Loving the Lawmen

by Marie Patrick

  “I won’t,” Tamar answered, coolness easing through her voice.

  Tamar scanned the messages. Her heart dropped to her feet. It had to be a coincidence. Her eyes glided over the page that was missing sentences, nouns, and verbs. All that were on these telegrams were scriptures directing her to certain places in the Bible.

  The first one she knew intimately and from memory. Song of Songs. “Set me as a seal upon thine heart, as a seal upon thine arm: for love is strong as death; jealousy is cruel as the grave.” Amos had whispered those words to her before he left as she lay in his arms. Tears filled her eyes, but she brushed them away. Lovers speak those words to each other, so who would send such a thing to her?

  The next set referenced love and passion proverbs. The sender included her favorite: “Many waters cannot quench love.” She could finish the rest of the verse by rote: “ … rivers cannot wash it away. If one were to give all the wealth of his house for love, it would be utterly scorned.” The final telegram had one sole word: Lazarus. Tamar pressed the bundles of papers against her chest, full of hope that what she wanted was coming true. “What chapter of the Bible is the story of Lazarus?”

  “Gospel of John. Chapter eleven.”

  Tamar snatched the book from her sister’s hands and ran a finger over the page, searching for the verse. As she stumbled over it, she read the verse aloud, “And he that was dead came forth, bound hand and foot with grave clothes: and his face was bound about with a napkin. Jesus saith unto them, Loose him, and let him go.”

  Maybe Amos had risen from the dead.

  She threw off the covers and hopped out of the bed. She wobbled, woozy from the sleep, despair, and stress she experienced, grabbing the bedpost for support. “What’s the train schedule?”

  “Trains? Tamar, you just—”

  “Train schedule to Oklahoma. I need that,” Tamar said, still clutching the post as her world settled around her.

  Delilah nodded. “I’ll get that for you. Let me head to the station,” she said, scooting out of the room.

  Tamar called after her youngest sister. When Delilah popped back into the room, Tamar moved to the door and hugged her sister. “I entrust you to take care of everything for me while I am gone.”

  “Take care of what?”

  “The paper. The house.” Tamar smiled. “I have to see about a man who came back to life.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  Amos walked to the station platform’s end and watched the train approach. He and the town’s mayor had fought like hellcats to get the railroad to stop in this town. Without a station, this outpost would be a memory in twenty or thirty years. After all that the founding fathers and mothers of the town fought for he wouldn’t see this town reduced to dust and ghosts. A thriving college was moving into town, and with statehood fast coming, they would be a beacon.

  The passengers poured off the train. Some greeted him by name. Others were too terrified to speak with the man who once wore the tin star. He wasn’t there for them. He was looking for one woman in the crowd of many, watching the passengers shuffle off the train. Another arrival, no sign of Tamar. He peered at the pocket watch in his hand. Everyone should be off the train by now.

  He had given her a month after the last telegram.

  Fool. He always met the train, and she never appeared. This would be his last time coming here and waiting and hoping like a besotted fool for his treasure to arrive. He couldn’t or shouldn’t expect someone to drop everything to seek him out.

  She may not have even received the letter or the telegrams.

  From his contacts, mostly Bart, he knew that Tamar had stepped down from her role as editor.

  He hoped she didn’t hate him.

  He hoped she would come.

  Both were proving to be false.

  He would learn how to forget her. Even as the ludicrous thought popped into his mind, Amos shook his head. A man never forgot a woman like Tamar. He would never have that same intensity with another woman. He knew it. He could make do with that. At least he had those special moments with her.

  He pulled out his praline and stuck one in his mouth. He closed his eyes, letting the sweetness dissolve on his tongue. Whenever he had these, he thought of her and the sweet taste of her after she had one of these.

  “May I share that with you?”

  He was daydreaming her voice. Amos was reluctant to open his eyes, relishing in this moment of hearing her one last time. A bare, feminine hand clutched his and tugged. “Amos, you can share with me.”

  She was here. His eyes flew open and took in the sight of her inches away from him. A swell of satisfaction and peace engulfed him.

  Tamar spoke first. “I wasn’t sure if I was right to come here. I didn’t know what to expect.”

  “A dead man?” he asked after exhaling a long sigh of contentment.

  Her slight smile broadened. “Or a man who played tricks on me.”

  He shook his head, still shocked at the sight before him. “Never, Tamar. I don’t do tricks.”

  “You did lie.”

  “I was working for the Pinkertons. No one knew.” He frowned. “I wanted to tell you.”

  “I’m glad you are alive.” She barely had the words out when he pulled her into him.

  “I’ve missed you, Tamar Ruth,” he whispered before pecking her mouth.

  “Don’t tell me,” she said, wrapping her arms around his neck. “Show me.” She pressed her lips against his. He responded, crushing her into him. Her breasts pillowed against his chest. They were closer than some would think appropriate in public. He didn’t care. All he wanted was her and for her to know that his desire had not waned.

  She sighed, and he took advantage of her slightly parted lips, tasting her tongue.

  “Don’t leave me again, Amos.”

  “Darlin’, I will try my best. I didn’t want to leave you that morning, but I had to. I will spend my life making that up to you if you want.”

  “Is that a proposal?”

  “I can’t get down on one knee, but I love you, Tamar. Forever and a day. My words will never match up to the feelings I have for you, but I promise to protect you fiercely, love you fiercely. You are my home where I feel safe and loved.”

  “I want to be your wife, your everything.” She placed his hand on her stomach. “The mother to your children.”

  Amos’s hand lingered on her midsection. The slow dawn of realization creased his face. Before he spoke, she nodded.

  “This will make for a great story.” He cradled her face, drinking her in. “The man who rose from the dead.”

  “Rumored and presumed dead.”

  “What about the Advocate and your home?”

  “They will survive without me. Delilah is going to Howard soon, and she never wanted to have a newspaper. Priscilla might keep it, but—” Tamar drifted off as she stared into the distance. “I don’t care. I’m here with you.”

  “I will buy you a paper,” Amos countered. “Four papers and a good press here in Oklahoma.”

  “Don’t make promises you can’t keep, Amos.”

  “For you, my love, there are not any promises I won’t keep,” he muttered against her lips before sealing the promise with a kiss.

  She broke away, directing her dazzling smile at the man in front of her. “I could have this with you for forever.”

  Amos nodded, pressing his fingers against his lips. He had everything. His love. His land. His name and his rightful self. Soon there would be a wedding and a baby. “Tamar, I want this for a couple of forevers, for centuries to come.”

  Together, they walked away from the train station and into town, in search of a good meal, glowing in love.

  Copyright © 2016 by Apollonia Lord.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

&nb
sp; Crimson Romance™

  an imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  57 Littlefield Street

  Avon, MA 02322

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-5072-0132-X

  ISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0132-9

  eISBN 10: 1-5072-0133-8

  eISBN 13: 978-1-5072-0133-6

  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 © Mariusz Jurgielewicz/123RF and © Period Images.

  One Night’s Desire

  Book 2 of the Wildfire Love Series

  Rue Allyn, author of One Moment’s Pleasure

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Contents

  Dedication

  Prologue

  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

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright

  Eileen Nauman, Janeen Johnson, Merline Lovelace

  You each helped to make this book possible.

  Thank you!

  Prologue

  San Francisco, September 1868

  “Let me go.” Kiera wasn’t strong enough to push Herbert away. He was a large man, and he overpowered her. Locking her wrists in a one-handed grip above her head, he used his other hand to rip and tear at her clothes.

  “When I’m done with you, you’ll be happy to lay with any man I choose to sell you to.”

  Where was the friend of their long journey to California? What happened to the gentle lover who’d introduced her to passion with care and tenderness? Who was this monster that drank and gambled away the few pennies she could earn taking pictures of prostitutes and clients for Madame Cerise Duval, San Francisco’s most notorious madam.

  “Please, Herbert, don’t do this.” Kiera hated the pleading note in her voice. In all her years under her grandfather’s cruel thumb, she’d never begged. Would she have screamed her protest now, fought harder now, if guilt and love didn’t weaken her resolve? She’d given herself to Herbert freely. So of course he thought he had the right to use her as he pleased. But she’d given herself to him in love. She did not deserve to be beaten, raped, and sold.

  He tore off the last shred of cloth then flipped her over so her breasts pressed into the rough splintery wallboards of the attic room Madame Duval rented to them.

  “Spread your legs.”

  Kiera shook her head, then bit her cheek against the urge to weep and wail.

  A terrific blow to her temple made her world reel.

  She kept her limbs tightly together. She would not make this easy for him.

  A second, harder blow forced her body to sag.

  Her own weight jerked downward on her arms and her shoulders screamed with pain. Blood slithered down the side of her face and neck. He shoved a knee between her suddenly lax thighs and, kicking at her ankles, pried her legs apart.

  He leaned in, the buttons of his clothing scraping her back. His hand fumbling at his trousers teased her buttocks with unintended caresses.

  “That first blow was for disobeying me. The second was to remind you of the first.”

  “Please … ”

  “Shut up. I want to enjoy this, not listen to you whine.”

  His erection sprang free. Now his hand wandered her bottom, stroking, squeezing, testing, patting the two mounds and pressing his fingers against then within …

  She couldn’t stop the scream that tore from her throat the same way he was tearing into her body.

  He hit her a third time. “I said shut up.”

  Her vision dimmed, but she still felt his hips lift as he prepared to thrust fully into her.

  The thrust never came. Instead, he released her wrists.

  Dizzy with pain and chilled with fear she lay panting against the wall. She could hear his heavy breathing, feel his body’s heat, but he didn’t touch her.

  “Now step back, Herbert.”

  Madame Duval’s voice finally registered. Where had she come from? Why interfere in rape when flesh peddling was her stock in trade? Kiera slowly rolled to face the room, an odd sense of detachment possessing her as she moved. The effort to think was great—almost too great. She should be grateful, she supposed. She was grateful, but couldn’t help wondering why Cerise Duval cared if a man chose to sodomize his lover against that lover’s will?

  “You’ll regret this,” threatened Herbert.

  Kiera’s lips twitched, and she almost laughed. Madame Duval held him at pistol point, and he was threatening her? The arrogance of the man. Didn’t he realize that, even if he escaped being shot, Duval’s power in San Francisco was so great she could—with complete impunity—have him publicly hanged and his body tossed in the bay. No one would dare object, save the victim, for whom it would be too late.

  “Come over here, Mrs. Whitson,” Duval spoke the false name Kiera had been using since before she met Herbert. “Stand in front of me and face this morceau de merde who calls himself a man.” Those steel on velvet tones brooked no disobedience.

  Legs shaking, Kiera complied, even though doing so placed her between Duval’s pistol and its current target. Holding the pistol steady and aimed at Herbert’s head, the madam’s free hand stroked soothing circles across Kiera’s back.

  “Tch, tch,” the madam clicked her tongue. “Your threats are a bit foolish, don’t you think Herbert? Given who has the gun.”

  Breath scented with orange pastilles touched Kiera’s cheek. “Give me your right hand, chère,” continued Duval. “I will show you how to protect yourself from beasts.”

  Still dazed, Kiera lifted her hand. Duval, her hand covering Kiera’s wrapped Kiera’s fingers around the pistol grip, positioned her index finger on the trigger and extended their arms, all the while keeping the weapon pointed squarely at Herbert.

  “You must first cock this lever with your thumb.” Duval demonstrated and cocked the pistol. “Then you gently squeeze the trigger. Just as you would squeeze a lover’s genitals. Oui? But not just yet.”

  Kiera blinked trying to shake off her detachment. What is Duval doing, and why am I not screaming my head off?

  “Herbert, I should kill you for damaging the goods, but I won’t,” Duval said mildly. “I’ll just kill you for being stupid.”

  Duval’s index finger pressed down on Kiera’s, pulling the trigger. The shot deafened all other sound. A round hole appeared in Herbert’s astonished face. A trickle of blood formed as he fell. Backward.

  “Now once more just for fun.” Duval repeated her actions with the pistol, this time striking the spot in Herbert’s chest where his heart should have been.

  Kiera’s hand shook uncontrollably as detachment receded.

  Duval took one look at Kiera and frowned. “Bah. Look at you, shaking like a coward. Are you a weakling? I had thought you stronger.”

  “Why?” Horror still numbing her mind, Kiera shifted her gaze to Madame Duval.

  “He really is dead because he is stupid. Profits are up since I started showing F. Lyn Whitson’s pictures of my merchandise to clients so they could choose a companion ahead of time. If he made you a prostitute, you would no longer be so cooperative in providing photographs. I would have much more trouble than necessary. I need a photographer more than I need another whore. Now sit, before you fall down.”

  Kiera sat, pulling a robe over her body with one hand. The other still gripped the pistol.

  Duval stepped to the door, opened it, a
nd called for her butler.

  Several minutes passed, but the butler arrived soon enough. “Yes madame? You have need of me?” His demeanor gave no indication that he’d noticed the body or the blood.

  “Ah, Ames. Mrs. Whitson has finally decided she has had enough of her so stupid lover. Unfortunately, she shot him dead instead of asking me for help. I want you to clean up the mess she’s made.” Turning to Kiera, Duval continued. “When you are dressed, chère, please come to my sitting room. We will discuss the new terms of your employment here.”

  Chapter One

  Wyoming Territory, Late May 1870

  From the back of her mare, Kiera Boudicca Alden peered through the cloud covered night at the horses lazing in the corral of the Flying V ranch. The frenetic activity from the party going on inside and around the main house didn’t seem to bother the horses, but it bothered Kiera, almost as much as the angry voices coming from the direction of the horse barn. “Ain’t no way, I’m letting you run off with her,” one voice snarled.

  She couldn’t hear the reply, but a moment later she did hear gunshots.

  She sidled her horse closer to her Shoshone companion. “Muh’Weda, we’ve got to get out of here,” she whispered.

  “If they’re arguing about some girl, they’re too busy to notice us, and we need to get those horses back.”

  Kiera made one more attempt to convince her spirit brother that his plan would lead to disaster.

  “I’m all for you gaining enough puha to convince Aishimite’Bui’s father that you’ll make her a worthy husband, but you could have found a less dangerous way to do it than stealing your ponies back from the most powerful rancher in the territory.”