A Pledge to Fight Injustice (Preview)

Chapter One

Arizona, 1874

“I’m hungry,” Tillie murmured to herself as she wandered the streets, trying to decide what to do next.

Scottsweir was a busy town. On either side of the main street, the houses and buildings seemed tall to Tillie, towering over her. Saloons doors swinging open and banging against wooden walls echoed down the street as cowboys wandered in and out, some feeling for the guns in their holsters, others grabbing spittoons on their way in and spitting out their tobacco. In the middle of the road, wagons wandered to and fro, horses being whipped to go faster. In some of these wagons were fine ladies, wearing nice dresses.

Tillie eyed two such ladies as they walked past her down the road. She looked longingly at their gowns, freshly pressed silk so colorful that it shone in the bright sunlight of the day. One glance at Tillie’s own clothes made her wince and fidget. She adjusted the blouse that was becoming too small for her across her torso and tried to straighten the creases from the long skirt as she followed the ladies down the street. It did little good. She couldn’t hide the rips in the brown cotton, nor could she easily wash away the stains earned from multiple nights sleeping in the road or between clumps of tree roots.

“Market! Market this way.”

The holler from the end of the street made Tillie move quicker. Darting between the fine ladies in the colorful dresses, she headed for the end of the road where there was a square. Her small height made it easy for her to slip past the legs of people who scarcely noticed her. She barely reached their elbows, meaning they only glanced her way briefly if they felt a touch. It was an advantage to being a child in this town, especially such a short one.

“Market!” The holler grew louder as Tillie reached the edge of the stalls.

Before her, the market opened up wide. Here, there were no wagons, only people meandering back and forth. The poor were evident, wearing similar rags to Tillie, but the affluent were more noticeable. Tillie watched more ladies wandering past with bold dresses. She briefly put her hands to her dark black hair, wondering how these women managed to gather their locks so perfectly into curls and chignons at the backs of their heads.

My ma used to wear it like that.

Her thought was disturbed by her stomach rumbling. Tillie hitched the bag she carried higher on her shoulder and placed her hand to her stomach, trying to quell the sound. To her ears, it seemed to echo above the loud chatter of the market goers. Glancing down at that hand, she could see there was mud under her fingernails and lining the skin of her palms.

Ma wouldn’t like me to eat with dirty hands. She’d make me wash them. She’d also make me wear my best bib and tucker.

Tillie lowered her hand from her stomach and chewed the inside of her mouth, trying to distract herself from further thoughts. She didn’t allow herself to think of her mother much these days.

Food. I need food.

Tillie wandered through the market, glancing back and forth at the stall holders. They all seemed to have a keen eye today. When she approached, it wasn’t easy to slip unnoticed between the legs of fine gentlemen, for each stall holder was on the lookout for thieves.

Between two bread stalls, she tripped on something that had fallen in the arid dust. Looking down, she found a discarded newspaper. She glanced over her shoulders a few times, to ensure no one wished to claim the paper for themselves, then she took it. The paper was dry and crisp thanks to the dust that coated the pages. She tried to shake that dust off as she lifted it to her eyes and screwed up her nose.

“Traveling… circus.” The words escaped her slowly. Her mother had taught her to read a bit, but she couldn’t read easily. These words, however, were something she had committed to memory. “Circus!” she declared aloud, bolder this time.

She had a memory of going to the circus with her mother and father, holding onto their hands as they walked her past animals performing tricks and the acrobats backflipping through the air. The thrill of such a day was easy to remember.

“Soon,” she murmured, trying to make out the date as best as she could. The easiest words to recognize on the page were the name of the town where the circus was to be held. “King’s Valley.”

Smiling, Tillie tucked the paper away in her bag and surveyed the market around her once again. She was earning a few gazes today. Ladies were looking at her with suspicion, their eyes lingering on her before they moved on. Once again, Tillie adjusted the skirt of her gown that was quickly becoming too short for her as she grew over the last few months. Her shoes were now always visible beneath the hem, in all their glory with the holes in the toes and the broken laces. Soon enough, Tillie knew she would need to find new clothes, but not today. Today was about finding food.

Tillie began to grow despondent the more she looked at the stallholders. Their eyes were quick, watching for thieves, and more than once did she see a marshal wandering by, asking the stall owners if they had seen anything suspicious. If she was going to get any food without raising any alarm, then she would have to buy it, but she had spent all of her money on a new water canteen two days before.

Her stomach rumbled again as she crossed to the other end of the market, cutting between stalls of candied fruit and leather saddles. Tucked behind the stall, Tillie turned her attention to the people.

She saw a few children like herself, some poor and counting coins in their hands, others rich and pulling on the silken skirts of their mothers, demanding food be bought for them. Amongst all this, men wandered back and forth, talking loudly and confidently. One such gentleman caught Tillie’s attention, and once it had been captured, it wouldn’t let go.

This gentleman was plainly a wealthy man. It wasn’t just a statement made by his clothes, but by his possessions, too. The top hat upon his head stood out from the crowd, being so different to the wide brims of the cowboys and Mexicans nearby. His brown mustache was so carefully combed that Tillie could almost see every single hair. A pocket watch chain gleamed in the sunlight from where it was pressed into his waistcoat, and he walked with a cane, though he clearly didn’t need the aid to walk. He used the cane as a lady used extra bows in her hair, to make a statement. Tillie’s mouth watered when she observed the silver handle of the cane, wondering how much food such a thing could buy.

Too risky!

Yet her eyes danced on his open jacket instead. His pockets seemed to be stuffed, full to the brim with things. He was certainly someone who could afford to lose a few cents here and there, and not be damaged by it.

Tillie checked between the stalls again. Once she was certain the marshals were far enough away, with their hats turned from her and bottles of scotch in their hands from a persuasive stall owner, she took her opportunity.

Creeping out among the crowd, she was careful not to make a beeline for the wealthy gentleman. She circled him instead, pretending interest in what the stalls had to offer. When he paused by a leather stall and admired the belts they had, she watched him carefully. He even took out a flap of leather and proffered money from it to the stall holder. This was his wallet, the thing Tillie needed if she was to survive the day. The man laughed with two gentlemen at his side as he bought a belt from the stall. The gentlemen were dressed similarly, though not with quite as many accessories. They didn’t have a gleaming pocket watch chain or a silver snuff box that they took from their jacket to push tobacco up their nose.

Tillie wrinkled her nose in disgust as the man turned away and continued his walk through the market.

Now. It’s time.

Tillie hastened forward. She slipped between the gentleman and one of his friends, choosing the moment when they were all pointing ahead, marveling at a stall in the distance. With delicate fingers, Tillie reached for the pocket where the man had pushed his wallet. She felt the leather beneath her fingers, along with something else. It was larger, and this leather was cold to the touch. She took both items, drawing them slowly out of his pocket so as not to cause alarm, and then she slipped it under her arm and stepped away.

The more she walked, the more confident she became in her escape. She smiled a little and reached into the wallet, pulling out a perfectly round silver coin. She would eat today!

“Fabian, your pocket,” a voice cried up from the crowd.

Tillie froze between the legs of those wandering the stalls, her hands flat to the wallet and the other leather item she had in her grasp. She glanced back long enough to see that the gentleman she had stolen from, this Fabian, was looking down at his empty pocket, which she had inadvertently turned inside out.

“I’ve been robbed,” Fabian said quietly, then again, but louder this time. “I’ve been robbed!” The words were hollered so noisily that all in the market turned to stare at him. “Marshals!” He bellowed the word.

Tillie’s breathing grew fast. If she ran now, they would look straight to her. She had to stay still and pray they did not look her way, yet her heart raced so much she could hear it pumping in her ears, preparing her for fleeing.

“It’s gone. It’s gone!” Fabian cried in panic; he was checking all his pockets now, turning round and facing the two gentlemen at his side manically. “Find it! Who took it?”

Marshals appeared beside him, all discarding the scotch bottles they had just bought.

“All right, stop airin’ your lungs, sir,” one of the marshals said, trying to calm him down.

“Do not speak to me so!” Fabian’s voice grew louder in his outrage. He pulled on his waistcoat and stood tall, evidently trying to impress with how important he was. “I have been robbed. You are supposed to prevent such thievery here.”

“Brother,” one of the gentlemen said at Fabian’s side.

“What?” Fabian turned round, whipping his head so fast that his top hat nearly slid off his head.

As Tillie watched, she saw this gentleman lift a finger. He was staring straight at her.

“Isn’t that your wallet?” he said, pointing straight at the leather goods in her hands.

Tillie didn’t wait for Fabian’s eyes to meet hers. She turned and took off. Stuffing the leather goods into her bag, she ran as quickly as she could, pushing between legs so fast that people jumped out of the way, and called out in alarm.

“What the—?”

“Who was that?”

“It’s a thief! A woman! Stop her!”

Tillie could have laughed at the accusation as she dove under a stall to evade capture. She leapt out the other side, nearly knocking the stall owner over as she took a narrow lane out of the market square. Whoever had called her a woman could not have seen her clearly in the mess that had ensued. She was no woman yet, only a girl, it made hiding in a crowd that much easier.

Tillie ran fast, looping the strap of her saddle bag over her shoulder as she did so to ensure she would not lose it. With her boots slamming against the arid earth, the rips in the leather seemed to be opening up all the more.

“Which way? There! In that lane!” voices cried out behind her.

Tillie glanced back long enough to see that it wasn’t just marshals that were following her. One of the men that had been beside Fabian, the man he had called his brother, was following her, too, along with many other men.

Who can have so many friends to jump to their aid?

The thought rather disgusted Tillie as she looked forward, in danger of colliding with an old woman sat at the side of the lane, plunging linens into a wash barrel.

“Watch where you’re going, lass!” she called out as Tillie nearly knocked the barrel over.

“Sorry,” Tillie called back, rounding the barrel as quickly as she could and running on once again.

“Best run faster, lass, you have a lot of men behind you.”

Tillie didn’t need telling twice. She ran as swiftly as she could down the lane, unable to remember when she had last needed to run so fast. Her legs burned from the effort, and her chest heaved up and down with each panting breath.

Once, she had run out across open desert, trying to flee a snake, and she had outrun it within minutes. Another time, she’d fled a sheriff who had nearly caught her stealing a loaf of bread from a baker. Today, though, she had many men to escape.

When she reached the end of the lane, she dove off, deciding it was time to make the chase difficult. Glancing back, she saw how right the lady had been. There were lots of men chasing her now; if Tillie could remember her numbers, she would count them up, but she couldn’t. She knew there were more than three and less than ten, but more than that was a guess. Each one was pursuing her, talking to the others about how to catch her.

Diving between more lanes, she made the path as difficult as possible. Left, right, straight ahead, right again, she carved a labyrinthine path through the streets. She began to lose the people behind her when she saw an opportunity.

At the end of the road was a wagon, full of hay so tall on the back that it was taller than the horse’s head. Seeing the driver was not with his wagon, Tillie leapt onto the back of the wagon and buried herself in the hay. She threw the strands over her head, hiding all her black curly hair from view, and then she fell still.

“Did you see her? Where did she go?” Voices neared the wagon.

“Must have gone back round to the market,” another answered. “This way, she won’t get far.”

“As good as barkin’ at a knot if she thinks she’s gettin’ away,” one man said in a heavy southern accent. The words made Tillie hold herself like a stone, not even allowing a breath, let alone a flick of the eyes. “We’ll set up a search for the woman. We’ll find her.”

Seconds later, the wagon moved forward, showing the driver had at last returned to his wagon. Tillie wanted to celebrate her escape, but she knew she could not. It seemed she had chosen the wrong target that day. This Fabian evidently had a lot of friends, and they were not going to let her escape from this town with his wallet very easily.

Chapter Two

“Jensen, how many times do I have to tell you?” a voice cried as Jensen entered the kitchen.

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes and pushed the fair hair back from his forehead, trying to feel more awake as his eyes landed on his sister.

“No guns on the table.”

“Melody,” Jensen said with a humored smile, “you know they can’t go off unless you put the lead plum in it?”

“The what?” Melody asked, turning back to face him with lifted eyebrows as she continued to poke and prod at something with a wooden spoon over the stove.

“The bullet,” Jensen explained as he reached for the table. Smiling a little, he tried to hold in his laugh at how Melody had attempted to set the table around his guns with coffee cups, spoons, and bowls. “You really have a bee in your bonnet about these weapons, don’t you?”

Melody shot him another narrowed glare. Her brows were fair, like his, and barely noticeable as she drew them together.

“No weapons on the table. What do you want Laurel and Nina to think?”

“I expect them to know what I do for a living. We should all know that.” Jensen reached for the guns, nevertheless. He took the rifle and the two pistols, double-checking that he had made them safe the night before, then placed them on another table in the corner of the room.

At his sister’s lifted eyebrows, he shrugged. “We’re not eating off this one, are we?”

“Hmm. It doesn’t seem safe.”

“These are what keep us safe, Melody.”

At his words, she sighed and went back to the food. “You say that, yet you stand there with scars on your cheeks and a white mark on your arm from where you were shot once. I have never had a gun, and I’m pleased to say I do not have any scars either,” Melody said happily and turned to gather their bowls.

Jensen winced a little when he saw the state of the crockery. Some of the bowls were cracked and chipped, making Melody wrinkle her nose. He wanted to be able to buy new dishes, but since their parents had passed, affording things didn’t seem so easy anymore.

“Neither are you a bounty hunter, Melody,” Jensen pointed out and sat down at the breakfast table. Melody practically dropped a bowl of oats and milky water in front of him, her scoff evident. Jensen was amused by it.

These days, he was used to Melody’s comments. She wasn’t happy about his occupation, for it put him in danger, but she also had to acknowledge that it made them good money. More than if he had become a marshal, or even somehow managed to find work as a deputy sheriff.

“Eat up,” Melody said with cheer as Jensen stared down at the few oats hovering in the bowl. It was hardly enticing, but it was something. He spooned the food into his mouth, trying to offer a smile of satisfaction as Melody continued primping the table.

She straightened out their mother’s doily that acted as a tablecloth and moved forward with steaming water, ready to make hot black coffee. When voices reached the two of them from down the corridor, Melody stood straight and placed her hands on her hips, much like their mother used to do.

“You two are rising late. You miss the cockerel’s crow?” Melody asked as Jensen’s other two sisters stopped in the doorway.

Their green eyes turned to him, looking for help. Jensen shrugged, struggling to contain his laugh as he turned his focus back down to the watery porridge.

“Jensen has only just got up too,” Nina pointed out as she hastened into the room. She took the chair beside Jensen and flopped into it. The younger of the four of them, she was still able to pout very well, like she was still a child.

“Yes, and he was out catching…” Melody paused and looked to Jensen. “Who did you catch yesterday?”

“Marlo Esteves,” he explained with a shrug. “Gang leader. It should pay good money, this one.”

“Can we buy some new things then?” Nina asked excitedly, leaning forward with her elbows on the table.

“Elbows off,” Melody said, clearly trying to hold onto decorum.

“Calm down, Melody, it’s only breakfast, not dinner with the mayor,” Laurel declared as she took a seat the other side of Jensen. When she looked at the bowl placed in front of her, she mirrored Jensen’s look of horror.

“Don’t let her see you,” Jensen whispered, but Laurel wasn’t so quick to hide her expression.

“What is wrong with it?” Melody asked, moving to Laurel’s side with crossed arms.

“Nothing.” Laurel put on a smile and brushed her light brown hair back from her face. “I was just thinking I should cook breakfast, too.”

“You cook all day at work, and do our dinner,” Melody explained with a shake of her head.

“Yes, granted, the ranch doesn’t pay well for its meals, but they always smile when they eat it.”

“What are you trying to say?” Melody asked, narrowing her eyes once again. “You won’t smile for my breakfast? Do you not enjoy my cooking?”

“I think Jensen’s expression can answer that one.” Laurel pointed in his direction.

Jensen just managed to return Laurel’s glare before he swallowed the last of what was in the bowl. “I’m not getting into this conversation.” He laughed softly, making an appearance of scraping up every last morsel he could.

“See?” Melody declared with vigor. “It’s good enough.”

“He’s just doing that to keep from hurting your feelings.” Laurel rolled her eyes and began to prod at her own oats, her lips flattening in an unamused line.

“Jensen?” Nina’s voice urged him to look to his youngest sister, seeing she was looking hopefully at him. “You haven’t answered my question.”

“What was it, Nina?”

“If you’re about to be paid well for your job yesterday, can we buy some new things for the house?”

The question made them all fall still; the only sound was of Laurel dropping her spoon in her bowl and making the crockery chink.

“Well…” Jensen considered his answer, knowing full well they needed more money. The house was beginning to fall down in places and the roof had sprung more than a few leaks, more like ten. The beds were old, their bed pots too, and even the kitchen was full of so much that was chipped and broken, it seemed a health hazard to cook in it. “Maybe. We’ll see. I’m not sure how far the money will go. It depends what other jobs I’m offered this month.”

Nina looked a little sad as she turned her focus back down to her own porridge bowl and prodded at the oats with her bent spoon.

“Ahem.” Melody cleared her throat and caught Jensen’s attention. He scratched at the scars on his cheeks, feeling abruptly self-conscious that his job wasn’t bringing in as much money as needed to support them all. Laurel had her job and Melody helped out as a maid in a local hotel, but all together, it didn’t add up to very much. “Something got left for you this morning.”

“What?” Jensen said as Melody fetched something from across the room. Reaching to the table where he had placed his guns, she slipped out a letter and then stepped back. Her blue eyes kept glancing back down at the guns. “Melody, they’re not snakes. They won’t come alive and bite you.”

“Says the man bearing scars,” Melody murmured, reminding him of their earlier conversation. “Take a look. This was delivered this morning.”

Jensen took the letter from her, noting his name scrawled across expensive paper. This was unusual. Any letters he usually got were from the sheriff or deputy sheriff, and they didn’t bother with such expensive paper. Across the back, the letter was sealed in red wax, and some sort of cartouche had been pressed into the emblem.

“Did you see who delivered it?” Jensen asked.

“Oh, yes, it was strange.” Melody fidgeted, wringing her hands together. Jensen knew this action of old by now. She was nervous about something. “When I rose first thing, I heard a horse and looked outside. The moon had barely set, and a man was delivering that letter, rather scruffy, oddly. He seemed in a hurry for his face not to be seen, wearing a hat pulled low across his face.”

Jensen didn’t like it. He knew the feeling had to be mirrored by his sisters for they had all paused in their own breakfast to watch him.

They no longer had a letter opener. That blade had been sold long ago to get them some extra money, so he took out a penknife from his belt.

“Jensen! No weapons at the table,” Melody pleaded with a sigh as she sat down opposite him with her own breakfast.

“It would be hard to injure yourself with a penknife.” Jensen broke open the seal then put the knife down on the table beside his bowl. When Nina picked it up, admiring the blade and acting out what it could be like to use it on someone, Jensen hastily took it back, eyeing Melody’s sharpened look in his direction. “Well, maybe Nina could accomplish it.”

“Oi!” she cried, though Jensen didn’t answer. He turned his focus down to the letter in his hand.

Dear Jensen Babbitt,

I understand you are the finest bounty hunter we have in our town. I find myself in need of your services. Please, come to the mine office as soon as you can, up on Sunrise Ridge. I will be waiting there for you with your commission.

Yours et cetera,

Mr. Fabian Poole.

“Odd,” Jensen murmured as he turned the letter over. It was short and to the point, but it left out any real details.

“What is it?” Melody asked from across the table. Jensen went to pass it to her. As Nina craned her neck to try and see, Melody pulled it away from her.

“I’m not a child anymore, you know. I know what Jensen does, you don’t need to hide things from me.”

“Consider it an attempt to protect you instead,” Melody said, though she let Nina see the letter at last.

“Little chance of that,” Laurel said as she spooned another mouthful of watery porridge into her mouth, clearly trying not to gag. “She was admiring the theater performers again the other day.”

“Nina, I have told you, you cannot go and work in the theater,” Melody insisted.

“Why not? It pays. As far as I can see, we need the money.”

“Not that much.” Melody shook her head emphatically. “That place, people whisper about it.”

“You mean you whisper about it.”

“And as for you.” Melody turned her focus on Laurel as she nearly gagged again. “What is wrong with my cooking?”

“Nothing, sister,” Laurel said, placing a hand over her mouth. “It’s just… you’re skilled at many things, but I’m not sure cooking is one of them.”

“I’m not that bad, am I, Jensen?” Melody asked. When Jensen said nothing, she seemed to grow excited. “Do you want some more?”

“No!” he said, too quickly for her liking, making her thrust the letter back in his direction. “I mean… no, thank you.”

“What do you make of that letter, then?” Melody asked, shaking it at him. “Mr. Fabian Poole, isn’t he the tin mine owner?”

“That’s the one.” Laurel nodded. “They were talking about him up at the ranch the other day, saying what a great man he is.”

“Then why send a messenger in the early hours of the morning in rags?” Jensen asked, reading over the letter again. “Something feels off.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, I’m usually commissioned by the sheriff. Private commissions are few and far between, and this…” He paused and gestured down to the letter once again. “It says nothing really, nothing at all. He’s just snapped his fingers and expects me to go up to the house.”

“You will, though, won’t you?” Nina asked. “He’s a wealthy man. It could be a healthy pay. You should get a wiggle on if you ask me.”

Jensen needed no more encouragement. He pocketed the letter and stood to his feet, trying to ignore the rather worried look Melody was giving him across the room as she rested her chin in her hands. He collected his wide-brimmed hat from a hook by the door and tossed a jacket over his shoulder, then reached for his holsters, belting them quickly around his hips.

“Looks ready for a street fight, doesn’t he?” Laurel said, chuckling until Melody shot her a glare.

“That isn’t a good thing, is it?” Melody asked. “One of these days, he might end up in a street fight.”

“Mel,” Jensen used her nickname, which he only ever used when he truly wanted her to listen. She flicked her head toward him, her blue eyes wide as she brushed back the fair hair from her cheeks that had escaped her updo. “I’ve been in situations worse than that and lived to tell the tale. I’ll get through today, too. As far as I can see, I’m just going to see a rich mine owner about a job. This should surely be one of my easy days, shouldn’t it?”

“You didn’t see the man that delivered the letter, Jensen. I did.”

“And? What else can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing, it’s just…” She fidgeted in her chair and tried to return her focus to her food. “It just felt odd. I didn’t trust him.” She spooned some of the porridge into her mouth and then grimaced.

“Ha! I knew it,” Laurel declared happily. “You don’t like it either, do you?”

“I never said that.” Melody spooned a second lump into her mouth.

Jensen left his sisters to argue. He took the last pistol and placed it into his holster, then headed out of the house. The sun was still rising in the sky, getting hotter by the second. His skin seemed to sizzle in that warmth as he crossed their arid garden and moved to his horse at the far end.

Plants had gone over and turned brown in this heat, despite Melody’s attempt to grow vegetables for them. The only thing that was truly successful were the grapes, though his horse was happily chomping on them.

“Leave it, boy,” Jensen said, calling to the horse. The steed whinnied in greeting, tossing back his gray head and nodding in Jensen’s direction. “Ready for today? An easy one, Grey.” He tapped the horse on the nose in greeting. “No chasing, not yet, anyway. We’re just going to the mine today.”

The horse whinnied. Jensen could almost imagine that was a whinny of disappointment not to be chasing and running around today.

***

As Jensen rode up the hill toward the mine, Grey’s pace grew slower beneath him. Jensen was happy to slow down, and he tugged on the reins a little, looking around at the busy mine. There was not a person not hard at work. Everywhere he looked, people were being taken down into mining shafts, laden with picks and iron lanterns on their heads, with their flames already flickering, despite the daylight above ground. Every face was dirtied, and every pair of hands chafed from the hard work.

At least I don’t work here.

Jensen looked away from the pained faces and moved on toward the office behind the mine. When their parents had died, he and Melody had discussed his job and the possibility of going into mining, but they had quickly abandoned the idea. Bounty hunting paid better, even if the risks weren’t to Melody’s liking.

Jensen turned his focus to the building ahead of him. Set within the rock itself, half the wooden structure was held up by stone, the other half by wooden pillars. When Jensen reached the veranda, he called out to a man reclining in a chair, his legs resting on a plank of wood so that he blocked off access to the door.

“I’ve come to see Mr. Fabian Poole,” Jensen called to the man. Rather lazily, this man nudged his hat higher on his head.

“Who are you?”

“Mr. Jensen Babbitt. He’s expecting me.” Jensen’s words urged the man to action. He slowly stood from his seat and gestured to the door, showing Jensen could go in.

Jensen jumped down from Grey and threaded the reins around a hitching post before moving forward. The steed snorted, unhappy to be left alone in such a place. Jensen could hardly blame him. One glance back at the mine revealed pained faces, and one man cried out as if in agony. Jensen tried to see what the cause of the pain was, but he could see nothing more than the men levering more tin ore past him in wagons. Jensen patted Grey’s nose in comfort and stepped up onto the veranda, passing into the house.

“Second door on your left,” the man on the doorstep said.

Jensen nodded in acknowledgment and reached for the door in question, tapping lightly.

“Enter.”

Stepping inside, Jensen’s boots quickly came to a stop in his wide stance—the room was full of more people than he had expected.

The rich and wealthy figure of Mr. Fabian Poole was sitting behind a desk at the far end of the room, with a cigar in one hand, puffing great plumes of smoke into the air. Two other similarly dressed gentlemen stood nearby, paused in what appeared to be a very eager conversation. The final man in the room made Jensen cock his head to the side, thinking how strange it was.

“Sheriff Horbury?”

---

“A Pledge to Fight Injustice” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

As a bounty hunter, Jensen leads a simple life, providing for his orphaned sisters from what he earns. As soon as he is offered a large sum of money to catch a criminal, he feels as if his prayers have been answered. Yet, when he discovers that the thief is just a desperate girl, he is forced to make a hard decision. Will Jensen choose to take the girl back to the man who hired him or will he face violent retribution instead?

It might be time for Jensen to bend the rules a little bit, even at the risk of losing everything…

Since losing both parents, Tillie has been living on the streets, stealing from unsuspecting passersby in order to survive. However, she does have one rule to follow; she only robs the rich. Little did she know that stealing from Fabian Poole would set her on a path to ruin. Will Tillie find a way to escape punishment for the theft she has committed?

The cat-and-mouse game has just begun…

Jensen and Tillie will soon realize that it’s not just a stolen wallet at stake, but something far more precious to Fabian. With shots fired and a chase through trains and towns across the state, they must work together if they hope to uncover the well-hidden truth…Will the outcome of this mission be in their favor or will they surrender to their fate?

“A Pledge to Fight Injustice” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

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