drinking whiskey with his brother and poking the saloon girls,” the stranger said as he handed the wanted poster back to Clay. “Heck, I always wondered how Tony made his living. I thought he was a bounty hunter. Boy was I wrong.”

“What beef do you have against him?”

“I’m the boy whose legs he broke,” the stranger said.

“You say he always returns to his hometown?” Clay asked.

“Yup, but friend, ifin’ you are planning on riding over to White Oaks to collect the reward money, don’t!” the stranger said. “Tony James is the fastest man I’ve ever seen with a big iron, and I’ve seen my share of gunslingers in Dodge City and Abilene. And he always rides into White Oaks with a slew of friends.”

Clay shook his head. “I’m not afraid of Antony James!”

“Pard, you should be. He’s too fast to be a mortal man,” the stranger said.

Clay shook his head. “I pray every day for a chance to have a crack at James. He killed my wife a year ago during a train robbery while we were returning from our honeymoon in Wichita.”

“On your honeymoon!’’ the stranger said. “That’s about as lowdown a thing as I’ve ever heard. Hmm, I see why you are chomping at the bit to look death in the eye. And when you meet Tony, that’s what you will be doing, mister.” The stranger nodded. “Well, it has been nice jawing with you all, but I’m heading to Houston. I’ve got a cousin that runs a saloon and needs my help tending the bar. I’m tired of working cows.” The stranger grabbed the bottle of whiskey, tipped his hat, and limped toward the door.

Chapter Two

Clay watched the stranger walk out the butterfly doors before turning to look at Sheriff Haines. He felt hope for bringing Anthony to justice blossoming in his heart.

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “Clay, the man might have been pulling our leg! We don’t know him! Don’t go jumping to the conclusion that Anthony James will be heading for White Oaks, New Mexico, after the train robbery in Kansas.”

“Bill, I believe the man. He had no reason to lie,” Clay said.

“Clay, if I have learned anything while I’ve been wearing this tin star is folks don’t need a reason to lie!” Sheriff Haines said.

“I’m going to White Oaks, Bill. Come along with me! You are a lawman; folks will give you information they won’t give me. And you are an excellent tracker; heck, you told me enough time that you can track a flea on a dog’s back. And if James slips away when I reach White Oaks, I’m going to need a tracker. And I’ll be facing more than just James, and I’ll need an extra gun.”

“Nope, you are my best friend, Clay, have been since we were kids, but I ain’t going gunning for Anthony James and his gang. A lot of lawmen have, and a lot of them are in a pine box for their efforts.”

Clay nodded, “I understand, Bill. You have a job you like, a wonderful girlfriend that you plan on marrying, so why would you jeopardize everything to track down someone likely to kill me before I kill him.”

“Clay, you have to have a death wish to go after James! There ain’t an outlaw in the West more dangerous at the moment than Anthony James. Heck, he sent two U.S. marshals to the pearly gates!”

Instead of answering Sheriff Haines, Clay nodded toward the butterfly doors as they swung open. “Dusters are becoming popular. Here comes another cowhand wearing a duster.”

“Yup, and you would wear one also if you herded cattle through patches of cactus. Some of them have thorns three inches long,” Sheriff Haines said.

Clay didn’t respond as he watched the red-bearded man walk toward the bar while glaring at Sheriff Haines. “Bill, I think the man in the duster knows you,” Clay said.

Suddenly the man pulled his hand out from inside the duster and leveled a double-barreled shotgun at Sheriff Haines.

“Howdy, Sheriff Haines!”

Sheriff Haines turned around and did a doubletake.

“Do you remember me, Sheriff?” the man demanded.

“Nope, enlighten me,” Haines said jovially, despite staring down the barrels of the gun.

“You hung my younger brother Steve Smithfield a year ago, and I told you the day of the hanging I would kill you.”

“Yup, now I recall. But Stan, I thought you were doing thirty years at the prison in Yuma?” Sheriff Haines said as he slowly dropped his hands to his side.

Stan cocked the hammers of the shotgun. “Put your hand on the top of the bar, Sheriff, or else I’m going to cut you in half with this scattergun.”

Sheriff Haines lifted his right hand and placed his hand palm down on the bar.”

“I broke out of Yuma and sent some guards to Hell that deserved worst. A neck party is better than serving thirty years in Yuma,” Stan said. “Once I kill you, I don’t mind dying, Sheriff. But I ain’t going to make it easy for the men that come after me.”

“Put down the scattergun and leave while you are upright,” Clay said.

Stan seemed to notice Clay for the first time. “Who in the hell are you?”

“Nobody, just a farmer,” Clay said.

“Then butt out of my business, or I’ll have to use the other barrel on you,” Stan said.

Clay shook his head. “I can’t do that. Sheriff Haines is my best friend.”

Stan shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

The Army Colt appeared in Clay’s hand in half a blink. He fired without aiming. A shocked looked flashed across Stan Smithfield’s bearded face as a hole blossomed in the upper left side of his tan duster.

The shotgun fell out of Stan’s hands, hit the floor, and blew a hole in the bottom of the bar between Sheriff Haines and Clay’s boots. Stan followed the shotgun face-first to the floor. He twitched for a moment and then stopped moving.

Clay twirled his Colt back into his holster.

“What the hell, Clay?” Sheriff Haines demanded as he looked at Clay as though seeing him for the first time. “When did you learn to draw so fast?”

“The past year, I ain’t been doing nothing but honing my skills with my Colt,” Clay said.

“Heck, I thought you were sitting home and moping!”

“Bill, who’s going to pay for fixing the hole in my bar!” Chuck demanded as men from the tables walked over to peer down at the dead man.

“Terry,” Sheriff Haines said to one of the men staring at Stan Smithfield. “Do me a favor and fetch the undertaker.”

“Sure, Sheriff,” Terry said and pushed through the crowd that stood gawking at the dead man.

The butterfly doors flew open, and two blond-haired men wearing deputy sheriff badges rushed into the room.

“Sheriff,” the taller one called out. “Are you all right?”

“Yup, right as rain, Jack,” Sheriff Haines replied.

“Who’s the dead man? He looks vaguely familiar,” Jerry, the other deputy and Jack’s younger brother, asked.

“Stan Smithfield, the older brother of Steve Smithfield that we hanged about a year ago for murdering a bank clerk during a robbery,” Sheriff Haines explained.

“Yup,” Jerry said. “The older brother swore while we had him locked up that he would return and kill you, Bill, for hanging his younger brother. But how did you gun him down with him covering you with a shotgun?”

Sheriff Haines shook his head. “I didn’t shoot him, Clay did.”

Jerry glanced at Clay. “Well, I’ll be. When did you become a gunslinger?”

“It’s a work in progress,” Clay said.

“You ain’t told me who is going to pay for the damage to the bar, Bill?” Chuck said.

“Don’t fix it,” Clay said. “When word gets out what happened, folks will come to gawk at the hole in the bar while you tell them about the shootout. The saloon will become the main attraction in Black Rock.” Clay nodded toward the constant stream of folk into the saloon to investigate the sound of shots fired and to get a glimpse of the dead man lying on the floor.

Chuck smiled. “Clay, you’ve got a point.” He glanced at Sheriff Haines and added, “Bill, forget about fixing the hole! I can live with it.”

“Paths Crossed in Vengeance” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

When farmer Clay Younger discovers his wife dead and her diamond wedding ring stolen, he vows to hunt down the outlaw who murdered her and give him a taste of his own medicine. Obsessed with the thought of taking sweet revenge, he forsakes all his duties on the farm and practices with his Army Colt day after day, caring for nothing else. After he gets a lead on the whereabouts of the man who took everything from him, Clay enlists the help of his best friend, Sheriff Bill Haines, and together they set out on a mad quest.

He wants to avenge her death, even at the cost of his own sanity…

Jess Hathcock is a hard-as-nails woman, as fast on the draw as a gunslinger and as deadly a shot as a sharpshooter, with absolutely no qualms about bringing in outlaws dead. Enticed by the bounty money, she agrees to join Clay and Sheriff Haines in their manhunt. Little did she expect that this ride for vengeance would change her life in ways that she could never have foreseen.

Can she afford to fall in love amidst a torrent of bullets?

Clay, Haines, and Jess are closer to the truth than ever before. Will they live to reach the murderer’s hideout? Can they survive amidst the rampage? Ride along and find out the answers, but hold onto your hats! This is a wild ride…

“Paths Crossed in Vengeance” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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3 thoughts on “Paths Crossed in Vengeance (Preview)”

  1. I’ve recently read A Wicked Revenge Plan and it was excellent! I’ll be watching for this one now, thanks.

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