Czytaj książkę: «The Innocent And The Outlaw»

For my grandfather, who loved all Westerns—even the romances.

I want to thank my amazing critique partners, Tara Wyatt and Erin Moore, for holding my hand through the entire process of writing this book. I also want to thank my agent, Nicole Resciniti, and my editor, Kathryn Cheshire, for their excellent advice and for believing in my writing.

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Author Note

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

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

Epilogue

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Emmaline Drake knew trouble when it walked through the door. Five years of serving drinks had taught her that only three kinds of strangers ever entered Jake’s Saloon in the tiny backwater town of Whiskey Hollow. The first two were drifters and loners who sought the saloon as a refuge from a world that didn’t accept them. They kept to themselves and rarely caused trouble. A drink, a meal and conversation with a pretty girl were enough to send them on their way. But then there were men like the three who stood just inside the saloon’s swinging, slatted doors. These men were the third type and just looking at them caused a knot of dread to churn tight in her stomach.

These men were outlaws.

If there was anything Emmaline knew, it was how to spot an outlaw. Thanks to her stepfather’s profession, she’d had years of experience identifying the variations in that type of man. As a rule they were notoriously badly dressed, though the clothing of this particular group belied that rule. Even with their dusters covered with a layer of dust, the fine cloth and texture of their breeches and coats were apparent and their boots were obviously high quality. But it wasn’t the clothing that made the outlaw. It was the eyes. Outlaws had the eyes of predators—full of violence and aggression.

Violence crackled like energy in the eyes of these men.

They paused to boldly survey the room and all conversation died. A quiet wave sucked out the sound as it moved throughout the handful of tables, silencing the patrons and leaving tension in its wake. Even Lucy, Jake’s wife, who’d been pounding away on the woefully out of tune piano in the corner, faltered and let her fingers fall still. No one overtly acknowledged the newcomers, unless you counted the sideways glances from behind hunched shoulders as the men in the room took note of them without shifting their positions. The customers were like dogs, bristling at potential intruders.

After taking note of every occupant in the room, they did another pass, no doubt noting the bare wood floors and rough edges of the place. Jake hadn’t spent much money on making the place appealing. There was no need when the nearest competition was more than a two days’ ride away.

Emmaline stood at the bar, her hands clenched on the scarred and polished wood. She swallowed as she watched them through the narrow, cracked mirror that hung behind it. It was framed in an elaborate plaster that had been gilded at one time, but most of it had long since chipped away, leaving it a mere ghost of its former self. She had thought many times that that was probably an apt description of the town itself. Once it had been a thriving mining community, but when the creek had been picked clean of gold, everyone had moved on.

Gesturing to Jake for three whiskeys, she turned to set eyes on the strangers. They were taller than the mirror had suggested and meaner looking. The quality of their clothing struck her again. Their breeches weren’t patched with the leather that sometimes adorned the thighs of the men who spent most of their time in the saddle. They were tailored, not the simple clothing of ranchers and cowhands. Even their coats were a thick wool that would have made her envious if she hadn’t been so busy trying not to be afraid. They were no ordinary outlaws. These weren’t the same type of men she’d known in her stepfather’s gang. These men exuded power along with danger, a dark intent that said it was no accident that they had found their way to the saloon on that particular night. They were on the hunt and every man in this room had something to hide. It was a combination that could turn deadly with only the slightest provocation.

Each of them was over six feet tall, but the one on the right towered over the others by a few inches. He wasn’t the least bit gaunt as often happened with tall men, as if they couldn’t possibly eat enough food to support such a build. His powerful frame matched his height and his black eyes blazed with fury as he boldly looked over everyone in the room, sizing each of them up for the threat they might present and then discarding them one by one. It was hard to imagine the man who could pose a threat to him. An angry red scar ripped down his cheek and contributed to his fierce appearance, but he would’ve had no problems carrying out the look without it.

The middle one, a Spaniard, with his thick black hair and furrowed brow, appeared just as fierce as his partner, but more measured and calm. Less brute power, despite his broad shoulders and thick chest. His vivid green eyes were alight with intelligence and intensity, and he exuded an autocratic air that left her willing to bet anything that he was the leader.

But it was the one on the left who drew her attention and held it. With his physique, he could’ve been a match for the leader, except that his hair was lighter, that indefinable shade that hovered between rich brown and golden blond. His features were more refined, too, though undeniably masculine, a square chin with the hint of an indentation and a full, sculpted bottom lip. He seemed almost lazily indifferent, except that his eyes carried a calculating intensity that held her momentarily rooted to the floor when he happened to glance her way. A bolt of awareness shot directly to her belly as their eyes met, sending her pulse soaring and making her look away quickly as if she’d been caught doing something sinful.

The giant of a man moved to a table near the door and the other two followed suit, moving with caution, clearly suspicious of everyone else. The dark blond one on the left moved with surprising grace for a man of his strength, like he knew the full power of his body and knew how to control it. Somehow, observing that made her more aware of her own body and exactly how much of her breasts were on display. The realization made her blush.

“Em?” Jake’s voice penetrated the strange fog that had come over her.

“Yeah?”

Eyebrows raised, he nodded to the three drinks on the tray beside her.

Always sensible and rarely flustered, she shook off the inexplicable fog that had come over her and grabbed the discolored tin tray with both hands.

“Be careful.” Because she knew him well, she could easily discern the grimace lurking behind the caterpillar moustache that obliterated any hint of a mouth. But it was the nervous gesture of his hand running through his graying hair that ratcheted her anxiety up a level. He was always calm, even on that night two years ago when that bank robber had come in and everyone had recognized him from the flyer hanging beside the door. Jake had merely grabbed the short-barreled shotgun he kept behind the bar and offered the man a chance to leave. He had taken it.

Unable to stifle the impulse in time, she turned her head to look at the billboard postings. There were five posters there, but none of the drawings resembled the strangers. Of course, two of them were drawings of men with kerchiefs covering the lower halves of their faces, so there was always the possibility.

“Do you know them?” she whispered and turned her attention back to Jake.

He shook his head, but his eyes shifted to their table again. “No, but I have my suspicions. Go on now. We’ll talk later.”

How was she supposed to remain composed when he went and said something like that? Now that the men had settled themselves at a table, the conversations resumed and the tension in the room decreased notably. Lucy even resumed her piano playing, but at a more sedate pace. Her own anxiety should have begun to abate, but it hadn’t, her stomach refused to stop its churning and she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong. That something dangerous and profound was about to happen and she was powerless to stop it, like being stuck on a runaway train that was about to run out of track and she could only hold on and watch as it flew over the edge of a cliff.

With Jake’s warning spinning around in her mind, Emmaline tightened her grip on the tray and slowly made her way to the table. She’d long ago become accustomed to the revealing nature of her outfit, but as she approached, she longed for the modest dresses she wore every day on the farm. The costume she wore at the saloon had been one of her mother’s gowns from her days in the brothel in Helena. Emmaline and her sisters had modified it by shortening the deep red silk to knee-length and adding two layers of black lace taken from another gown. The bodice had already been obscenely low, so they had only had to add the matching black lace there. It revealed a large amount of her cleavage with its nonexistent sleeves, mere scraps of fabric that dropped low off her shoulders to hang down her upper arms. Her legs at least were covered in sensible black, woolen stockings. She’d started out with her mother’s silk ones, but they had worn out years ago. She’d always disliked the costume, but never more so than now as she walked toward a table full of outlaws.

She shivered as she approached the doorway. Though the days were getting warmer, winter had refused to relinquish its grip on the nights. The other customers were drinking and keeping warm at tables near the cast-iron stove that sat further inside, but not the strangers. Apparently they preferred to keep their distance, as if she needed any further proof of their dubious intentions.

As she advanced, the pretty one with light hair—is that how she was referring to him?—turned the full force of his gaze on her. It licked its way up her legs and over her hips, settling on her breasts for a moment before finally making its way to her face. He’d sat back in his chair, one leg stretched out before him, almost lazy in his regard of her. She had worked at the saloon for almost five years, so she was used to the looks men gave her. She even encouraged them in the hopes that those passing through would leave a little extra on the table for her—the locals had nothing extra to leave. But with him...the look was different. It wasn’t merely taking in what the dress put on display. His eyes demanded her attention, demanded her response, demanded much more than she was willing to give, while his lips promised more than she could risk imagining. One corner of his mouth turned upward, a suggestive smile that had her blushing again. Holy hell, what was happening to her? Men didn’t affect her this way. She didn’t allow it, because she knew they couldn’t be trusted.

Tearing her gaze away from him, she focused her attention safely on the scarred, wooden tabletop as she sat the tray down and offered her customary greeting. “Welcome, gentlemen. Jake sends his regards.”

“Jake?” The pretty one spoke, his voice a deep rumble that warmed her deep down in ways she refused to acknowledge.

“The owner.” Without looking up, she gestured over her shoulder toward the bar where Jake stood watching...she hoped. Then she carefully sat a tumbler with a finger of whiskey in front of each man. On the rare occasions Jake thought it necessary, he’d preemptively send over a free drink to welcome a new customer. If the man felt indebted or grateful to the proprietor, he’d be less likely to leave a mess behind. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.

The giant picked his up and tossed it back before she’d even finished.

“Rotgut.” The hard voice matched its owner.

Glancing up, she met his disapproving look with a challenge in hers. “We don’t serve rotgut, sir.” She actually didn’t know if that was true or not. Men complained that other saloons cut their whiskey, but nobody had ever complained about Jake’s. She wouldn’t put it past him, though. With the amount of business they’d had lately, it was barely worth her time to make the trip into town for work.

“My friend has expensive tastes.” The pretty one pulled a wallet out of a pocket hidden inside his coat. It was a smooth, chocolate-colored leather with no creases, almost brand-new, she’d guess. When he opened it to extract a note, she could see many others nestled inside. The confident way he carried himself, along with his clothing, had left little doubt in her mind as to his wealth, but this only confirmed that she was right to be suspicious. What were they doing in Whiskey Hollow? Bringing trouble, she was certain of it. “A bottle of your finest Kentucky bourbon.” His gaze licked over her and one corner of his mouth tipped up as he extended a ten-dollar note to her.

“We only have rye. Overholt?” The question forced her to look at him. She was struck anew by the strong, masculine beauty of his features. High wide cheekbones, strong granite jaw covered with a dusting of honeyed stubble, perfectly formed lips. This one was trouble in more ways than one.

He merely gave a single nod, indicating the substitution would be fine, and lifted an eyebrow when she hadn’t taken the money.

Remembering herself, she grabbed the note, deliberately making sure to not touch him, and gave a small smile to the other two. They did not return her smile. “I’ll be right back.”

Emmaline managed to keep her steps even and measured all the way back to the bar. But when she placed the tray down, her gaze speared Jake where he stood. “They want a bottle of rye. Come to the back and help me get one.”

He looked like he wanted to argue—she knew he kept a few bottles under the bar—but she needed to know what he knew of them. Some instinct warned her that their presence had something to do with her stepfather’s absence. He and her older stepbrother, Pete, were over a week late coming home from their latest job, which wasn’t entirely uncommon, but no one had heard from them. A hollow feeling in the pit of her stomach said that the job had gone terribly wrong. As much as she disagreed with their lifestyle, it turned her stomach to think of what would happen to her and her younger sisters without them.

“Who are they?” she asked the moment Jake stepped through the door to the tiny storeroom filled with crates of bottled beer and barrels of moonshine. “Does their presence have anything to do with Ship?” Though he was her stepfather, everyone called him Ship, even her younger sisters who were his blood.

“Calm down, Em.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know anything for sure and getting upset won’t help anything. You’ve heard of the Reyes Brothers? That could be them. That one in the middle, the one that looks like a Spaniard, I think he’s their leader.”

The Reyes Brothers. A chill prickled her scalp and cold ribbons of fear trailed down her spine. Ship had talked about them the last time he’d been home. Though she hadn’t gotten the impression the two had crossed paths, he’d described the successes of the gang with the glee and admiration only someone hoping to rise to those levels could summon. They moved cattle across the border. Lots of cattle. Which was only illegal depending on which side of the border they were on. But to hear Ship tell it, they’d made a fortune guarding mining and land claims and even that wasn’t technically illegal, unless it involved killing. She couldn’t remember anything else he’d said. The only detail she’d taken to heart from that conversation was that no one crossed them and lived to tell about it.

Had Ship done something stupid like try to steal from them? Had he taken Pete with him?

“That doesn’t make sense. They work down near the border. Las Cruces, or was it Santa Fe? Damn, I can’t remember. Why would they be here?”

Jake shrugged. “My buddy down off Green River swears he saw the Spaniard there last month buying supplies. He’d know because he spent some time near the border just last year. Says he was in a saloon down in Perez and in walked the Spaniard with a giant, I suppose that one he brought with him tonight. Both better dressed than normal outlaws. He walked in and called out to a fella playing faro. The man charged him with his gun drawn so they shot him. The Spaniard left and the giant followed him out. No one said a word and the poor son of a bitch was carted out the back and his winnings divided amongst those at the table.” He ran a hand over the back of his neck and glanced at the closed door leading to the bar. “Seems like if they were in Green River last month they could be here now. It’s not that far away.”

“Is this the same buddy you have to carry out every time he comes in because he drinks an entire jar of moonshine?” When he gave an irritated sigh, confirming her words, she continued, “That man could be anybody.”

“Sure it could, but how often do you see men dressed like that step foot in here?”

Not many passed through here if they could help it, not since all the mines had been bought out and the creek picked clean of gold, and certainly none dressed like those men. They were here for a reason. “Do you think they’re looking for Ship? Is he hiding?”

“I don’t know, Em. I wish I could say. I haven’t heard a word from him. Just go back out there and act as if nothing’s wrong. You don’t know anything.”

Grabbing a bottle of Old Overholt—how anyone could drink it, she didn’t know—she gave Jake a quick nod and headed back out. A small part of her had hoped they’d left, but there they sat, deep in discussion about something. Perhaps their next murder.

Jake followed her out and placed three fresh tumblers on her tray. He gave her a nod of encouragement and then she was off to the lion’s den. She kept her gaze down the entire walk over, unwilling to lock eyes with the pretty one again. If she could just get through this, then she could prove to the knot in her belly that nothing was wrong, that nothing had happened to Ship and Pete.

Without a word, she sat the tray down on the table and unloaded the bottle and three fresh tumblers, before retrieving the tray and turning to go. It was easy, simple. There was absolutely no reason to believe that these men meant her any harm. The pretty one had actually smiled at her earlier. And she knew that smile. He wanted to do something, but it didn’t involve hurting her. Quite the opposite, in fact. Everything was fine.

But then the Spaniard reached out and put a hand on her arm, his long, tapered fingers curling gently around her wrist. “A moment, please.” His voice was soft and quiet, commanding respect from the confidence and intensity of the tone rather than the volume. Though his grip was gentle, she could feel the strength he held in check.

She followed the length of his arm up to his face, afraid to hear his next words. But he held silent, waiting for her to meet his gaze. When she did, she was startled to realize his eyes were the exact odd shade of greenish-gold as the pretty one’s. They were striking against his darker complexion. Could the two be related?

“Yes?”

“Tell us what you know of Ship Campbell.”