by Sandy James
Saving Grace
By Sandy James
Copyright © 2013 by Sandy James
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Dragonfly Press Design
www.dragonflypressdesign.com
Book design by Sandy James
Published by James Gang Publishing
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in retrieval system, copied in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise transmitted without written permission from the publisher. You must not circulate this ebook in any format.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this as an ebook and did not purchase it or it was not purchased for your use only, then please delete it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons—living or dead—events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Sandy James
sandy-james.com
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing: June 2013
ISBN: 978-1-940295-00-8
Table of 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
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Acknowledgements
A big “THANKS” to my critique partners—Cheryl Brooks, Nan Reinhardt, Leanna Kay, and Mellanie Szereto—for all their help getting this book ready.
To Sandy Owen—I love working with you! Thanks for taking me on as a critique partner!
To my family—I truly appreciate all you do to support my writing. Love you all!
And to my agents—Joanna MacKenzie and Danielle Egan-Miller of Browne-Miller Literary—for letting me take this little venture into the historical side of romance.
Chapter One
San Francisco, California—April 1881
She didn’t intend to kill him.
Standing outside the suite at the San Francisco Arms, Grace Riley lifted the hand she’d clenched into a tight fist. It took all of her strength to make herself knock. Her other hand dropped, stroking her wool skirt, feeling the slight bulk of the weapon hiding in a deep pocket. One caress to give her control and remind her that she was no longer the prey.
She counted the seconds and fought the dichotomy of wanting the door to be opened yet hoping Stephen Shay wasn’t there. The man answered the door himself instead of sending a servant to perform the task.
They would be alone.
That nauseating thought made her want to turn and flee.
No. No running away.
She had to know, unable to face the nightmares of speculation any longer. Living in limbo had become unbearable—even more unbearable than being in his presence again.
Dressed in his typical black suit, Stephen folded his arms over his chest and leaned a shoulder against the door. Those obsidian eyes fixed on Grace, sending a shudder ripping through her.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t come, my sweet.” With a sweeping gesture, he invited her inside.
She swallowed the enormous lump of fear rising in her throat. It settled in her chest, making it hard to breathe. Reminding herself why she’d come, she made her feet move. He shut the door behind her, the sound akin to a lid closing over a tomb.
Stephen doffed his coat and laid it over the arm of the sofa before walking over to the bureau and pouring himself a drink. He raised his glass. “Would you care for one?”
She shook her head, wishing he would stop pretending he was anything but a cold-hearted bastard. She wanted the information, and then she wanted to get the hell out of there and as far away from San Francisco and Stephen Shay as she could run.
“Where is Jake Curtis?” The words were forced out between clenched teeth.
Downing the drink in one quick swallow, he grimaced as he filled his glass again. “Ah, Grace. Always in such a hurry. We should spend some time…catching up. I’ve missed you. How is your father? I do hope he’s well.”
She narrowed her eyes, the only sign she would offer that she’d even heard his words. He knew damn well that with the exception of her brother Matthew, she hadn’t seen hide nor hair of her family in years, especially her good-for-nothing father. Surely Stephen’s overpriced detectives had told him that. They’d made her life a waking nightmare, tracking her as if she were some common criminal.
A shaky breath helped her control both her temper and her fear. “Where is he?”
His smile was downright reptilian. She imagined a forked tongue darting out between his thin lips.
“Have you been in the company of cattlemen for so long you have forgotten the niceties of polite conversation?”
Grace bit back an acidic laugh.
Niceties?
What did he know about niceties?
She gritted her teeth. “Tell me where Jake Curtis is, or I shall leave. Now.”
Stephen nodded at the papers scattered across the table. “What you seek is in those.” He took a sip from his glass, but his eyes never left her. “May I inquire what I am to receive in return for the time and expense to find him for you? You owe me, my dear.”
A scoff burst out before she could bite her lip.
Owe him? Owe him?
All she owed him was the same misery he’d caused her.
He took a couple of steps closer.
It took every ounce of her strength to not take a few in retreat.
“You look well, Grace. You have grown even more beautiful with age, just as I knew you would. Oh, you were a beauty when you were younger. But now there’s a...wisdom about you. So many years have passed, yet it seems only yesterday. You were so sweet. So young. How long ago was it?”
Twenty years.
Twenty long years spent as far away from him and his world as she could put herself. Dear Lord, she’d been running her whole life. The urge to pull the gun from her pocket was almost irresistible as the horrible memories she’d kept at bay for so long pushed their way forward.
No. Not now.
There was no time to panic now.
Throwing back the last of the amber liquid, he set the glass down. “Why so quiet tonight, my sweet? I was hoping to make this reunion…special. Supper will be sent up shortly. Then we can get reacquainted.”
Supper?
As if she would stay a moment longer than she absolutely had to.
Share a meal with him?
She’d sooner starve to death.
No, she was getting what she came for, then she would leave as fast as her feet could carry her.
Summoning up her
courage, Grace reached for the papers.
Quick as lightning, Stephen rushed to the table as his hand shot out and grabbed her wrist. He jerked her so hard she lost her balance and stumbled against him. A low chuckle rose from his throat.
“I knew it. I knew even back then what kind of woman you are.” His mouth dropped to cover hers.
Grace froze.
No. No. No.
The word echoed like the ticking of a pendulum clock. This wasn’t happening. This couldn’t be happening. Not again.
Never again.
She bit his lip as she brought her knee up hard, connecting with the vulnerable targets between his thighs the way her brother had taught her.
With a curse, he pushed her away. She stumbled back onto the sofa. As he took deep breaths and wiped the back of his hand across his bleeding mouth, she scrambled back to her feet and hurried to grab the papers.
His chest slammed into her back, pushing her thighs against the table. “You bitch! You’ll pay for that!”
Struggling, she twisted against the strong arms that held her own against her sides. She fumbled for the gun, trying to free it from the deep folds of her skirt. He hauled her toward the big four-poster bed, her dangling feet making it impossible for her to escape. She kicked his shins as she thrashed about, trying to inflict enough pain that he would release her.
He tossed Grace on the bed. She rolled to her back and groped for the gun. Her hands shook so hard they wouldn’t obey her mind.
Stephen stepped away from the bed and removed his tie and waistcoat as though he had all the time in the world. “You’ll see, Grace. Things will be good between us again. I have waited far too long for this.” He draped his clothes over the settee. As he unfastened his cufflinks, he came back to stand next to the bed. “You are mine. You were then. You are now. Mine.”
She wrenched the gun free and pointed it at his chest. “No.”
He clucked his tongue and reached out to her. “Give me the gun, Grace. You don’t even know how to use it.”
“Leave me alone!” Scooting across to the far side of the mattress, she struggled to keep the gun steady so she could back off the bed and grab the papers.
Stephen lunged.
Her finger clenched, squeezing the trigger.
The shot made her ears ring and her hand sting. An acrid smell filled her nostrils. The gun slipped from her hands and landed with a soft thud on the thick carpet.
He staggered back as his hand covered the left side of his chest. Dark blood oozed between his fingers, staining his dove-gray vest.
His eyes found hers. She could almost see his life ebbing away.
“You…bitch. You’ve…killed…me.”
Her brain went numb. Somehow she stumbled to the table, snatched the papers, and found the door. When she reached the hall, she ran. A few doors opened, and strangers gawked as she passed them. She didn’t pause to explain, didn’t even slow down until she gained the street.
She’d killed him—she’d really killed him. Tears sprang into her eyes as she tried to slow her pace and blend with the people walking on the crowded sidewalk. His passing from this world gave her no joy, and she feared her soul would be damned for eternity because she’d taken his life for revenge.
Focusing on why she’d come to San Francisco, Grace touched the papers she’d wrinkled and smashed into her pocket. Her life didn’t matter anymore. Nothing really mattered anymore.
Except Jake.
Chapter Two
The Twin Springs Ranch outside White Pines, Montana—One week later
A person only pounded on a door in the middle of the night if there was trouble.
Adam Morgan stubbed his toe against a chair, cursed, then hurried to tug his shirt over his head. He stumbled out of the bedroom as he pulled on his pants.
The knocks grew more urgent as thunder rumbled in the distance. He flew down the stairs and grabbed the loaded shotgun he kept next to the door. A quick glance out the window told him he wouldn’t need a weapon to deal with his petite visitor. He set the gun down and opened the door.
The woman had been reaching up to knock again when he jerked the door open. She pulled her fist against her chest and gasped in surprise. Big, brown eyes stared at him, but she didn’t move to come inside. She simply stood on the porch, shivering from the cold spring rain that had soaked her through.
Someone needed to lead this odd little dance. “Ma’am, might I ask why you’re beating on my door in the middle of the night?”
She shivered as she wrung her hands. Throwing him a furtive look, she tossed back a question of her own. “Is–is Jake C–C–Curtis here?”
Her teeth chattered so hard it took him a moment to figure out what she was asking. “Jake? You’re looking for Jake? At this hour?”
She nodded. The poor woman looked like a cat someone had thrown into a lake. The rain plastered her loose hair against her cheeks and neck. Her clothes clung to her body. Another shiver wracked her. “I–I n–need to–to see Jake.”
“Why?”
Jake had never been the type of person to get himself into trouble with a woman—especially since his marriage—so Adam dismissed the notion she was searching for Jake to resolve some romantic tryst. She also appeared a mite old for the twenty-year-old cowboy Adam had raised as his own son since the boy was nine.
“Is–is he here?” she asked again.
He hadn’t realized how labored her breathing sounded until she rasped out her question.
Since she didn’t appear to be a threat, he answered her. “He’s living in White Pines now.”
Why did the defeated frown on her face bother him so much? From the pain in her eyes, she might as well have taken a punch to the stomach.
With the back of a shaking hand she smoothed back some wet tendrils of hair sticking to her cheek. “Is th–that the t–town wh–where the stage st–stopped?”
He inclined his head toward the south. “’Bout three miles that direction. Did you just walk all the way here? In this storm?”
With a curt nod, she turned to leave.
Was she daft?
The woman couldn’t be planning to walk three more miles back to town on muddy roads and in the pouring rain to try to find Jake in the middle of the night.
Adam had been ready to call her back to offer some dry clothes and hot food when her knees buckled. She collapsed to the ground, reminding him of a discarded ragdoll.
He hurried to her side, knelt down, and smoothed away the wet hair that had fallen on her face. His fingers were greeted with hot, wet skin. The poor woman had gone pale as milk. Without a moment of reticence, he scooped her up into his arms and carried her inside.
Kicking the door closed behind him, he called for his daughter. Water dripped from both him and his guest, pooling on the wooden floor. Waiting a few beats, he shouted again. “Victoria!” He was rewarded with the noise of movement on the second floor.
“Daddy?”
“Grab some towels and come to the guest room.” He took the stairs two at a time, leaving a trail of water behind.
“Towels?” His daughter hurried toward him down the second-story hall. Her eyes widened as she gave the belt on her robe a last tug. “What on earth…?”
“Towels, princess. Please.”
Adam carried his burden into the guest room, wincing as he realized he’d called Victoria by his pet name for her. A woman of twenty-one probably didn’t appreciate her father using a childhood endearment. But that’s what Victoria would always be regardless of her age—his little princess.
She hurried into the room and spread a couple of towels over the quilt. Adam set his burden down on the bed while his daughter lit the lamp. He crouched to take off the woman’s shoes as Victoria tried to peel off the thin coat the woman wore, although thinking of it as a coat was giving the pathetic garment more credit than it was due. The shoes were so worn they almost came apart in his hands.
“Who is she?” Victoria rubbed the stranger�
��s hair with a towel.
“Not a clue.”
The woman shivered hard enough to make the bed shake.
His worry increased. Fevers could easily turn deadly. “We need to take off these wet clothes and get her dry.”
“I’ll get a dry nightgown and more towels.” Victoria hurried out of the bedroom.
Adam reached for the buttons of the woman’s tattered shirt.
Her eyes flew open, looking as wild and panicked as a cornered animal’s. She sat up and slapped at his hands. Her cheeks had flushed crimson, and her breath came in wheezing gasps. “D–don’t touch me. I–I won’t let you touch me.”
He pulled back, splaying his hands. “Whoa, ma’am. I just wanted to get you dry.”
“D–don’t t–touch me!”
Thankfully, his daughter strode back into the room and took charge. She dropped the bundle of dry clothing on the rocking chair and moved to the bed to lay a comforting hand on the woman’s shoulder. “You’re safe here. You have a fever. Let us take care of you.”
Turning her frightened eyes to Victoria, the woman trembled. “Safe? Safe here?”
“Very safe here. I’m Victoria.” She inclined her head at Adam. “That’s Adam—my father. We’ll take care of you. Let’s get you out of these wet clothes.”
It took her a good, long time to think it over before she nodded. Shaking fingers reached up to work the buttons of her shirt. She couldn’t hold her hands still enough to do much good. Victoria brushed her hands away and took over the job.
The women needed some privacy, so Adam nodded to his daughter, stepped out of the room, and closed the door behind him.