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Wildwood
Lynna Banning
In Wildwood Valley, Trouble Wore a Badge enticingly pinned to Sheriff Ben Kearney's broad, muscular wall of a chest - and Jessamyn Whittaker was determined to find a way around it.But how could she, when just looking at the man put her at a loss for words? The day Jess Whittaker stepped off the stage, Ben Kearney knew he was in for a hell of a ride. The woman had not only inherited her father's nosiness, but boasted her own special talent for trouble - and a real knack for dragging him into the thick of it!
Table of Contents
Cover Page (#u04838a2d-7d3b-53f1-8bae-d539690fad25)
Excerpt (#u946fe070-6545-56b8-83b8-3059e4af770c)
Dear Reader (#u14e51e86-b97c-5a5e-86cd-2d89daba6f02)
Title Page (#u07f5c4a7-bbc1-5072-b8f7-2445a2e1f701)
About the Author (#ua2b2914a-f59d-5904-9be0-ff16827ff858)
Dedication (#ue9199afc-b0cf-5918-8560-6832e7855bcf)
Chapter One (#u656fb5ab-946c-5f68-a103-389196b01896)
Chapter Two (#u96e88e20-fabc-50eb-aa73-290f11141b4c)
Chapter Three (#u15e39de9-dec2-5502-8d23-784bdbf54e61)
Chapter Four (#u0d9ee39a-70f7-52fc-9047-5551f0aefd9c)
Chapter Five (#ue6216897-2fd8-5f0f-83d0-ded41386f5fb)
Chapter Six (#u57281326-ed45-5282-97ae-0229570f5181)
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)
Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eighteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nineteen (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-One (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#litres_trial_promo)
Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)
Author Note (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)
A tiny arrow of unrest lodged in her belly
Jessamyn plunked her cup down on the desk so hard the coffee sloshed over the edge. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Ben Kearney amble down the street in his lazy, loose-jointed gait.
Something ballooned in her chest when she watched him move. He reminded her of a big cat, a tiger she’d seen photographed once in a magazine. She imagined its hunting prowess, the taut, coiled strength ready to be unleashed in an instant. Ben’s movements had that same animal grace and economy of motion. It was frightening in some way.
Without a break in his slow, easy stride, the sheriff mounted the board walkway and disappeared into his office. Jessamyn stared after him. Something about Ben Kearney’s languid, controlled body sent shivers sliding up her backbone….
Dear Reader,
Lynna Banning made her debut as an author in our 1996 March Madness promotion with Western Rose. This month she returns with Wildwood, her exciting new Western about a young woman who puts herself smack in the middle of the investigation of her father’s murder, despite opposition from the local sheriff, who would rather she butt out and let him do his job. We hope you enjoy it.
In Tempting Kate, longtime Harlequin Historicals author’ Deborah Simmons returns to the Regency era for her heartwarming tale of a haughty marquis who falls in love with the penniless daughter of a local earl, after she shoots him by mistake. We are also delighted with the chance this month to introduce our readers to a new Western series from award-winning author Theresa Michaels. The trilogy opens with The Merry Widows-Mary, the tender story of a marriageshy widow who opens her heart to a lonely widower and his little girl.
The Bride Thief by Susan Paul, writing as Susan Spencer Paul, is the third book of the author’s medieval BRIDE TRILOGY, featuring the youngest Baldwin brother, Justin, a delightful rogue whom his brothers have decided needs a wife to save him from his wayward ways.
Whatever your tastes in reading, we hope you’ll keep a lookout for all four books, wherever Harlequin Historicals are sold.
Sincerely,
Tracy Farrell
Senior Editor
Please address questions and book requests to:
Harlequin Reader Service
U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269
Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3
Wildwood
Lynna Banning
www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
LYNNA BANNING
has combined a lifelong love of history and literature into a satisfying new career as a writer. Born in Oregon, she has lived in Northern California most of her life, graduating from Scripps College and embarking on her career as an editor and technical writer and later as a high school English teacher.
An amateur pianist and harpsichordist, Lynna performs on psaltery and recorders with two Renaissance ensembles and teaches music in her spare time. Currently she is learning to play the harp.
She enjoys hearing from her readers. You may write to her directly at P.O. Box 324, Felton, CA 95018.
For Mom
With special thanks to Jean Banning Strickland and to fellow writers Suzanne Barrett, Janice Bennett, Ginny Coleman, Dore Corder, Bonnie Hamre and Terrel Hoffman.
Chapter One (#ulink_7fce9617-d76e-5b9a-87ea-9c4b3134430b)
Wildwood Valley, Oregon
1868
Benning Kearney speared one bite of the inch-thick steak he ate every morning with three fried eggs and black coffee, raised a forkful of meat to his mouth and halted.
Through the restaurant’s front window he watched the seven-o’clock stage rattle to a stop in front of the Dixon House hotel across the street. The coach door swung open, revealing a young woman in a black traveling dress and mourning bonnet. She extended one small black shoe toward the ground. At least, her foot looked young. Hard to tell her age under that ridiculous hat
The shoe retreated to the coach step. The other foot descended, and then it, too, withdrew.
Benning chewed his steak thoughtfully and watched to see what would happen next. Both feet now primly touched each other on the iron stagecoach step. Then—
Suddenly she leaped onto the ground and jumped up and down twice, like a frisky colt. He swallowed a lumpy mouthful. Goddamn crazy woman. Benning gulped down a swig of hot coffee and laughed out loud. He’d seen few travelers that excited about the western frontier.
Eyeing her through the glass panes, he resumed his breakfast. She looked a bit skinny, her waist no thicker than a wasp’s. Probably had a temper to match, from the display of unbridled enthusiasm he’d just witnessed. The stylishly cut dress was Eastern, but that hat—nobody wore swishy feathers like that out here except the fancy ladies at the Red Fox, and this was no fancy lady. Quite the contrary. She looked like a Bible-thumping Good Woman if ever he’d seen one. He grimaced and gulped another mouthful of coffee.
The stage moved away, and in its wake Benning counted three shiny black humpbacked trunks stacked along the board sidewalk. Looked as if this one had come to stay a while.
Ben forked an unbroken egg yolk onto a square of toast and leisurely loaded it into his mouth, his attention on the street outside.
The woman pivoted, putting her back to him. The movement was so sudden her dark skirt swirled about her ankles, revealing a ruffled white petticoat underneath. Dainty, laced-up shoes, slim ankles. And a bustle bouncing enticingly on her backside.
She tramped onto the sidewalk and bent to peer into the barbershop window, one hand shading her eyes against the hot June sunshine. The bustle rose to attention, then bobbed as she straightened and moved next door to Zed Marsh’s undertaking service.
What in hell would she want with an undertaker? He watched the bustle twitch as he absently slid his fork under the egg white.
Or the barber, for that matter? The pile of dark hair beneath that hat looked unusually neat.
The bustle fluttered as she moved on to the newspaper office. This time she didn’t bother to look in the window. She pulled something out of her bag and bent over the door.
Benning stopped chewing. She jiggled the key in the lock, withdrew it, then thrust it in again.
Now, just a darn minute, lady! Nobody tried to sashay into Thad Whittaker’s office without so much as a by-yourleave, even if Thad was dead. Not as long as he was sheriff, anyway.
Benning gulped the last of his coffee and stood up. He’d just mosey on over and see what Miss Bounce-Bottom was up to. He dropped two coins on the table, ‘retrieved his hat from the rack in the corner and ambled out onto the board walkway.
Out of habit he scanned one side of the street, then the other before he headed for the door of the Wildwood Times office. He took his time crossing the wide, wheel-rutted street. Moving so deliberately the metal rowels on his spurs made no sound, he approached the wooden boardwalk at an angle.
Her back was toward him as she dipped and again peered through the newspaper office window. Straightening, she dropped the key back into her reticule and scrubbed her gloved fist over the dust-smudged glass. Once more she peeked through the smeary circle. With a sigh, she spit on the dark material and rubbed the dampened glove into a lozenge-shaped clear space on the pane. Bending at the waist, she squinted again through the glass.
Ben watched the saucy bustle ride up and down on her backside. She danced from one foot to the other like a bumblebee sizing up a honeysuckle vine, then wiped her glove across the glass once more.
“Merciful heavens,” she muttered just loud enough for Ben to overhear. “A veritable pigsty!”
She jerked open her black bag, withdrew the key and again jammed it in the door lock. The bustle bounced as she rattled the knob.
Fascinated, Ben stood stock-still, one boot poised over the walkway. She snatched the key out, stared at it for a long moment, then once more shoved it into the lock. The bustle danced gracefully on her hips, but the door refused to budge.
“Lord have mercy!” she swore under her breath. She drew back a tiny foot and gave the oak door two swift kicks.
The noise jolted Ben to life. Without a sound he stepped one boot onto the boards. When she whacked the door again, he brought up his other foot and started forward.
She was hunched over the lock, poking about with a hairpin, when he came up behind her.
“Best not pick it, ma’am. Unlawful entry.”
She jerked upright as if branded with a hot poker. “Oh!”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Heavens, where did you come from?”
“Across the street. I saw you get off the morning stage.”
She stared at him, her mouth rounded into an O. “And you sneaked right over here to spy on me.” She propped her hands on her hips and stared up at him. “Men!” she huffed.
“Yes, ma’am,” he said. “I’m the sheriff here.”
Eyes the color of Spanish moss flared into his, then narrowed to a bone-penetrating look. “I’m Jessamyn Whittaker. I own the Wildwood Times.”
“Ben Kearney. Like hell you do.”
She blinked. “I beg your pardon? I most certainly—”
“Prove it,” Ben drawled. “Thad Whittaker left no surviving family.”
“The only time Thad Whittaker stuck to the truth was when he was setting type! The rest of the time, I assure you, my father’s forte was stories so fantastical it would put Fenimore Cooper to shame.”
