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Outlaw Hunter
Carol Arens
An outlaw's wife…With her home burnt down, her outlaw husband believed dead, and five children entrusted to her care, Melody Dawson must leave the ashes of her past behind to start afresh…And an outlaw hunter…Atoning for a youthful mistake, US Marshal Reeve Prentis has made tracking down criminals his life’s work.His dangerous job has always demanded a solitary existence, yet escorting Melody across the Wild West has Reeve longing for change – and a family of his own!
“You have a way with the polka, Reeve.”
He dipped her backward, sideways, and quickstepped her about to the tinkling tune. At times his broad hand slid up her back. Once he drew her forward so that her apron’s bodice grazed his plaid shirt.
Still, the most intimate step of the promenade was when he held her at arm’s length and simply gazed into her eyes.
A meeting of bodies was tantalizing, but a meeting of souls… Well, that was spellbinding.
Was she a fool to be drawn in when there was no future for them?
AUTHOR NOTE (#ulink_b21e9744-00c5-5f76-973c-8f4f5e588220)
When I typed ‘The End’ in REBEL OUTLAW I kissed the characters goodbye and sent them off to my editor. Story over.
But to my surprise there was one character who kept tapping me on the shoulder—because her story, she assured me, had only just begun. Kidnapped bride Hattie Travers (now known as Melody Dawson) had a good bit to say about her future…and not hers alone but also that of Reeve Prentis, the US Marshal who had agreed to escort her and her children home after the outlaw ranch where they lived was burned to the ground. Hattie wanted her happily-ever-after and she wanted it with Reeve.
It was a pleasure to be able to give her that. I hope you enjoy Hattie’s and Reeve’s tale, where love heals mistakes of the past and anchors the foundation for the joyful future that Hattie requested.
Best wishes and happy reading!
Outlaw Hunter
Carol Arens
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
DEDICATION (#ulink_12c08292-8fd6-5f88-b320-d19cc2d31a78)
To my sister, Nancy.
Of all the special gifts Mom and Dad had to give, I cherish you the most.
While in the third grade CAROL ARENS had a teacher who noted that she ought to spend less time daydreaming and looking out of the window and more time on her sums. Today, Carol spends as little time on sums as possible. Daydreaming plots and characters is still far more interesting to her.
As a young girl she read books by the dozen. She dreamed that one day she would write a book of her own. A few years later Carol set her sights on a new dream. She wanted to be the mother of four children. She was blessed with a son, then three daughters. While raising them she never forgot her goal of becoming a writer. When her last child went to high school she purchased a big old clunky word processor and began to type out a story.
She joined Romance Writers of America, where she met generous authors who taught her the craft of writing a romance novel. With the knowledge she gained she sold her first book and saw her life-long dream come true.
Today, Carol lives with her real-life hero husband, Rick, in Southern California, where she was born and raised. She feels blessed to be doing what she loves, with all her children and a growing number of perfect and delightful grandchildren living only a few miles from her front door.
When she is not writing, reading or playing with her grandchildren, Carol loves making trips to the local nursery. She delights in scanning the rows of flowers, envisaging which pretty plants will best brighten her garden.
She enjoys hearing from readers, and invites you to contact her at carolsarens@yahoo.com (mailto:carolsarens@yahoo.com)
Contents
Cover (#u95110fd4-3cb8-558d-8112-469e8bb970ce)
Introduction (#u7be917d8-d4e6-56f2-9d29-31108c9a0218)
Author Note (#uc37c2660-4a28-589f-9599-6e2dfa211415)
Title Page (#ua26dcdce-54d5-5188-befc-de334c99528d)
Dedication (#ufee6ede3-975f-560b-8026-b78649a78dfa)
About the Author (#u8e89c796-a842-5e8d-bc06-796cf9d7d8e8)
Contents (#udc479608-86a5-5afa-8673-8ad296eae4eb)
Chapter One (#ud7bcc07e-d4bb-5657-8fe7-7ada05be58cf)
Chapter Two (#ube0155d1-7875-5b80-8864-5f1cb6419745)
Chapter Three (#u8613adb2-3121-5c6b-b0d4-98c3c46814af)
Chapter Four (#u15c9709e-d886-5d99-b7b5-52aa48ad267e)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Extract (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter One (#ulink_9c7f2622-5457-5aab-b43b-44d007e23139)
The Badlands, Nebraska
Hattie Travers had dreamed of her husband again last night. The fact that he had been dead for eight months didn’t make her any less fearful of him.
Even in the cold light of morning, with the children safe in the buckboard with her, his ghost had the power to put her into a cold sweat.
“Go away,” she whispered to the wicked-eyed vision haunting her mind.
She focused her attention on the US marshal sitting tall on his rum-colored horse, leading her, her children and the ranch orphans away from the cindered ruins of the Broken Brand Ranch.
The marshal’s carriage was straight, his shoulders broad and, from what she had seen so far, his honor incorruptible.
She owed him a great deal...her life, really, and more than that, her children’s lives.
If only she could take a deep cleansing breath and purge the stench of the outlaw ranch from her soul. If she could just relax and trust the marshal, but she had been wrong about a man before.
The marshal turned his head, peering out from under his Stetson at the flat, dry land, scanning it from horizon to horizon. His eyes were the only bit of green that she had seen in nearly three years.
He held her gaze for a long moment then nodded and set his face toward the east...toward home. The regular clop of his horse’s hooves made the fringe on his buckskin shirt dance and sway.
“You reckon he’s looking for stray Traverses?” Beside her, thirteen-year-old Joe Landon gripped the team’s reins in his fists. He sat tall, imitating the lawman’s erect posture.
Joe had to be cold but he didn’t shiver. The marshal didn’t, so he wouldn’t, either. It was chilly, though, even with the sun coming up over the ragged land.
“You shouldn’t worry, Joe.” She held her baby tighter, trying to follow her own advice. “Marshal Prentis will have us well away from here before any of them show up. The ranch is gone forever. Colt Wesson saw to that when he burned it down.”
Joe touched something in the pocket of his pants, tracing its shape with his thumb.
“There’s only Uncle Jack and Cousin Dwayne to worry about,” fifteen-year-old Libby said, clutching her little sister, Pansy, close for the warmth. She glanced toward the back of the wagon then suddenly lunged. “Come back here, you little wild man!”
Libby latched on to Flynn’s collar and hauled the toddler back from the edge of the buckboard.
“Noooo!” Flynn went limp-boned then kicked his heels. “Mama!”
“I’ll trade you my sweet baby Seth for my wild thing, Libby.”
“Are you sure your folks are going to welcome us?” Libby asked, taking the infant from Hattie.
Flynn rushed to fill his little brother’s place. Hattie hugged him close and kissed his cold, red nose.
Sometimes she wished she had never met Ram Travers. He had ruined her life. Without him, though, she would not have had her sweet babies. It was a trade she would make again in a heartbeat.
“With open arms and a big, hearty meal,” she answered Libby. “My folks have a huge old house and too many empty rooms.”
The one thing she knew for certain in this world was that her parents would welcome her home. They would weep for joy over their new grandsons and would take in Joe, Libby and Pansy as if they had been waiting for them all their lives.
Mama and Papa had always longed for more children, but after she was born, they hadn’t been blessed again.
“You sure you remember the way back?” Joe asked. “Uncle Ram kidnapped you to the ranch a long time ago.”
“There’s something about the road home that stays etched in your heart,” she said, ruffling Flynn’s hair.
“The Broken Brand won’t stay etched in my heart.” Joe’s fingers turned white, his grip around the reins tight with tension. “I’m never looking back, not even giving it a minute of my thoughts.”
“It’s a lucky thing for Pansy that Colt Wesson and the marshal rescued us in time that she won’t remember the place,” Libby said.
“Colt gave me something. It was when he was here to bury Pappy Travers. Reckon he sensed I didn’t hanker to be an outlaw like the rest of them. He asked if I wanted to leave with him. Couldn’t, though; there was more than myself to consider. So he gave me this.” Joe reached into his pocket and withdrew a small, sheathed knife. It was a pretty thing for a weapon, with an ornate handle bearing the initials CWT.
He held it in his hand for a moment, balancing the weight, then he put it back in his pocket.
“Thank you for staying, Joe,” she said with a lump swelling in her throat. “I’m certain that the marshal is competent, but you never can tell when another man might be needed.”
For all that Joe wanted to be a man, to keep everyone safe, he was still a boy. She wasn’t surprised to see relief wash through his posture, believing that she trusted Marshal Prentis.
Hattie took baby Seth back from Libby, who hugged the lapels of a deputy’s coat tight around her chest. Last night, before the deputies had begun the journey to take the captured Travers gang to jail, the marshal had strongly urged each of his men to donate their coats to the children.
Not one of them objected with so much as a frown. Apparently, Marshal Prentis’s word was law.
She lifted her gaze from her son’s soft, sand-colored curls to look, once again, at their leader. As big as he was, he ought to have been frightening, but somehow, he wasn’t. She felt safe in his presence, which was disturbing because there had been a time when Ram made her feel the same way.
Whether she fully trusted Marshal Prentis, or not, their fates were in his hands for the time being.
With the outlaw ranch a heap of smoking embers, she had been offered the choice of going with Colt Travers and his lady, Holly Jane, to begin a new life in some friendly place, or going home to her parents.
There had been no choice, really. She had longed for home ever since she’d run away from it. She had wept for her mother’s soothing embrace on more nights than she could count. A sun hadn’t set that she hadn’t watched for her father to come riding over the hill, even though he had no idea where she had gone—or why.
So, with the burden of five children’s safety on her shoulders, she had, once again, chosen to trust a man she didn’t know, to let him lead her across land so rough that, left on her own, it would eat her alive—her and the young ones with her.
One thing was certain, they could not be worse off than they had been at the Broken Brand, where food was scarce and degenerates plentiful.
The big lawman riding ahead of the wagon peered out from under his hat, scanning the land for danger. He didn’t seem like a degenerate.
Indeed, he was a United States marshal, appointed by the president himself.
Ram had been a false charmer, appointed to bring home a bride by no one but his own twisted kin.
For all of their sakes, she hoped that the president’s judgment was sound.
* * *
Reeve had pushed the widow hard, leading her and the children over inhospitable ground. The sooner they were away from this snake-infested, bone-dry land, the safer they would be.
He couldn’t recall ever seeing a place so barren, and he’d traveled over some of the sorriest country there was. It was no wonder the Travers gang had gotten away with their crimes for so long. The local law was more than a few days’ ride from the Broken Brand. They weren’t likely to leave their towns undefended for the time it would take to travel here.
Reeve had only heard of the outlaw family when one of their own turned on them.
