Read Chapter One of Devil in the Daylight
Maggie Bennett wants to see her father’s killer hanged, but bringing the outlaw to justice means confronting her own secrets, and risking her heart along the way.
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Bluff City, Missouri – September 1882
THEY SAY A MAN WHO STUDIES REVENGE keeps his own wounds green. Guess it’s a good thing God saw fit to make me a woman. I don’t need to dwell on vengeance to know I’ll find it one day, and it’ll finally heal the pain I’ve carried these past five months.
From the wall outside Hoffsteder’s General Store, his name glares at me—Ansel Dawes and his gang of ruffians, wanted in connection with the bank robbery this past spring. That poster sends my stomach into spasms, but my eyes find it every time we come to town. It’s practically a tradition now.
“You coming, or what?” Cole stands in the dusty street, squinting past the morning sun. My younger brother is the spit of Ma—all big, brown eyes and wavy golden hair. Too bad all that pretty got wasted on a boy, and here I’m stuck looking like Pa.
My thumb and forefinger shove into the corners of my eyes, pinching back tears before they can even think of spilling out. “You need me to hold your hand?” I call, voice gruff enough to hide the waver Pa’s memory always puts there.
Cole scowls and takes off for the church. With a quick swat at my cheeks to be sure they’re dry, I follow.
My eyes slide over Ansel’s name to the poster beside his, just for a breath. A ritual.
As if passing by Hoffsteder’s doors without the reminder would bring damnation upon me.
Main Street is lined with reputable businesses—the general store, a tidy hotel, the surgeon’s office. At the end of the dusty road just past the bank, the church stands tall, keeping a watchful eye on Bluff City. The jailhouse squats across from the Gazette building, and behind that, all hell is liable to break loose any given night. Cathouses compete for the drunks stumbling out of the Bell and Iron Saloon, those who wouldn’t rather take their pick of the ladies offering themselves alongside the beverages within. Drinking, dicing, cards, or whores—whatever a person’s vice—the aptly named Defiance Row will provide. Most trips into town end with me there, dragging my older brother away from a game of cards.
Not so today, fortunately.
Today holds its own joys—the one Sunday a month we venture into town as a family to attend church. And today’s service just so happens to be followed with a harvest-season picnic. As if it isn’t hard enough smiling across a sanctuary at all the nosy old ladies claiming to only care about how our family is faring.
With a deep breath, I cross the threshold into the stale air of the church and take my place beside my mother in our family’s pew.
CHURCH PICNICS IN BLUFF CITY are a special kind of hell. The unrelenting sun sends droplets of sweat rolling down my neck, sticking my braid to my skin. Cole races one of the Mueller boys down the lane, to the main road and back. Meanwhile, my skirts seem to tangle between my legs at the mere thought of running free. I’m left sipping lemonade and stretching my lips at every lady pulled into Ma’s orbit.
If Pa were here, he’d think up some surreptitious game to play. We’d count how many men linger after greeting the reverend’s pretty new wife from Saint Louis, or how many women cast her scathing looks from beneath their sunbonnets.
But he isn’t here. And if one more person simpers an empty platitude at me, I will lose my ever-loving mind.
A gaggle of grandmothers eyes me from the shade of the church. Before they can send an ambassador to exclaim how well look despite losing my father a mere five months ago, I drain the rest of my lemonade in one gulp and slip around the far side of the building.
Pa’s gravestone is near the top of the hill rising beyond the shadow of the steeple, far from the hubbub in front of the church. Even from the grave, Pa’s still rescuing me.
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I’m not at all surprised to find Della nestled against a nearby tombstone. My best friend’s got a cigarette between her lips and a mischievous spark in her eyes as she watches me approach. The sun turns the tops of her tawny shoulders red where they’ve slipped free of her drooping sleeves.
“Don’t worry,” she calls, her voice like the finest ash at the bottom of a fire pit. “I’m keeping him company.”
My hand trails the top of Pa’s stone and what feels like my first true smile of the day lifts my lips. Pa always did like Della—even after our schoolyard days, he claimed I was a shining example of Christ’s redeeming love. I think he just appreciated how much it scandalized Ma that I’ve stayed friends with a sporting woman.
“Hey, Pa.” I kneel beside his grave. Shadows catch in the hollows of his name, Henry Bennett, in the cold dates below it, his entire life represented by a small dash between them. My fingertip covers its entirety. You had so much life left to live. Pa had visions of playing the hero, but heroes always die. Hamlet, Odysseus, Jesus Christ himself.
Before thoughts of that day can take hold, I flop to the grass beside Della. She holds out the cigarette.
“Better not,” I say. “If I come back to the picnic reeking of tobacco, Ma will have my hide.”
One of Della’s dark eyebrows flicks up, but she doesn’t comment—just takes a long drag. She’s made it clear I don’t have to stay beholden to Ma and her expectations of me. One word, and I can join her at the Bell and Iron Saloon. She calls it freedom, and in a way, I suppose she’s right—she doesn’t have to worry about polite society or becoming trapped by wifely duties and child-rearing. But at the end of the day, her livelihood depends on the whims of men, just like Ma’s plans.
Not to mention the fact I’m a far cry from the soft sort of beauty she offers. If Della’s a fluffy housecat, I’m a porcupine, all elbows and knees and sharp glances. No way I’d make near as much as she does, and certainly not enough to cover the cost of my family’s good graces.
“I think I’ve got fresh mint leaves,” Della says. She blows a stream of smoke downwind, bless her, before turning back to me and pulling a small pouch from the pocket of her dress.
I tug open the drawstring and peer inside—sure enough, there are a few curling green leaves, though “fresh” might be pushing it.
“Ah, hell with it, then.” I hold out my hand, and she slips the smoldering cigarette between my fingers. Hers are dainty as a china doll’s against mine, tanned and calloused from the fields.
“How is the picnic?” Della has never been good at hiding her feelings from me, and her wistful curiosity creeps through her attempt at nonchalance.
Smoke curls into my lungs before I release it. “You’re not missing anything special.”
Like I said, her brand of freedom is just an adherence to a different set of rules. Guess everyone wants what they can’t have. Me, I want independence and familial security. Still trying to figure out which one I want more, seeing as how getting both feels near-on impossible. For now, I’m just trading one for the other, back and forth, trying not to get caught in the middle.
“Wonder what that’s about?” Della’s voice keeps me from getting too introspective. She nods toward the church, where a gaggle of men gather.
Sunlight glints off the chest of the man in the center of the cluster—Sheriff Kline. Can’t say for sure why, but a tingle starts at the base of my neck.
“Only one way to find out.” I hand her the cigarette and rise in a rustle of skirts.
“Maggie, wait—” Della doesn’t follow. Not that I can blame her preferring to steer clear of a crowd of men.
Sheriff Kline’s rough voice takes on words the closer I get. “…gathering a posse to round up an outlaw.”
That tingle unfurls across my shoulders.
“Jedidiah Dawson,” Sheriff Kline says, holding up the Wanted poster that has seared itself into my brain. My body fills with lightning. “Spotted not far from City of Kansas and overheard to be headed this way.”
Under the sketch of a young, stubbled man is the reward. $2,000 DEAD OR ALIVE
Personally, I’m not too worried about the cash. Sure, we could use it for the farm, but once the posse splits the pot, a single share won’t amount to much. No, I perk up because I know that name, sure as I know my own.
Jedidiah Dawson killed my pa.