by Karen Kay
“Mr. Crawford?”
Hell. “Sorry, ma’am. Guess I’m still tired.”
He wondered if she believed his excuse when she tugged the shawl even closer across her chest. “I see. Are you…? How long will you be in Red Creek?”
It was difficult to shrug with inconvenient arousal tightening every muscle in his body. “As long as it takes.”
Her gaze changed, narrowed. “As long as it takes to kill the Cheyenne, you mean.”
“I’m not going to hurt the tribe across the hill, Miss Tully.”
“Not unless you think they’re dangerous. I know what you do now.”
“Oh?”
She nodded. “Mr. Vangaard runs the general store and collects the post. He has a nice stack of old newspapers in his back room filled with the accountings of your grand deeds. Saving the West one dead Indian at a time.” Sarcasm gave her words a cruel twist.
“That’s not all I do.” It absolutely was all he did, not that he wanted her to know.
“Mm.” She let her eyes settle briefly on the gun at his hip, and her lips compressed before she spoke again. “I suppose you’re going over there now.”
“I am.”
“The chief, Walking Bear, is John White Horse’s uncle. I’ve not yet met him, but, knowing Mr. White Horse, I can only assume he is as peaceful as his nephew.”
“I’m sure the problem doesn’t lie with Walking Bear’s tribe, Miss Tully. But I wouldn’t be doing my job if I didn’t investigate, at least once.”
She shifted her weight to lean against the doorframe. “Don’t hurt any more innocents, Mr. Crawford, or you’ll undo every good thing Mr. White Horse has accomplished in the past three months.”
It was much more difficult than it should’ve been to draw in air as she gave him a beseeching look. The softest expression she’d yet gifted him, it did funny things to his insides, and it drew him to her. He climbed the steps until he stood on the one just below her. “I won’t.”
“M-Mr. Crawford?” Her eyes grew bigger, rounder.
Slowly, so as not to startle her, he lifted a hand between them. “May I?”
She looked confused and slightly alarmed, but nodded anyway.
Her silky hair stroked sensuously over the backs of his knuckles as he slid his hand between the mass of it and her pale throat. Lifting, he pushed the cool strands back over her shoulder and let his thumb tug gently upward on the errant locks covering her ear. Her left ear.
Her left ear, which was pink and angry, but clean and showing no signs of infection. A small half-moon of flesh was definitely missing, right at the top of that delicately curled shell. “I won’t ever hurt an innocent again,” he promised quietly as he studied the wound. He wondered if it would’ve healed faster had the doctor attempted to stitch her up, but it was too late now, and she appeared to be taking hygienic care of the site. “I won’t, Miss Tully.”
He heard her suck in a deep breath. “Thank you.” She made no move to pull away from him.
He couldn’t help it. He let his fingers slide further into her loose hair to cup the back of her skull. His thumb stroked over the sensitive skin of her hairline, just above her ear, carefully avoiding the tender wound. Her body heat, her scent, twined around his senses until tension he didn’t know he carried left his shoulders and he could taste her, with the coffee and biscuits, on his tongue.
He wanted to actually taste her on his tongue, but now…now was not the time.
It wasn’t ever going to be the time.
But he was still held in the grip of that rose-and-mint fragrance, and it wouldn’t let him go. Not without telling her, “You smell good.”
“You smell…better than yesterday.” Her lips twitched as he drank in her pretty features. How long would it take him to count all the freckles on her face?
At least an entire, uninterrupted night. From dusk to dawn. And then maybe to dusk again.
The lie that saves her life could destroy their love.
The Prospect
© 2014 Beth Williamson
The Malloy Family, Book 10
Josephine Chastain never thought a case of typhoid would force her Oregon-bound family to leave her behind in Fort Laramie—in the care of the last man she trusts. Others in the wagon train may have accepted Declan Calhoun’s motives for kidnapping her sister Frankie, but not Jo.
When she wakes up from the three-week fever, though, she finds some things have changed. Declan is her husband. And their cabin is too small to contain the growing desire between them.
While Jo fights for her life, Declan finds himself falling for the bookish Chastain sister. A woman with a spine of steel and a seemingly bottomless well of smarts. In other words, everything he can never be.
Yet now is not the time to confess the little white lie that has thus far kept her safe. Not when he must figure out how to escape a quarantine that’s turned into extortion. And resist Jo’s determination to seduce him before she learns the truth. Before the unforgiving wilderness between them and safety claims their lives.
Warning: Be ready for a learned but stubborn woman, a man with a dark past who needs redeeming, and an adventure that will light your hair and your panties on fire.
Enjoy the following excerpt for The Prospect:
Outside Fort John
July 1848
Josephine Chastain wanted to kick the big Irishman until he begged for mercy, crying like a little girl. She clenched her fists hard enough that her nails dug into her palms, but she kept her face impassive, never letting Declan Callahan see how much he affected her. How much she wanted to punch him. It damn sure didn’t help that her stomach had been off for the last two days on top of this stress. She didn’t need or want any of it.
He was infuriating and condescending. A man who had no business speaking to her as though she were a three-year-old child or someone who had been dropped on her head as a baby.
“Do ya see what I’m saying, darlin’? This part goes through the hole here.” He pulled the cinch tight on the oxen’s belly. She’d learned to do it months ago in Missouri before they even left for Oregon. Now this great lummox was showing her for the sixth time in two weeks. She had nodded her head and stayed mute, letting him feel useful.
Yet he’d pushed her too far this time. He called her darling. Her. Plain old Jo Chastain, book lover, a quiet, thoughtful nineteen-year-old with brown hair and brown eyes. Nobody in his right mind would call her darling and mean it, to which she concluded he was making fun of her. The big, handsome, black-haired man with the easy smile was a cruel bully with his words. She hadn’t remotely forgotten he had kidnapped her sister, regardless of the penance he’d served by helping the wagon train and her family.
“I know perfectly well how to secure the oxen, Mr. Callahan. This lesson is completely irrelevant and highly annoying. I thank you to stop trying to instruct me in tasks I can already perform.” She pointed at him, surprised to see her finger wasn’t trembling. “You can return to your other duties as soon as possible.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. You can talk.” He shook his head. “The entire time I’ve worked this wagon train I ain’t heard you breathe a word.”
“Of course I can speak. I’m not mute or deaf.” She scowled at him. “I am also not an idiot.”
“You talk fancy too.” He grinned, white teeth shining from behind the thick black beard.
She hadn’t seen him smile before, not even once. The experience knocked her a little sideways and she had to blink to clear the image that burned into her vision. “I speak like a learned person.” She fluttered her hand in the general direction of the rest of the wagon train. “I’m sure someone does need your assistance. You do not need to spend any additional time with me.”
His brows went up. “Are you asking me to leave you alone, lass?”
Lass? She didn’t know whether to take umbrage with the moniker or be pleased he called her lass when she was nearly on the shelf. Perhaps it was an insult and she didn’t
know it. The man confused her, muddled her thoughts until she couldn’t tell up from down.
“My name is Miss Chastain. I’ll also answer to Mademoiselle Chastain.” She kept her shoulders straight and chin up, even if she was twisting every which way inside.
“Medemezel? I can’t make my tongue form such a word. I’m an Irishman, lass, not a Frenchie.” His expression was entirely unapologetic.
“Regardless, I am sure you have something better to do than stand here and explain a procedure to me. I clearly know what I’m doing.” She wanted him to leave. The man set her on edge, with his intimidating size, his hairy face and the fact he had been responsible for kidnapping her sister. She didn’t care that he’d been under order or that Francesca had forgiven him. Josephine didn’t know why, since she wouldn’t have pardoned him so easily.
Declan made her anxious and off-kilter. Deep inside, she held a secret as to why, but that particular fact would never see the light of day. Oh no, she would have to be on her deathbed to confess, and even then, she might take her private thoughts with her.
“Lass, are you still there?” He waved his hand back and forth, its callused, blunt-tipped fingers so different from hers.
“You do see me standing here, do you not?” Her cheeks felt hot. Lord, her entire body felt warm. Damn the man.
“I’ve been talking to you and you were far away. Don’t know where, but you for certain weren’t here.” He stared at her too intently, peering at her as though he could see the secret she kept hidden.
“That is ridiculous. I have been right here, listening.”
“Beggin’ your pardon, medemezel, but you were woolgathering right then.” He secured the last ox before he wiped his hands on his trousers and patted the beasts on their rumps. Perhaps he was finally leaving.
She couldn’t stand another moment with him or she might explode into a million pieces. Possibly more. While they lived in New York, she taught children at their homes, privileged children who could afford a private tutor. Out here on the trail, she was nobody, the daughter of a wood craftsman and a nurse, with two younger sisters and one older. A wisp on the wind of life.
Declan made her feel as though she were more than a wisp. By talking to her when she obviously didn’t want to speak to him, he forced her out of the shadow she lived in. Jo needed to get back into that comfortable place before she did or said something she would regret. If only he would cease to acknowledge her or offer to help. She didn’t need a thing from him.
Except perhaps a kiss.
Her secret bubbled up and bit her on the backside so fast, she actually gasped. His head snapped up from where he was crouched and that deep blue gaze kept her in place. For one wild moment, she wondered if she’d voiced her secret aloud.
“Did something bite you?”
“Pardon me?” She resisted the urge to unbutton the top of her shirt. Heat crept down her neck.
“You yelped as though something bit you on your a—person.” He got to his feet and rubbed his hands together then put them on his hips, cocking his head to the side. “You’re a strange one, Josephine.”
She started at the sound of her name from his mouth. His Irish lilt made the “o” long and musical. Josephine needed to ignore her silly reaction and remember his shady past. The man was a thug from New York, ones she had seen on occasion in Brooklyn. He meant less than nothing to her, a hired hand on the wagon train. Someone who barely had the right to be there.
“I did not grant you permission to use my given name. Now if you will be on your way, we can all leave with the wagon train.” To her surprise, he tipped his hat and walked away. She expected him to continue speaking to her, at which point she might have shown how nervous she was. A disaster she hadn’t wanted to happen, of course. As she watched, his long-legged gait took him to Miss Edith’s wagon in moments. The old lady insisted on being carried in and out of the wagon each day. Declan had taken over that duty when John Malloy left to marry Jo’s sister and start a ranch in the Wyoming territory.
Jo told herself not to watch, but she found her gaze straying back to Declan. He gently picked up the older woman and set her in the wagon. She noted he didn’t smile or flirt with her as John had done. No, Declan was quiet with other people, not unfriendly, but reserved. He didn’t act the same way with her.
And she didn’t know why.
The Angel and the Warrior
Karen Kay
A hunted woman, a forbidden love…and time ticking down on an ancient curse.
The Lost Clan, Book 1
Eighteen years ago, Swift Hawk was sent to the earthly realm to try to break an enchantment that curses his clan to a half-life in the mists. As his allotted time runs short, a vision gives him a glimpse of his last chance to free his people. A delicate young woman with translucent white skin and star-like hair.
He never thought his sacred vision would possess the tongue of a shrew.
Angelia Honeywell and her brother Julian fled Mississippi amid a hail of rotten tomatoes and flying bullets. She only fired back in self-defense, but now they are on the run as their father pleads their case to the governor.
With Julian trying to pass himself off as a wagon train scout, Angel knows they need help. When the handsome, black-eyed Swift Hawk agrees to save their skins, she can’t help but be drawn to his compelling gaze. But as they come together in a blaze of desire, the dark shadows of the curse descend, threatening to divide them forever.
This book has been previously published.
Warning: May cause nights of unbridled passion with the one you love.
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This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
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The Angel and the Warrior
Copyright © 2014 by Karen Kay
ISBN: 978-1-61922-098-0
Edited by Sasha Knight
Cover by Angela Waters
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
Original Publication: 2005
First Samhain Publishing, Ltd. electronic publication: April 2014
www.samhainpublishing.com