Authors: Beth Williamson
The Fortune (31 page)
Chloe figured with just a horse, he couldn’t steal much. The weight of the things in the wagon hadn’t occurred to her. No wonder she wasn’t able to do anything with it. He was definitely smarter than most men she’d met, even if he was bossy.
“There’s the spare wheel, Granny’s furniture, two barrels of brine with meat, clothes, pots, pans, linens, books—”
“Shit.” He shook his head.
“Granny will tan your damn hide for cussing.”
“You shouldn’t cast stones. You seem to know a lot of cuss words yourself.” He stared at the wagon. “This means we’re going to have to empty it.”
“Empty it? Whatever for? We can just take some of the stuff off—”
“No, that won’t work.” He cut her off again. “The broken wheel is on the front of the wagon. My guess is that’s where the really heavy stuff is. We have to empty it or it’s not going anywhere.”
Chloe wanted to rail at him, tell him to leave, but she held her tongue. If she’d have had more sleep and less aggravation, she might have realized the wagon was too heavy to lift.
She sighed. “Fine, then, let’s get to emptying it.”
His only reply was a grunt and a muttered curse.
It was already midafternoon. No doubt it would be dark by the time they got everything off the wagon. Mr. Blackwood would be spending the night with them. Chloe didn’t know if she should be excited or nervous.
Or maybe both.
Shoot first. Ask her name later.
Wild Burn
© 2013 Edie Harris
Wild State, Book 1
Infamy weighs heavy on Delaney Crawford’s broad shoulders, first as a supposed Confederate turncoat, then as a relentless hunter of Cheyenne dog soldiers. Summoned to the small mining community of Red Creek, the exhausted, embittered Del is doing what he does best—ridding the town of its savage scourge—when one of his bullets misses the mark.
Ex-nun Moira Tully has been working with John White Horse for months to integrate a band of peaceful Cheyenne with the local townsfolk. Now he’s hurt, and she’s been caught in the crossfire. There’s only one man to blame for her simmering anger and the inexplicable attraction that tilts her heart on its axis. Del.
When Del is forced to acknowledge the truth that the Cheyenne are no threat, his task just gets more complicated: fighting a wild attraction that catches flame at the most inconvenient times, and figuring out the treacherous motives behind his hiring.
But the most heart-wrenching challenge could be overcoming sordid pasts that won’t stay in the past—pasts that threaten to bury all hope of happily ever after.
Warning: Features a trigger-happy Southern gentleman, an ex-nun gone rogue and consistently thwarted desires that frustrate them both.
Enjoy the following excerpt for
Wild Burn:
The door opened slowly to reveal her, limned in the warm light of the hearth flickering behind her. Glorious dark red hair fell in thick, loose waves past her shoulders to stop at the top of her rib cage.
His fingers twitched. Just…
glorious
.
“Mr. Crawford.” Her gaze flicked over his features, summer-blue eyes wary. “What can I do for you?”
“Mornin’, Miss Tully.” He swallowed. He was a stupid man. He knew better than to be here, talking to a lady—a
schoolteacher
—when he was in Red Creek on business. If he needed a woman, he could go to the Ruby Saloon. Not the second cabin from the end, with its garden and its gray stone chimney, its tidy golden glow streaked through with the homey scents of biscuits and coffee. “Just stopped by to see how your ear is doing.”
Her brows lowered in a sharp frown. She was always frowning at him, it seemed. “It’s fine, thank you.”
“I see you’re not wearing a bandage.”
She shook her head as she pulled a black woolen shawl tighter around her shoulders. He could see where her bodice met the simple skirt of her brown calico dress. There were no telltale bumps of a boned corset beneath the light fabric, no sign of a metal-caged crinoline or bustle at her hips. She was achingly dressed—achingly in that he hurt with the desire to dance his hands over her body and learn every inch of her slim shape. The gown was so worn it would prove no greater barrier than a thin bedsheet, and he could fall to his knees before her and curve his fingers around those slender thighs, part them with his thumbs as he fisted her skirts and—
“Is that all?”
No, no, that
wasn’t
all. He wanted her to knock his hat off his head while he stayed on his knees, grip his hair in her long fingers and steer his hands, his mouth, from the back of one knee and up her inner thigh. It would be so soft.
She
would be so soft, that pale skin…and probably freckled too. Oh, Christ, he—
“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 Fortune
Beth Williamson
Running from the past…and running out of time.
The Malloy Family, Book 9
French-born Francesca Chastain came to New York with her family to find a better life. Now she is fleeing a nightmare. Her past chases her from New York and she must run, and run hard.
Her journey to the land of milk and honey is interrupted by the accidental squeeze of a trigger. And the man on the other end of her blunder is a man like none other she’s ever met.
After three years working Oregon-bound wagon trains, John Malloy has almost saved enough money to start his own horse ranch. And almost met the end of his life at the hands of fiery, green-eyed Frankie, a confusing, frustrating woman who responds to his flirting—then disappears.
No one is more relieved than Frankie when John races to her rescue, but now they’re trapped in the wild. And the shadows of both their pasts are closing in…
Warning: Inside you’ll find sexy heat, danger, Old West violence, gun-toting bad guys and an emotional roller coaster. Prepare to fall in love with the Malloys all over again with witty, strong women, stubborn, heroic men and a love that launched a legacy.
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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.
11821 Mason Montgomery Road Suite 4B
Cincinnati OH 45249
The Fortune
Copyright © 2013 by Beth Williamson
ISBN: 978-1-61921-594-8
Edited by Amy Sherwood
Cover by Kim Killion
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.
First
Samhain Publishing, Ltd.
electronic publication: September 2013
