The Secret Admirer Romance Collection

by Barratt, Amanda; Beatty, Lorraine; Bull, Molly Noble

  A true prince will love you always.

  She’d let him go. In her foolish pride, she’d lost him—her true prince. But she could try to find him. Beg his forgiveness. At the very least, she owed him an apology.

  Let me find him, Lord. Even if I cannot repair the damage I have done, let me find him.

  Just let me try.

  Today he was leaving Newport, leaving Lily. And once he’d gone, there’d be no coming back.

  In the course of his new life, there wouldn’t be any cause to see her again. He’d already decided, last night, not to find another job in service. God had a different call in his life—bringing education to those who needed it most, bringing with that education, hope. It was what he’d always dreamed of, wanted, and planned for.

  Still, no burst of excitement filled his heart. Or if it did, it dimmed and flickered like one of those newfangled electric lightbulbs. His plans had a hollowness to them, now that she would never share them.

  Help me to trust You, Lord. I know You’ve got a good plan.

  He’d spent the night in a cheap rooming house and now made his way for the last time, down Bellevue Avenue. How often he’d driven this same stretch. Every turn, every passing mansion, was as familiar to him as his own face. He knew when to slow a car to avoid a bump, when to keep to the side of the road to avoid horse droppings.

  Amazing. What had been so familiar would soon become as distant as a far-off galaxy.

  Wind swept over his face, ruffling his hair and sending cleansing air into his lungs. His steps slowed. This was foolish. He should’ve taken another street. He knew the town well enough to do so. Any path, even one that took him down a dark alleyway, would be less dangerous than this route. The one that would take him past Seacombe.

  But like a compass to the north, he was drawn there. No matter the ruination it might wreak upon his already tumultuous heart.

  There. Her house. Stately and grand and familiar as ever. Though Jackson had been the one to design the place, every brick seemed to breathe her name.

  A rush of longing, sharp and insistent, gusted over him with more force than the wind.

  He let his gaze linger a moment more then resolutely turned away. He’d made his pilgrimage. Time to leave the shrine behind.

  The rumble of a motorcar registered in his mind, though only barely.

  “Nathan.”

  Blast it, was he now going crazy? Would the sound of her voice fill his brain at every turn, the way the hero in Edgar Allen Poe’s story couldn’t escape the beating of a heart?

  “Nathan!”

  That voice again. He couldn’t take it, couldn’t—

  His breath hitched.

  For there she was. Running toward him. Not from the direction of her house but from a parked motorcar a block away. And not just any motorcar. The one he’d practically lived behind, driving her around during those long, blissful days.

  Her hair swirled around her face, her dress held high above her shoe tops.

  And she raced toward him as if her very life depended upon reaching his side.

  For the space of a second, she seemed ready to fling herself into his arms. But she stopped a couple of inches short, her bodice heaving with quick breaths.

  He regarded her, this woman he’d braced himself into never laying eyes on again. This woman that he loved, despite all manner of rational sense.

  “You can’t drive a car.” The words slipped from his mouth.

  The slightest of smiles bloomed on her lips. “I’m not an idiot, Nathan Evans. What do you think I’ve been doing while you’ve been driving me around? Powdering my nose? I’ve been watching you. And I’ve learned a great many things.”

  “Really?” He wanted to close his eyes. Why was she here? He didn’t want this picture of her, so real and beautiful, invading his dreams for years to come. Call him a coward, but it pained him with an almost physical ache to look at her.

  “Yes. You taught me how to smile when my world was falling around me. To laugh just for the joy of it. To dream because we have only one chance to live life well. I want to live life well. But not alone, Nathan.”

  The tears shimmering in her eyes nearly undid him. She shouldn’t be crying. She’d done enough of that in years past to last several lifetimes.

  But he said nothing. Didn’t take a single step toward her. Perhaps the memory of yesterday still burned too sharply. Or perhaps he knew, deep down, that she had more to say.

  In a single motion, she captured both of his hands in hers, her gaze never leaving his.

  “Do me a favor. See me. Not the lady of society or the woman who paid your salary. But me. Lily Grace Montgomery. I’m not perfect. I’m not even rich. To be honest, I have very little to offer you. But what I have, I offer. Me. Myself. All of me. I offer it to you, knowing you have every right to reject it. But I don’t want to get to the end of my life with the regret of never trying.”

  This was real. Happening. The woman he’d adored from a distance was standing in front of him, laying out her heart. For him. Him!

  Thank You, Lord….

  Worry flecked her gaze, as if she feared his rejection. So he smiled and drew her against his chest.

  “I don’t have much either, Lily. Like you, I’m not perfect. And you already know I’m not rich. But one thing I do have in abundance. A heart full of love for you. And a longing to make you my wife so fierce I can scarcely stand it.”

  She looked up at him, her eyes brimming with love and wonderment. A tear trailed down her cheek.

  “You want to marry me?” Her words came out in a whisper.

  “Oh, Lily.” He pressed his lips to hers, kissing her softly, reverently. He drew back, her forehead brushing his. “I have wanted, still do, and will always want to marry you.”

  “Me, too. Marry you, I mean.” She kissed him, letting her lips trail across his, teasing, tempting. “You were a fine chauffeur, Nathaniel Evans. But I have a feeling you’re going to be an even better husband.”

  “I’ll still be your chauffeur.” He fingered a strand of her silky hair. “Part of the time. I’d miss driving that fine car.”

  She laughed.

  There were plenty of good moments in life. Moments of pleasure and joy. But few perfect ones. This moment, holding her in his arms, heartbeat to heartbeat, sunlight shining down on them?

  A perfect moment.

  Made even more so as she smiled, cuddling against him. “I don’t care whatever you are, or wherever we are. Just as long as you’re mine.”

  ECPA bestselling author Amanda Barratt, fell in love with writing in grade school when she wrote her first story—a spinoff of Jane Eyre. Now, Amanda writes inspirational historical romance, penning stories that transport readers to a variety of locales. These days, Amanda can be found reading way too many books, watching an eclectic mix of BBC dramas and romantic chick flicks, and trying to figure out a way to get on the first possible flight to England. She loves hearing from readers on Facebook and through her website amandabarratt.net

  The Advocate

  by Lorraine Beatty

  Dedication

  To Diane for all her help on this story. I appreciate you so much.

  Chapter 1

  He rode into town astride a black stallion, a recalcitrant cloud of dust swirling around his shoulders. He sat tall and straight in the saddle, one hand resting on his thigh, the other expertly holding the reins. His black hat was pulled low over his steely blue eyes, his full lips a tight line above his angular chin. Behind him a body dangled across the horse. Mitch Kincaid had found his man and brought him in dead or alive. No one escaped Sheriff Kincaid’s brand of justice.

  “Oomph.”

  Jolted from her thoughts, Hannah Davis glared at the young boy who had bumped into her before directing her attention once again to the man riding into town. The famed sheriff of Riverton, Mitch Kincaid, the perfect man. She frowned as he rode past. He wasn’t astride a stallion but an ordinary sturdy bay mare. His black
hat was pushed back on his head as he held the reins with both hands. Plodding along behind him came a second horse with a rider, hands tied in front of him clutching the saddle horn.

  Hannah sighed. Apparently her imagination had gotten the better of her. But one fact was clear. Sheriff Kincaid was the most handsome, most heroic man she’d ever seen. As he moved on up the street, she realized she was still staring. What would the people here think? Whirling around, she entered the office of the Riverton Chronicle, the newspaper her aunt Polly owned and operated in the east Texas town.

  She’d arrived in town two days ago only to learn the sheriff was out hunting down a horse thief. But now he was back, and she would finally meet the man who had haunted her dreams for nearly a year. Unable to keep from smiling, she hurried inside. If her aunt was amenable, she could soon have a real job as a reporter. Her father had tried hard to discourage her interest in publishing, but it was no use. And thanks to the era in which she was born, she was living on the cusp of great change for women—and she was determined to be part of it and become a reporter. Coming west was the best decision of her life.

  Now she needed to find a moment to slip away and introduce herself to Mitch Kincaid. Her opportunity came later in the morning when her aunt left to check with one of her advertisers.

  Hannah quickly covered the distance between the paper at the end of the street to the jail located near the middle of town. Taking a deep breath, Hannah smoothed her skirts down, patted her hair up, and assumed her sweetest smile. The one that never failed to mellow her father. With a copy of the Chronicle in one hand, she gathered her courage and pushed open the door to the sheriff’s office. Her nerves quivered and her throat constricted. Finally she was going to meet her hero. Mitch Kincaid, the man who tamed a town, the man she’d dreamed about, and the reason she’d come to Riverton in the first place.

  She stepped into the dim room, letting her eyes adjust. The sheriff was nowhere to be seen. A large wooden desk—his desk—sat in the middle of the room, the top cluttered with papers. On the wall behind it a row of rifles, propped up and securely locked in the cabinet with a narrow chain, caught her attention. Slowly she turned, taking in the rest of the space. A few chairs, a table with coffeepot, a barrel of sand, and a large collection of WANTED posters on the wall, several of which had black lines drawn through their faces. Were those the ones he’d captured?

  Cautiously she peered through the open door at the back of the room, catching sight of the jail cells. Her heart skipped a beat. Were there any criminals in them now? Was she all alone with some dangerous outlaw? Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea after all. Suddenly feeling alone and isolated, she shivered.

  “Can I help you?”

  Hannah gasped and spun around. It was him. Mitch Kincaid. He was taller than she’d expected and leaner. Up close the shoulders were even broader than they’d appeared on horseback. And those eyes. Not steely at all but bright, clear sky blue.

  “What do you want, miss? I’m busy.”

  Hannah scrambled to collect herself. “I’m uh…” She cleared her throat. “I’m Hannah Davis, Polly Wilson’s niece. I just came by to give you a complimentary copy of her newspaper.” She smiled and held out the newly printed pages.

  He turned away and went to his desk and sat down. “I know who you are, and I don’t need a copy of the Chronicle.”

  She hadn’t expected her hero to be rude. “It will keep you informed of all the events taking place in town. I would think that would be a valuable tool in your line of work.”

  His blue eyes, now more gray and steely, met hers. “I know everything that goes on in this town.”

  The door opened and a short scruffy man tromped in. “Here’s the mail, Mitch. Got a big bundle today. Howdy, miss. You’re that niece of Miss Polly’s, aren’t ya?”

  “Yes, I am. Hannah Davis.” She shot a sharp glance in the sheriff’s direction. At least someone here was polite.

  “I’m Leroy, one of Mitch’s deputies. Glad to make your acquaintance. You plan on staying long?”

  A deep voice spoke before she could respond.

  “Two weeks.”

  Hannah looked at Mitch, still focused on the mail. “No. I’m here for an extended stay. I might even settle down here permanently.” How dare he suggest otherwise. Her image of the perfect hero was crumbling fast.

  Leroy chuckled and headed back toward the door. “I’m going to mosey through town. I’ll be back later. Nice to meet you, miss.” Still chuckling, he left closing the wooden door with a loud bang.

  Hannah faced Mitch again. He was ignoring her, sorting through papers on his desk. She would not be ignored. She’d come too far to meet this man, though now she was beginning to wonder why. “I see you’re running for reelection. Why aren’t there any posters of you around town? Your opponent has banners and signs everywhere.”

  The sheriff squared his shoulders, pushed back from the desk, and came toward her. Up close he was an imposing figure. The leather gun belt squeaked as he moved, and his black boots thudded firmly on the planked floor. She took a step back, but he took her arm and turned her toward the door.

  “I have work to do, and I’m sure you can find something more interesting to entertain yourself.”

  Hannah locked her knees, refusing to be pushed out the door. The man was insufferable. She jerked her arm free and faced him, looking up a long way before connecting with those blue eyes. Her heart skipped a beat, but she ignored it. “What did you mean by two weeks?”

  A shadow passed over his eyes like a cloud on a summer day. His posture shifted forward, and she found herself enveloped in his presence. “I know your type. You Eastern girls come out west to see the cowboys, live the adventure, but when you get here and see how hard life is, you hoist up your skirts and take the first train headed back. Two weeks from now you’ll be ready to brush the dust of Riverton off your fancy skirts and get back to your tea parties.”

  The arrogance of the man. “You don’t know anything about me, Mr. Kincaid. I’m not some hothouse flower that sits around in drawing rooms gossiping all day.”

  Mitch raised an eyebrow and quickly scanned her attire with his gaze. She knew what he was thinking. Her dress was one she wore frequently back home in Cincinnati, but it was far too ornate for the rustic little town.

  “I’ll be back here in two weeks just to prove you wrong.”

  Mitch shook his head. “Good day, Miss Davis.” He showed her his back and returned to the desk leaving her fuming at the door. “Good day to you, too, Sheriff. Though how much longer you’ll have that designation is doubtful. No one even knows you’re running for office.”

  Hannah squared her shoulders, lifted her chin, and marched out, leaving the door wide open. Let the man get up and shut it himself. The gesture gave her a deep sense of satisfaction as she made her way down the wooden walk to the newspaper.

  So much for her romantic notions. From now on she’d focus on her next objective. Becoming a reporter.

  Mitch stared at the open door. Miss Hannah Davis had gumption. He hadn’t expected that. Finding her standing in his office had hit him like an ax to his chest, yanking him backward in time to a year ago and the moment he’d met Lydia. The only difference was Hannah was a blond. Otherwise from her intricately styled hair to her fussy ruffled and bowed dress, she was an Eastern girl through and through. He’d been generous in giving her two weeks. Pushing back from his desk, he stood and walked to the door glancing outside and down the sidewalk. He caught sight of the woman, flouncing along obviously still upset with his remark. He watched her a moment longer then stepped back inside and closed the door.

  There was something different about this Eastern girl. He suspected she had a spine—something the other women lacked. Maybe she’d last longer than the others. There’d been a look in her green eyes that had been missing from Lydia’s. Determination. No. Come to think of it she’d been determined to use him as a toy and leave him humiliated and wounded.

&nb
sp; He wouldn’t make that mistake again. Ever. No matter how pretty the green eyes. He eased back into his chair. Hannah possessed a different kind of determination, the kind born of being used to getting her own way. Still, there was something soft and appealing about her, and he’d found battling with her stimulating. She flared up easily and stood her ground. Not once had she used the typical feminine wiles to lure him—no coy smiles, no fluttering lashes, no dropping of handkerchiefs to get his attention.

  Leroy traipsed back in a short while later, and Mitch glanced up to get his report.

  “All’s quiet for the moment.”

  “Good to hear.”

  The older man slouched in the wooden chair opposite the desk. “Well, unless you count the hullabaloo over at the hotel with Willard Greenly yapping about what a great sheriff he’s going to be. The man wouldn’t know a six-shooter from a Winchester.”

  “I think the people know that.”

  Leroy rubbed his chin. “I wouldn’t be too sure. I heard some folks saying it’s time for a gentleman sheriff.”

  Mitch took a moment to temper his response. “A gentleman can’t handle a bunch of drunken cowboys on a Saturday night.”

  “He could if there was no Blue Bull Saloon to worry about. Greenly is claiming he’ll close down the saloon and Miss Beulah’s, too.”

  “Talk is cheap, Leroy. I’m not putting much store in what Willard Greenly is saying.”

  “What did that pretty little filly want? She sure did brighten this place up.” He clicked his tongue. “She looked like a splash of sunshine standing there when I walked in.”

  The description fit her perfectly, which sent a barb of irritation along Mitch’s nerves. “Not sure. She said she came to give me a newspaper. I think she just wanted to meet a real Western sheriff. You know how those Eastern girls are.”