Wanted: Outlaw’s Daughter

Preface

The beginning

Silas Blackwood

A man could learn a great deal by listening before anyone realised he was awake.

Silas Blackwood remained motionless beneath his wool blanket, letting his eyes track the thin grey mist curling between the trees. For the past three nights, this rough mountain valley had been home to the Blackwood gang. The morning air carried the familiar, sharp bite of woodsmoke, damp earth, and horses.

Beyond the ring of wagons, a leather saddle creaked.

Six horses shifted restlessly near the creek. Someone was swearing quietly at a stubborn boot. A tin cup struck the side of a iron cooking pot, followed by a low curse from whoever had dropped it.

The sounds brought the faintest smile to Silas’s face. For a gang of wanted outlaws, they made an almost respectable amount of noise before breakfast.

He pushed himself upright and ran a hand through his dark hair, reaching for his shirt. The previous evening’s warmth had entirely disappeared during the night, leaving the cold biting hard against his bare skin as he dressed.

He had just pulled on his boots when a voice cut through the quiet camp.

“Morning, brother.”

Silas looked across the dying, low-burned flames of the fire.

Wyatt Blackwood sat on an overturned shipping crate, a tin cup of coffee warming his hands. His younger brother had been awake long enough to clean-shave his jaw, though the dark circles beneath his eyes suggested sleep had been less kind to him than he was pretending.

There was a strange, tight tension in Wyatt’s shoulders that hadn't been there two days ago.

Silas reached for his heavy canvas coat, shaking out the morning dust before pulling it over his shoulders. He glanced at his younger brother. “You’ve been sitting there watching me sleep, Wyatt?”

Wyatt’s mouth twitched with a faint, wry smile. “Only for a little while.”

“That’s unsettling.” Silas stepped over a rotting log, his boots crunching on the dry pine needles.

“You’re welcome,” Wyatt replied dryly. He leaned forward and lifted a second tin cup from the dirt, offering it to him. “Here. Coffee.”

Silas accepted the hot tin gratefully, the warmth seeping into his gloved fingers. He took a slow, deep drink, but the liquid hit his tongue like battery acid. It was strong enough to strip paint right off a bank wagon.

He grimaced, staring down into the dark, murky liquid. “Who made this brew?”

Wyatt didn't answer out loud. Instead, he just tilted his head toward the far edge of the campsite, where the horse picket line began.

Silas followed his gaze.

Cal Dempsey was crouched low beside the main cooking fire, lazily poking at the glowing red embers with a charred pine branch. He was an older, rugged outlaw with a thick beard, but his ears were sharp. He looked up the second he caught them staring.

“You complaining about my cooking again, Silas?” Cal shouted across the clearing, wiping his greasy hands on his trousers.

“I’m considering whether this actually qualifies as coffee, Cal, or if you're trying to poison your own foreman,” Silas called back.

Cal grinned, his gold tooth catching the early morning light. “Drink it anyway, boss. It builds character.”

Silas shook his head, a genuine flash of amusement breaking through his usual stern demeanor as he forced down another bitter sip. They were a dangerous bunch of thieves, but they were his men.

Around them, the rest of the gang was beginning to stir.

Coleman Rourke sat broad-shouldered on a wagon tongue, quietly clicking the cylinder of his revolver with the confidence of a man who had survived too many close calls to count. Nearby, Cal Dempsey went back to tighten his saddle cinch whilst Nathan Pike crouched by the fire, nursing his bitter coffee.

Only Tommy Reed, the youngest of the bunch, remained wrapped tightly in his blanket, determined to ignore the morning for as long as humanly possible.

Silas looked over at his crew.

They were dangerous men. Every single one of them had done things that would earn them a rope in half the towns across the territory. But they were his men, and he felt the heavy weight of responsibility for each of them.

That was why he had rules. They were the only things keeping them alive.

“No unnecessary bloodshed,” Silas stated, his voice losing all its previous amusement. “We take what we came for and we leave. Nobody gets hurt unless they force our hand.”

Coleman Rourke looked up from his horse, his thumb tracing the hammer of his revolver. “And if someone does force it, boss?”

Silas met Rourke's cold gaze dead-on. “Then you do what you have to do. But don’t mistake a need for money with a thirst for blood.”

The men fell quiet. Silas was no fool; he knew they weren't good men. They had robbed stagecoaches, trains, and payroll wagons. But Silas had never enjoyed the killing. Money interested him. Blood did not—a distinction that mattered to him, even if the law didn't care about the difference.

Wyatt broke the silence, studying his brother from across the fire. “So, what’s the plan?”

Silas leaned back against a wagon wheel. “Silver Bell.”

Tommy finally threw off his blanket, his young face bright. “Another robbery?”

Silas shot the kid a dry look. “Were you expecting a church picnic?”

The camp burst into a rough wave of laughter. Tommy just grinned, entirely unbothered.

Silas reached inside his canvas coat, pulling out a crisp, folded piece of paper. “There’s a heavy freight payroll passing through Silver Bell tomorrow.”

Rourke stopped tightening his saddle cinch, his head snapping up with immediate interest.

“How much?” Coleman Rourke asked, his eyes gleaming with greed.

“Enough,” Silas replied.

Cal leaned forward, spit-shining a stirrup. “That’s not a number, boss.”“

“It’s the only number you need for now.” Silas folded the paper up, sliding it back into his coat pocket.

Wyatt didn’t join in on the laughter. His gaze remained locked on Silas’s pocket, his younger face hardening. “Who gave you the trail info, brother? Do you trust him?”

“No,” Silas said easily.

Wyatt blinked, caught completely off guard. “Then why in hell are we using it?”

“Because information doesn’t have to come from an honest man to be useful.” Silas looked around at his men, his voice dropping an octave. “Lately, there’ve been too many strangers passing through the territory, offering tips that are a little too convenient. A payroll route here. A guard schedule there.”

Every robbery was a gamble, but every successful heist bought his family a little more time. Silas had a wife waiting in Red Hollow, and a six-year-old daughter, Eleanor, who was growing faster than he cared to admit. That was what he told himself to justify the risk, anyway

“You’re going into Silver Bell alone?” Wyatt asked, breaking into his thoughts.

Silas nodded, checking his rifle. “I want to see the town before we make our move.”

“I’ll ride with you.”

“No,” Silas said firmly. “I need you here, Wyatt. I trust you to keep the men ready.”

Something dark and heavy flickered across Wyatt’s face before he quickly looked away. Silas noticed the strange reaction, but let it pass. “I’ll be back before dark,” he added, turning toward his horse.

As he tightened his saddle cinch, his thoughts drifted back home. Maggie would be furious with him for leaving again—not because she didn’t understand the need for money, but because she understood the brutal cost of the gallows.

And Eleanor…

A rare, soft smile warmed Silas’s rugged face. His little girl would be waiting by the door, expecting whatever tiny treasure he managed to find on the trail. Last time, it was a blue silk ribbon. Before that, a small wooden carving.

She treasured everything he brought her—especially the intricate, wind-up music box he had bought from a traveling merchant. The melody was delicate and beautiful, a tiny piece of sweet innocence in a frontier world that was anything but.

He also hoped Eleanor still played that little music box. He hoped she would always remember the father who loved her whenever she heard its melody.

“Silas,” Wyatt called out, snapping him out of his thoughts again. “You all right, brother?”

Silas nodded, swinging himself easily up into the leather saddle. “Just thinking about home. Eleanor.”

Wyatt smiled softly. “She’ll be waiting by the door.”

“I know.” Silas gathered his reins, casting one final, authoritative look over the camp. “Keep everyone here until I return.”

“Be careful out there,” Wyatt nodded.

“I always am.”Silas turned his mount toward the eastern trail, riding away just as the morning sun finally broke through the heavy mist.

Behind him, the Blackwood gang watched him disappear into the long, golden shadows of the valley.

Blackwater Ridge waited beyond the jagged hills. Silas had no reason to believe this day would be any different from the countless scores of trail rides that had come before it. He truly believed he was riding toward his next easy target.

He had absolutely no idea that, somewhere in that dusty town, a trap was already being set—one that would change the course of his life, and his daughter's, forever.