Untamed Hearts

by Colleen O'Connell

  Table of Contents

  Excerpt

  Untamed Hearts

  Copyright

  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

  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

  Epilogue

  A word about the author…

  Thank you for purchasing this publication of The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  Also available from The Wild Rose Press, Inc. and other major retailers

  He kissed her cheek,

  then pulled back. He encircled her waist with both arms, drawing her body slowly to his. “Why do you deny your feelings?”

  She tilted her chin upward. “I’m not feeling anything.” She wanted her words to sound indifferent, a pathetic attempt when her breathing was so pronounced.

  His brow shot up in question. “No?” His mouth swooped down over hers to prove her wrong, to entice her.

  She pushed him, trying to disengage his hold before she allowed the feeling to take complete control. He would have none of it. Passionate and demanding, he continued to kiss her. When she would turn her head away, his hand reached up, his fingers holding her jaw. Her heart pounded wildly, her senses reeling as she felt herself weaken. She must resist. She should think of Brad. He was her fiancé. In one final attempt, she shoved him hard staggering back herself as the support of his arms fell away. Righting herself, taking deep breaths, she returned his gaze, shaking her head. “I don’t want you to kiss me.”

  “You want more than kisses from me, Taryn.” His eyes blazed with passion. “If there were a decent bed to be found, I’d show you how much you want.”

  Untamed Hearts

  by

  Colleen O’Connell

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.

  Untamed Hearts

  COPYRIGHT © 2018 by Colleen O’Connell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  Contact Information: info@thewildrosepress.com

  Cover Art by Debbie Taylor

  The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

  PO Box 708

  Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

  Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

  Publishing History

  First Cactus Rose Edition, 2018

  Print ISBN 978-1-5092-2055-7

  Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-2056-4

  Published in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To my sisters, Mary and Maureen

  Thank you for your unending support of my dream.

  Prologue

  Mexico, 1879

  Adrenaline pounded through Jared King’s heart with driving force as he commanded running strides from his long legs to cover the distance between the jail house and the horse in sight. It was a small advantage. He had seconds before they followed. He grasped tightly to the reins of the steed and swung himself up onto the horse’s back.

  A group of Policia Federal burst out of the jailhouse, the leader shouting orders to his men. Jared heard the whirring buzz of a bullet zoom past his ear. Rearing his horse around, he raised his weapon, aimed, and fired. The leader of the group clutched his chest, collapsing outside the jailhouse door.

  He spurred his mount into a fast gallop, leaning down over the horse’s mane to protect himself from the barrage of shots fired after him. He veered the animal to the right of the jailhouse then dug his heels into the horse’s sides. The stallion bolted forward in a dead run. Jared could still hear the angry orders of the Mexican police shouting over the noise of gunfire. They would not delay long in their pursuit.

  Bribing a guard at the jailhouse to aid his escape had not been difficult. The promise of a generous amount of money was sufficient. If he could put enough distance between the Mexican police and himself before he reached the border, he would succeed in the promise of his own freedom.

  Chapter One

  Taryn Ashford stepped outside the Emigrant House at the Omaha Station where she spent the night after taking the Rock Island line from Chicago. She spotted a rugged-looking man standing off to her left eyeing a sheriff walking away from him. A leather gun belt angled across his lean hips. Holstered on each side of those hips were two ominous looking pistols. An ample supply of bullets was within easy reach held fast by the loops incorporated into the belt. A cattle rustler? An officer of the law? Dragging her view from his hips, she scrutinized his clothing. He wore a loose-fitting cambric shirt tucked into indecent form-fitting pants molded to his muscular legs. She touched the palms of her hands to her heated cheeks, shifting her gaze away.

  She placed her bonnet on, fashioning the satin ties into a large bow angled near her jawline. She glanced once more to the stranger. His deeply tanned features enhanced a potent masculinity hypnotic in its intensity. He wore a wide-brimmed hat low over his eyes, but she detected a glimpse of them when he removed the hat to push the wavy thickness of his raven hair back off his forehead. The stranger’s deep-set eyes were strong and intense. He was dangerously handsome. The man was in need of a shave; an even stubble covering his chin and jawline, yet the effect was strangely pleasing on him. Instead of projecting a disheveled look, the stranger seemed all the more mysterious and rakish.

  He would catch any woman’s attention as he did hers, but she was grateful he stood at a distance from her. The possibility of discovery by such an unscrupulously virile looking man sent warm shivers throughout her body. She glanced lower at the weapons about his hips. She bit her lower lip. He could be a gunman. She never saw a gunman in person. Of course, she heard and read of such men. All were ruthless killers. A thrill of wild, guilty pleasure at seeing such a man heightened the beat of her heart.

  The gunman, as she now considered him, was nothing like the men in Chicago. Men who wore fine tailored clothing and whose pursuits revolved around bankbooks. Men like her fiancé, Brad Thompson.

  Her ability to manage the journey so far reaffirmed her decision to visit California and the relatives she had never met. Her attempts to convince her parents to take her had been impossible. They would be furious when they learned she slipped away despite their refusal to allow her to make the journey alone.

  She was determined to do it! Once married to Brad, she would never have the chance again. She examined her hand, fingering the engagement ring her fiancé gave her. His ambition didn’t include the desire to explore anything outside a bank’s walls, and though she admired his ambition, she sometimes found it stifling.

  Shrugging off her conflicting emotions, she walked toward the throng of passengers gathering in groups along the platform. Some milled about uncertainly, while others p
aced impatiently waiting for the call to board the Pacific Express scheduled to take them farther west toward Sacramento. Rather than stand in the heat, she headed in the direction of the dining hall at the end of the station to purchase a meal. She scanned the site where she saw the gunman standing earlier. A pang of disappointment surged through her. She wondered where he might have fled. Surely, a man of his dubious profession was forever on the run. Coming around the station house toward the dining hall, she was yanked forward.

  “You’re my wife, understand?”

  Thrown off-guard, she raised her head, staring into the intense blue eyes of the gunman. His looks were even more heart-stopping close up. Instinct compelled her to jerk away from him and inwardly question her own satisfaction when his strength prevented it. The gunman’s fingers wrapped around her arms like iron clamps, yet the contact was surprisingly gentle. In such close proximity, the gunman emanated even more power. She found it necessary to tilt her head upward to see his face. She stood eye level with most men, but not with this gunman. A head taller than she, he possessed a body sculpted in hard muscle.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Taryn Ashford.” She was afraid of what he would do if she refused to give him the information. A man wearing a badge walked up to them—the same sheriff she saw the gunman speaking to earlier.

  The sheriff contemplated her then addressed the gunman. “I see you’ve found your wife.”

  A smile replaced the gunman’s dark expression. “Yes.” She felt the gunman’s arm slip around her waist holding her fast to his side. She stiffened at his intimacy while, at the same time, attempted to justify the fluttering of her heart his touch inspired. “Sweetheart,” he said, turning to her with a tender look, “this is the man I was telling you about.” She stared at the gunman in astonishment noting how easily he switched his moods. His words came out in a soft southern drawl, managing to accelerate the simple flutter of her heart to a skip-pound-skip rhythm. The circumstances may be an act, but his dialect certainly was not.

  She found the gunman’s endearment forced and unnecessary. Nevertheless, she concocted a story to explain the reason for being away from her ‘husband’s’ side. Her willingness to help the gunman shocked her. The proper thing to do would be to expose the gunman’s fraudulent scheme to the sheriff. Other than the gunman’s warning look, daring her to inform the sheriff of the true circumstances, there was no reason she should help the outlaw. His stare made her think twice. She forced her own smile. “Yes, of course, I’m afraid the meal we partook of this morning upset my stomach somewhat, and well…” She made an affected gesture with her hand when her words trailed off. She could only hope her implication was clear.

  In apparent full understanding of a woman’s weaknesses, the sheriff eased his tense stance. “Yes, I imagine it isn’t the most enjoyable journey for a woman.” He regarded the gunman. “You’ll pardon me for my misconception. My eagerness for justice outweighed my senses.”

  “Think nothing of it,” the gunman said, generous in his forgiveness of the man’s mistake. “I wish you luck in finding the culprit you seek.”

  The sheriff left them, and Taryn tugged away from the gunman, no longer needing to pretend. “What misconception? How dare you use me! I have a good mind to…”

  The gunman cut off her words by dragging her hard against him and pressed his mouth over hers for a bold kiss. She tore her mouth away, her senses reeling from the heat of his kiss as she attempted to recapture her breath. The gunman briefly directed his gaze over her shoulder before taking her head gently in his hands and silently demanding she kiss him again. Outrage was at the forefront of her mind, but there was also the underlying sensation of the kiss. His mouth slanted over hers, his lips warm as he moved them over her mouth.

  There was a fresh, clean smell about him heady in its effect on her. Her heart pounded erratically, but fear didn’t cause its rapid beat. Surprise, shock, and perhaps something else which she could not pinpoint. The gunman’s arms wrapped around her so she was on tiptoe. If he released his hold of her, she was certain she would fall to the ground in an unladylike heap. The gunman set her back on her feet, and she took a few deep breaths to regain her composure. Something in her expression must have spoken the question she was about to ask him.

  “My persistent friend had to have one last look.”

  She discreetly turned to see the sheriff shifting his attention back to them. He nodded, then walked on, satisfied with the authenticity of their relationship. She adjusted her bonnet with rapid precision as she faced him once more. “Are my wifely duties finished?”

  “Unfortunately.”

  She spun around in a huff anxious to be away from his arrogant self.

  “By the way,” the gunman said, casually leaning back against the building, withdrawing a cheroot before striking a match to it, “you lie extremely well.”

  This time the gunman’s features held a conspiratorial look, his words spoken as if giving a compliment. When the gunman smiled, Taryn found his charm difficult to ignore. The look she tossed in his direction held the right amount of disdain. Without a word, she turned and walked back toward the group waiting to board the train. In spite of herself, she could not help appreciate the exhilaration the situation gave her. A slow smile crept across her face.

  A smile remained on Jared’s face as he observed the girl’s departure. Even under her prim bonnet and overly concealing garment, he didn’t miss the pretty face and shapely form. Dragging his gaze away from her, he contemplated the best way to board the train without the sheriff returning with more questions or the bounty hunter, Miguel Ramirez, detecting him. There were few better at tracking their targets than Ramirez. It didn’t surprise him the Mexican police chose him for the pursuit. The sheriff inadvertently confirmed Ramirez was at the station. If he wasn’t careful, he’d find himself returning to Mexico. A prospect he did not care to dwell on.

  ****

  Miguel Ramirez was certain he was within minutes of capturing King when he’d lost him. Following the local sheriff’s information like a fool, he’d gone into the Emigrants House expecting to catch the man off guard only to discover there was no man of King’s description within the building. The fact Miguel knew only a vague description of the man at all didn’t help matters. No one became so close to King as to give an accurate description, at least no one living, Miguel corrected himself. Information such as King’s height, approximate weight, and general looks were available, but those details could fit a number of different men. Only one thing made the search even remotely possible—King never used anything but his own name. Miguel wasn’t sure whether it was from stupidity or boldness but assumed the latter. King was anything but stupid as he’d proven in the past with the number of times he’d slipped through the hands of the law.

  Walking back out onto the street, irritation marking his brow, Miguel spied the local sheriff at the far end of the station. With purposeful steps, he crossed the length separating them until he stood before him. “You said you saw a man fitting the description I gave you entering the Emigrant House?”

  “That’s true when I spoke with him earlier, but I saw him again around the side of the dining house.”

  Miguel’s glare instantly shifted to the building off to their left. The sheriff detained him, his hand on Miguel’s arm.

  “You needn’t bother. As it turns out, I made a mistake. The man who I considered might be the one you seek was simply another traveler with his wife.”

  Unwilling to accept the explanation, Miguel wanted to assure himself the traveler was not King. “Where is this man?”

  “I told you it was—”

  “A mistake,” Miguel finished. “I’d like to see him for myself.” When the sheriff continued to remain hesitant, Miguel’s patience grew thin. “Did it ever occur to you if the man was King, he could have concocted a story for your benefit?”

  “But I met his wife,” the sheriff argued. “It was obvious they were married.�
��

  “I don’t care if there were six brats at their feet!” Miguel exploded. “I still want to see the man for myself.”

  The sheriff’s own ire rose, his expression matching his tone. “Fine, but you’ll only find what I say is true.”

  “Then I’ll owe you an apology,” Miguel said, his tone peevish waiting impatiently for the information, “but until then…”

  “All right,” the sheriff relented. He glanced around, scratching his head. “Well, let’s see, they were over there a few moments ago.” He pointed to the area in which he’d come. “I don’t know if they intended to get on the train or if they’d disembarked.”

  Miguel strode away, muttering a curse at the man, suppressing a strong urge to pull his own gun and shoot him for being a dimwitted idiot. In the time Miguel wasted listening to the sheriff, the man who might have been King, could have gone in any number of directions. But which way? Before the train departed, Miguel would have to decide.

  Subsequent to checking the boxcars and satisfied King was not aboard, Miguel stood at a watchful distance from the train, scanning those faces of the men on the platform. The train would be pulling out in a few moments, and so far, Miguel was sure he didn’t see anyone coming close to fitting the description of King. It was then he saw a man walking toward the train, a woman at his side, and even a few children in tow. The height and build of the man could fit the description. He moved forward determined to question the man before he boarded. Miguel stopped the couple before they reached the train. “Excuse me.”

  Jared turned slowly, preparing himself for any occurrence. He gave the bounty hunter an inquiring look. He specifically chose the unsuspecting woman traveling alone with her young children in order to board the train undetected under the guise of having a family. The woman paused in her own step.

  “I would like to know your name and business, sir,” Miguel questioned with authority.

  One of the two children holding the woman’s hand impatiently tugged on her skirt then held up his arms in supplication.