The Man Who Hated Ned O'Leary (Dig Two Graves 2)

As Lars spun his tale of made-up Norwegian gods, Cole lowered the brim of his hat and looked around. One could never be too careful, and despite them technically working for the law, there was still a bounty on Cole’s head, so knowing where to flee if need be was always high on his list of priorities. As long as the bandana hid his forehead, he doubted anyone would recognize him as Cole Flores.

The town was cramped into a gorge with walls too steep to climb on horseback. Having only two escape routes left Cole vulnerable, but that wasn’t why he’d been so hesitant to come back.

It had been seven years since he’d met Ned O’Leary in the local saloon, but while the town has grown and now sprawled beyond its original boundaries, it hadn’t changed that much at the core. Wooden homes were still peppered on either side of a creek, and while the timber gate at the entryway had been moved to accommodate new buildings, it was the same one. Even the goddamn beaver statue was still there, mocking him.

What if Ned O’Leary lived here too? What if he’d returned to his uncle’s ranch? What if he’d gotten married and had children? What then?

Cole would come for him. Cole would leave the dirty reward money for the widow, but the moment he saw Ned again would be the man’s last.

The bastard didn’t deserve to live a happy life after what he’d done to Cole and everything he held dear.

Perhaps he shouldn’t have been so wary of coming here after all? He hadn’t changed much, but the bounty posters showed him smooth-shaven while he now sported a short beard and a moustache with upturned sides. According to Lars, the facial hair made him rather handsome, but that wasn't why had Cole chosen to stop using a razor as much.

He was done with doing things for other people’s benefit.

Then again, wasn’t that why he was back in Beaver Springs? It was Lars’s nagging that had brought them here. They’d been doing perfectly well for themselves catching run-of-the-mill criminals, but Lars dreamed of fame. He wanted to turn in someone special, someone whose capture would give him bragging rights and an article in at least one major paper. So he wouldn’t stop pestering Cole about the Rockies’ Wolfman since the moment they’d heard of him. For all Cole knew, this Wolfman could be their biggest waste of time yet, non-existent just like the man-eating-rooster they once hunted, or the wendigo.

But Cole had drifted through the past seven years without an inkling of direction, so maybe Lars’s enthusiasm for that new shiny bounty was yet another excuse to go on. There had been days when Cole sat on cliff edges and wondered if it wouldn’t have been easier to shift forward and let the wind decide his fate, but he was still here. Still surviving. Still on the lookout for the man who had destroyed his life and stamped on his bleeding heart, laughing at Cole’s naiveté.

There had been no news of him in the past four years, and even the report of Ned O’Leary murdering another Pinkerton had turned out to be gibberish. Cole had gone all the way to Wichita to investigate. He’d found find the murderer to be a ginger man with a big nose, but he was most definitely not who Cole had hoped to see behind bars. But a man could dream. He’d stayed in town for a while to witness the bastard hang and imagined it was Ned on the scaffold, but he couldn’t fool his heart. Ned O’Leary was either still out there, eluding him, or dead.

“Can we go?” he asked, glaring at Lars, who hadn’t yet finished spinning his ridiculous stories about a Norway that didn’t exist. He may have missed his calling.

“Oh, yes, I must excuse you, ladies, there’s business we need to attend to here,” Lars said and put his hat back on.

The younger of the two women had flushed cheeks by the time he nodded at her. “But please do call on us, Mr. Enevoldsen. I’m sure my son would want to hear all about the Vikings and their journeys.” She nodded so enthusiastically, a flower fell off her hat.

Like the gentleman he wasn’t, Lars picked it up for her with a smile. “I will, and I hope Mrs. O’Leary brings her famous porter cake.” He tipped his hat to the older woman, and even she smiled this time.

Cole’s stomach sunk, weighed down by all the lead he’d ever shot from his revolvers. “Mrs. O’Leary?”

The woman faced him with a squint, adjusting the woven basket she was holding. “That is me.” Her gaze slid over him like a rattlesnake, and he wished he’d cut off his own dumb tongue long ago. He could still excuse himself and spin around, but they’d only seen one another for a couple of seconds seven years back, and if he hadn’t recognized her, then she surely couldn’t see the young man he used to be beneath the beard either. He was dressed in different clothes too. Since the bounty posters stated he always wore black, he’d long given up that habit and now sported a dark brown hat, and a white shirt peeking out from under a worn maroon vest. His duster was still his preferred shade, but that was hardly a crime.