Anna Finch and the Hired Gun by Kathleen Y'Barbo Read Free Book Online

understand.”
    “No,” he said slowly, “I suppose you don’t.”
    He took a step backward, and the money slid from her gloved fingers, landing at her feet on the floor of the buggy. When she reached down to grasp the bills, the man Wyatt Earp referred to as Mr. Bonney turned his back on her and slipped into the crowd. Anna had no trouble following his progress among those strolling up and down the thoroughfare. Between his almost-white hair and his superior height, one would be hard pressed to miss the man who shuffled along with the slow gait of a fellow much more advanced in years.
    The packet of letters lay in her lap, and Anna noticed the top one addressed to a convent in Georgia. She looked down at her feet, where the man’s money had fallen. An idea formed in her head.
    McMinn cleared his throat. “Post office?” he asked, gathering the reins.
    “First the post office and then back here to the Windsor,” Anna said quickly before she lost her courage. If she truly wanted to be a journalist, what better time to begin than when she knew the exact location of the infamous Wyatt Earp?

He is the last man anybody would ever take for a killer …
    —
Kansas City Star, May 15, 1883, regarding Doc Holliday
    Two steps outside the doctor’s office, Jeb nearly keeled over. There in broad daylight, on the sidewalk in front of the Windsor Hotel, stood a man who strongly resembled the murdering coward Doc Holliday.
    Jeb edged closer, keeping his hat low over his eyes and a pair of well-padded matrons between him and the suspect. Holliday had lost weight since their run-in back in Leadville. His suit hung on shoulders that seemed less broad than Jeb remembered, but the silver revolver was deadly familiar. He wore a look of ill health that explained the fit of his clothes, and more than once he paused to cough. Abruptly Holliday turned, and Jeb backed into the shadows to watch from under the brim of his Stetson.
    Doc zigzagged across Eighteenth Street, then leaned into a nicely appointed buggy to talk to its occupant. The society gal shook her head, causing the blue feathers on her hat to obscure Jeb’s view of her face. He could see chestnut curls and hands that moved as if she couldn’t manage to speak without them.
    It didn’t take a Pinkerton to figure out what was going on between Doc Holliday and the woman in the buggy. Jeb’s temper flared. Was money changing hands? It appeared so.
    It never ceased to amaze him how easily a woman got caught up in turning a bad man good. Jeb gave the stylish society belle a second look. Though he couldn’t see her face, she was shapely enough that in his previous existence, before he’d learned the Lord had a better way of doing things, he might have practiced his skills on the poor girl. Instead, he’d have to be satisfied with watching Doc Holliday make the attempt.
    That the man walked free on the streets of Denver galled Jeb to no end. Except for the longstanding, almost antique warrant in Arizona, which probably wouldn’t be honored anyway, John Henry Holliday had nothing to keep him from enjoying what few years he had left in any way he chose.
    Unlike all those he put in the grave.
    Returning his attention to the buggy, Jeb assessed the situation. From his angle, he could make out nothing of the woman’s features under the silly hat, but from the style of buggy and fine horse, she was clearly a woman of some worth.
    Stilling his urge to race over and confront Holliday, Jeb rested his palm on his pistol. A part of him hoped Doc might commit some crime right in front of him so he could use the Colt on the gunfighter.
    Not likely, and Jeb knew it. If there was one thing besides gunplay Doc Holliday excelled at, it was staying one step ahead of the law.
    The pair seemed oblivious to his intrusion on their privatemoment, such was the intimacy of their conversation. There seemed to be some point of debate, for the woman continued to thrust the money back at Doc only to have