Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  “You’re looking for a husband aren’t you?”

  “Yes … I mean no!” Her mouth dropped open. It took a moment to maneuver her tongue. “You’re Nathan Cavanaugh—the man my father wants me to marry?”

  “Randall was my mother’s maiden name.” He sounded calm and matter of fact. “I took it when the Pinkerton’s recruited me during the war. But that’s a long story.”

  Christie blinked.

  It was all too sudden—too confusing—too good to be true. Her Nat was the man she’d been running from all along. The one she didn’t want, but longed to have. Her lip began to tremble. She couldn’t speak. Something swelled to her throat. If not for Nat holding her up, she’d have dropped to the floor.

  He lifted one brow and smiled. “Well, what’s it going to be, sweetheart, yes or no? I’ve got a ranch to run. Should I book passage for a long sail, or a quick train ride?”

  “Yes!” She threw her arms around his neck with a sob.

  After a moment, Nat drew her away from him. “You’re not crying are you?” He gazed down at her, looking completely baffled, as though he didn’t quite know what to make of her. Of course, he didn’t know what she’d been through—how leaving Nevada had been like a deathblow.

  “Of course not.” She drew a shaky breath, attempting to rein in her emotions.

  “Come on,” he said, taking her by the hand. “We’d better get out of here. I have a feeling your father’s the kind of man who shoots first and asks questions later.”

  A quick glance over her shoulder explained what he meant.

  The murderous look on Ian Wallace’s face across the dance floor, hurried her along behind Nat.

  He led her straight out the French doors, down the stone steps, and around the house to the gate.

  The fresh air shocked Christie back to her senses. “You’re supposed to be rescuing me, not kidnapping me. What are you doing? Where are you taking me?”

  “To my carriage where we can talk in private, without a gun pointed at my back.”

  “This isn’t Nevada.” Christie laughed as she raced along beside him. “My father isn’t packing a gun. Even if he were, he wouldn’t shoot you. Though I’ve heard Aunt Madeline say he can hold his own in a round of fisticuffs.”

  “I’ll bet he can,” Nat said, handing her up into the carriage. “I’ll have to put an addition on the house, if our sons decide to grow that big.”

  “Sons?” she inquired, after he’d returned from speaking to the driver, to settle on the seat beside her. “Just how long have you been planning this? Don’t tell me you’ve known about this all along, because if you have, I don’t know what I shall say!”

  “I hope you’re not thinking of slapping me again,” he said, gathering her into his arms. “Not after all the trouble I went to, to make an honest woman out of you.”

  Her gasp was lost in the loud rattle of carriage wheels as they rolled off down the lane. “I was an honest woman long before I met you, Nat Randall—Nathan Cavanaugh, whatever your name is.” She struggled to pull away. “How long have you known about this? Tell me?”

  “Very well,” he conceded with a chuckle. “I started to put it together not long after I saw you with Burke.”

  “The Pinkerton man? He accosted me on the boat, inquiring about your whereabouts. Of course at the time, I didn’t know you were there.”

  “Burke has a habit of showing up at the wrong time.” Nat’s tone turned to annoyance. “I wouldn’t have missed that damn train if it hadn’t been for him.”

  “You came to the station?” A lump formed in her throat. “You were there?”

  “Of course I came.” He ran one long finger along the edge of her cheek. I said I would, didn’t I?”

  Delicious rivers of heat rushed over her skin. “I waited as long as I could.” She groaned with remorse. “But … ”

  He drew her into his arms and kissed her tenderly.

  The feel and the taste of him made her go weak. To think that he was hers for the rest of her days, rushed joy straight through her to the tips of her toes, and something else—something untamed and fierce, like a great hunger after a hard day’s work.

  “I know. The stationmaster told me,” he rasped against her ear. “If Burke hadn’t delayed me, I’d have been there.”

  “What did he want?” Her voice rose, thinking of all the agonizing hours she’d spent, thinking Nat didn’t care.

  “My father sent him to look for me.” He proceeded to place tiny kisses all over her neck. “But let’s talk about it later,” he said thickly, unhooking her gown, “When I can think.”

  So that was the reason he’d come home—to make peace with his father. Uncertainty and disappointment pricked at the back of her mind. Did he actually love her, or was his proposal just a result of their fathers’ plot? Was this just another promise Nat had been forced into?

  But when he pushed her back on the leather seat quivering and naked, she found she no longer cared. The hard heat of him pressed tight against her spoke of another promise—too urgent—too wild to compare.

  “Christie,” he breathed. “Do you know what you do to me?”

  “The same thing you do to me.”

  His mouth crushed against hers and she could no longer think. The carriage filled with warmth as their bodies joined.

  She went careening down that slippery slope of desire only to be lifted up and up and up, higher, and higher, until she flew and crashed in a splintering climax. Pulses of delicious pleasure squeezed her inside and out, making her cry out Nat’s name.

  He plunged one more deep earth-shattering thrust then collapsed with his face in her hair. And still, she couldn’t get enough of touching him, running her hands down his back, feeling his heart beat fast and hard against hers. They lay entwined for the longest time, breathing hard.

  “Good God, woman!” Nat rose up with his hands braced behind her head, panting for breath. “Never leave me again.”

  She couldn’t stop smiling. “Are you saying that you missed me?”

  He chuckled. “I’m saying if I have to wait that long again, it will take more than a trip around The Horn to satisfy my lust.”

  “Oh! I see!” She attempted to push him off, giving a look of mock horror. “Is that all you’re marrying me for?”

  “Of course not.” He placed both hands on her shoulders to hold her still. “You’re uncommonly beautiful besides being the lustiest woman I’ve ever met.” He chuckled. “But the main reason is, I love you and I can’t live without you.”

  She swallowed hard, blinking back the tears brimming in her eyes. “You love me?”

  “I wouldn’t marry you if I didn’t.” He smiled down at her. “I may be as loyal as an old hound, but I’m not stupid enough to ever do that again.”

  “I thought cowboys were tougher than that.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him slowly and thoroughly. “But don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”

  About the Author

  Rachel Donnelly lives in Canada with her husband, two children, and one crazy cat. She fell in love with historical romance as a teenager and, after reading everyone she could get her hands on, decided to write some of her own.

  This edition published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  57 Littlefield Street

  Avon, MA 02322

  www.crimsonromance.com

  Copyright © 2013 by Rachel Donnelly

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-7026-4

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7026-1

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-7027-2

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7027-8

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © 123rf.com

  Seduced by the Out
law

  Apollonia Lord

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Copyright

  Chapter One

  1896

  Kansas City, Missouri

  “I have come to place a lonely hearts ad.”

  Tamar Freeman jumped at the booming voice that cut through the silence of the Advocate’s office. A lady journalist such as herself shouldn’t jump out of her composure and skin at the slightest sound. But I am not an ordinary journalist, she thought, attempting to reign in her nerves and exhaustion. The Advocate was the only newspaper in the area for the colored citizens—black, brown, and tan-hued men and women—who made Kansas City their home. She didn’t write about home and hearth, recipes and religion. She was a crusader for truth and justice. As the lone colored woman publishing a newspaper in the state, she made some friends and many angry enemies who were upset with her editorials. Threats were commonplace. She just hoped that this week she could live in peace.

  The bronze colored gentleman cleared his throat and primed the bell on the counter. The chime echoed through the office. She glanced around at the storefront’s three cramped rooms and grimaced. It could hardly be called an office with all the things she had crammed in here.

  Again, he spoke. “Ma’am, I have come to place a lonely hearts ad,” he said, clutching his hat in a death grip. His eyes looked over every bit of the room as if he was making sure no one could surprise him from any angle.

  Tamar’s youngest sister Delilah placed the form on the counter. “Sir, complete this. Have you written one before?”

  The man harrumphed, his loud exhale rumbled through the space and possibly the barbershop next door. “Too many to count. Love is a vain and cruel mistress.”

  Delilah clucked like a mother hen, her soft face beaming with joy and happiness. “But you cannot give up hope. Love is superb and worth it.”

  “My dear, you are young and naïve. Heartbreak has a way of grinding you down to where the hurt and pain isn’t worth it. It’s never worth it.”

  “Delilah!” Tamar called her to the back of the room. “Take care of these for me,” she said, handing the scissors and twine to her sister. Tamar had learned the lessons of love the difficult way and at forty knew what the man was talking about. Delilah was twenty years younger than she was and was filled with fanciful hope and cheer. No old codger was going to convince her that love and adventure were impossible to have without trouble and melancholy. “These have to get ready for distribution before we run the next edition.” The paper had moved to a twice a week publication schedule. A big reason for the success of the paper was the lonely hearts ads. The hard and lonely life on the farms and towns drove people to sell love any way they could. Luckily, they came to the Advocate to find love, and wrote to the Agony Aunt column to keep it. Her sister’s suggestions for fun and diversions in the newspaper had made her a tidy profit but she hoped that people read the news and politics pieces too. She had a sinking suspicion that no one cared about progress and civil rights as much as she did.

  The amount of work and manpower needed to make the operation grow was staggering. She could afford the help, but did she need the headache? For ten years, she’d struggled to make this paper a success, borrowing and scraping what she could to make her dream a reality. Now they had it—but with a steep price.

  As if in answer to her thoughts, a rock crashed through the plate glass window. The man jumped in surprise, but the two Freeman women continued to work. The man started for the door, his hand on the doorknob and his feet ready to chase before Tamar stuck two fingers in her mouth, and whistled. “Sir, I’d advise you to not pursue.”

  “Someone demolished your property.”

  “The someone is the Klan,” Delilah piped up from the back.

  Tamar sighed. Her sister gave little thought about discretion and believed all of the skin folk were fans of the radical leaning paper. “It’s not the Klan,” she said loud enough for her sister to hear. It was a lie. She was certain of it, but it was easier to keep her sister’s mind free of worry and anxiety.

  “May I?” Without waiting on her answers, the man snapped a dazzling white handkerchief from his coat’s pocket and scooped up the rock. “What do we have here?” He peeled the white paper wrapping off the rock and stretched it taut on the counter. His face blanched as much as a man the color of mud could. “Inappropriate and vile. No lady should read this.”

  “I’m no lady.” She pulled the post close to her for inspection. The words formed mean and ugly statements about her and explicitly stated that her office would burn, before going into how much better her slim neck would look with a noose around it. Clearly she had made some people angry with her last few statements about the segregation of schools and the rampant lynchings happening across the country. These were things one was supposed to accept as a part and parcel of life. She wasn’t going to accept anything but full human rights and dignity. Good—that’s what she was supposed to do. Put clamps on those who made the lives of others impossible to live, even if she had to suffer intimidation and terror. “This is tame in comparison,” she muttered.

  “In comparison to what?”

  Tamar shook her head at the gentleman. This was no time to discuss the awful nature of mankind as evidenced by her piles of hatred mail. The letters arrived and she shoved them into drawers without opening them. A woman could only take so much disparagement and hate in a day. “It is not important. The men and women who write this hateful trash will not stop me from my work, so how may I help you today?” she asked, twisting a smile and pleasant look onto her face.

  The man’s concerned face didn’t budge. “You should call for the sheriff.”

  “Ha,” she said, stuffing the offensive notice into a drawer. “I have darkened his door several times. He said I can’t prove anything.”

  “They wrote their name on it,” the man said with a grumble. “That’s from the Ku Kluxers. I didn’t realize they were prominent in this area.”

  “Well, they are. And the sheriff has an affinity for that group, being a former rebel. He’s not a man we go to for security or assistance. Now, enough about that. May I see your lonely hearts request?” Tamar snatched the piece of paper from under the heel of his hand and squinted at the mash-up of hieroglyphics and chicken scratch all over the page. “I cannot read this.” She passed it back to him.

  He chuckled, folding the note into tight quarters and tucking it into his pocket. “My handwriting is abysmal. Let me dictate my words to you.” He took a deep breath and started to compose his note. “Ada, my dear. You have gone astray. I am certain I have lost you. I will move on alone. This is your last chance; give me a sign. Meet me where we last met before you broke my heart.”

  She raised her hand to stop the stream of words from his mouth. “Just a warning—we charge by the word.”

  “Money’s no object. I need to get that off my chest.”

  Whoever this woman was had surely hurt this man. Tamar was certain of that. Her normal prying questions danced on her tongue and she yoked them into submission. Asking questions to the brokenhearted led to long discussions, lamentations about the curses of love, and crying jags. And I have time for none of that, she thought. She had to go through the newspapers and insights she collected from the mail and set type. “Is that all you have to say to her? Most men want to end with a declaration of love or promise of intentions.”

  Delilah piped in. “Or at least tell her that you forgi
ve her and all can be made well.”

  The crumbling of the hard look on his face confirmed Tamar’s thoughts. A reconciliation was not going to happen. “I gave you all the words I had. I trusted her. She broke my trust. I waited and still no response.”

  “I’m so sorry,” she said, patting his heavy hand. For a large man with fists that resembled mallets, his skin was soft. “She will come back to you. This Ada.”

  “I don’t have high hopes. She ruined my plans.”

  “Strange,” Delilah muttered, wandering back into the room. “A woman named Ada has been mentioned many times in the recent love matches pages.”

  Tamar swirled around and shot her sister a withering look that caused her to retreat and shush her mouth. It was true. Ada had been a popular woman. Messages had been flying back and forth between Ada and several suitors. That dexterity of balancing suitors and their interests and needs was more drama and work than any woman in her right mind needed. And Tamar was in her right mind. The man didn’t need to know that his one-time love was collecting admirers across the plains. “It will be three dollars.”

  The man unfurled several bills from his money clip. “Make it as large as possible.”

  The size of type didn’t show the strength of love, but Tamar would take the money and set the press for his desire.

  “Am I done here?” the man asked.

  “Of course. We will take care of this.”

  “And if you need anything related to that window … ” The man dropped a calling card on the counter. “Let me know.”