The Bounty Hunter's Redemption
Read The Bounty Hunter's Redemption Online
Authors: Janet Dean
Staking His Claim
Recently widowed Carly Richards is shocked when a bounty hunter declares her seamstress shop belongs to his sister. But Nate Sergeant has proof—the deed her lawless husband gambled away without her knowledge. Now Carly must fight for her home and her son’s future. And until a judge arrives to settle ownership, she’s not budging…despite Nate’s surprisingly kind demeanor—and dashing good looks.
Nate’s faced the meanest outlaws in the land—but this petite, strong-willed seamstress may be his greatest challenge. He owes his sister his life, so he’s determined she’ll have the property that’s legally hers. But as Nate and Carly battle for ownership, Nate realizes there’s something he’s overlooked—the hope of building a family with Carly and her adorable son.
“I’ll be back.” He flashed a smile. “Don’t let the anticipation overwhelm you.”
That towering hulk of a man threatened the harmony Carly prized. Yet as she stared into those eyes, an unwelcome thrill of attraction slid through her, shooting heat up her neck and into her cheeks. She groped for a rebuke that would conceal the turmoil churning inside her. “One thing I can say for certain, Mr. Sergeant. Nothing about you overwhelms me.”
He arched a brow, and then had the audacity to wink. As if he had read her mind and found her claim amusing.
Carly shut the door behind him, then leaned against it and took a deep breath. No matter what she’d said, Carly had never felt more overwhelmed. And of all things, by a bounty hunter.
A handsome bounty hunter
, her heart whispered.
She pulled away from the door and steeled her spine. A handsome strong-minded bounty hunter who would stop at nothing to see that his sister owned this shop.
Janet Dean
grew up in a family with a strong creative streak. Her father and grandfather recounted fascinating stories, instilling in Janet an appreciation of history and the desire to write. Today she enjoys traveling into our nation’s past as she spins stories for Love Inspired Historical. Janet and her husband are proud parents and grandparents who love to spend time with their family.
Books by Janet Dean
Love Inspired Historical
Courting Miss Adelaide
Courting the Doctor’s Daughter
The Substitute Bride
Wanted: A Family
An Inconvenient Match
The Bride Wore Spurs
The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption
Visit the Author Profile page at
Harlequin.com
.
JANET DEAN
The Bounty Hunter’s
Redemption
As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.
—Psalms
103:12
For Heather: precious daughter, loving mother, loyal friend, a strong woman of faith. You’re a real-life heroine.
Acknowledgments
To my critique partners, Shirley Jump and Missy Tippens, a simple “thank you” can’t express my appreciation for your savvy input and steadfast support.
To assistant editor Emily Krupin and executive editor Tina James, thank you for all you do to make my books the best they can be. I’m privileged to work with you.
To my friend Mary Overmeyer, thank you for sharing the childhood memory of your mother, Jennie Smith, standing at the bottom of the stairs singing the first stanza of “Father, We Thank Thee for the Night,” and of you and your six siblings singing the second stanza back to her. I love how this song connected your family to each other and to God and couldn’t resist using it in my book. The author of “Father, We Thank Thee for the Night” was Rebecca J. Weston (1818–1890), a teacher in the Boston schools.
Contents
Excerpt from
Instant Frontier Family
by Regina Scott
Chapter One
Gnaw Bone, Indiana, March 1898
A
woman should mourn the loss of her husband. Or so Carly Richards once believed.
No doubt she looked the part of the grieving widow as she stood alongside Max’s grave clothed in black, her gloved palm resting on her young son, unnaturally quiet and still beside her. Yet the eyes Carly bowed shed no tears. In her chest, her thudding heart beat to a steady tempo of relief.
A fearsome man to live with when he chose to make an appearance, Max had destroyed her love for him years ago.
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed the square of linen to her nose. Though the air carried the scent of mowed grass, spring flowers and fresh-turned dirt, the vile odors that had clung to Max filled her nostrils still, as if he stood at her side, not laid out at her feet. Stale tobacco, fresh moonshine, foul breath, permeated with the odor of sweat.
Sweat of a hardworking man, Carly admired. Sweat of a man coming off a three-day drunk roiled her stomach.
She’d never again endure the man’s stench or his unpredictable temper. That knowledge purged her, freed her, promised her better days ahead.
Carly bent, cuddling her seven-year-old son close. Henry smelled of soap, innocence, the hope of new beginnings.
Across the way neighbors and members of her church had gathered to see Max into the ground. The tension that had been tangible whenever Max had been around was gone, buried with him. Now no one need keep an eye peeled for an unreasonable man itching for a fight.
Pastor Koontz closed his Bible, offered a prayer for Max’s soul and then eyed his parishioners. “Thank you all for coming on this somber day.” He turned to her. “God bless you and your son, Mrs. Richards,” he said and then stepped aside.
Folks edged toward her, giving her and Henry a hug, mumbling condolences, avoiding her gaze, then hurried toward the wrought iron gate in quiet groups of three and four, eager to escape. Not a single soul grieved Max. He had no family. No friends. At least none Carly knew of.
Henry, his dark brown hair lifting in the gentle breeze, pointed to the hole in the ground. “Is Pa staying in there?”
Carly met his troubled eyes; eyes far too old for one so young. “Yes. Your pa’s passed on.”
“Like our old hound dog? Pa ain’t coming back?”
“That’s right.”
Her son gave a nod, then stepped to the dirt piled at the edge of the grave and stomped the soil with his scuff-toed shoe.
Once. Twice. Three times.
Henry pivoted back to her, lips quivering, eyes welling with tears. “He can’t hurt you now, Mama.”
The heartbreaking truth sank to Carly’s belly like a stone. Henry had not forgotten the last time his father had returned home. The first time Max had slapped her with more than words. The force of the blow had knocked her to the floor, terrifying her son.
Oh, Lord, why didn’t I take Henry and leave long ago?
Fear.
Always imprisoned with the certainty that if she fled, Max would do as he’d threatened. Track her down, catch her unaware and kill her, leaving her precious boy at his mercy. Mercy wasn’t a notion Max understood.
Nor evidently had his killer, a bounty hunter who’d come to take Max to Kentucky to stand trial for murder. Carly hadn’t known Max was wanted by the law. But she hadn’t found the news surprising. After almost eight years of marriage to the man, nothing surprised her.
Until now.
Even with all the prayers she’d uttered, asking God to protect her and Henry, even with abundant evidence God had protected them in countless ways, she’d never expected Max would be the one laid out in the ground instead of her.
An oppressive weight slid from her shoulders. She’d no longer dread Max’s footfalls after weeks of unexplained absences. She’d no longer dread that every word out of her mouth could trigger his fiery temper. She’d no longer dread what the next day, the next week, the next month would bring.
A knot of remorse tightened around Carly’s heart and squeezed.
Forgive me, Lord.
What kind of a woman found comfort in the death of anyone, much less the father of her child?
Had Max been cut down by a bullet before he’d had a chance to ask God’s forgiveness for the blackness in his life? Had he gotten a moment to repent, a moment to prepare to meet his Maker? She hoped he had.
Whatever awaited Max, his eternal future was up to God. She would take care of herself and Henry. She’d run the shop. Earn a living. What she’d always done. Perhaps one day she could afford to hire another seamstress, opening more time to spend with her son.
Not that Max’s death changed her finances. He hadn’t supplied much except trouble. Still, she was grateful for his mother’s shop and would never regret a marriage that had blessed her with this child.
Nevertheless, she’d learned a valuable lesson. She’d been a fool to hitch herself to Max Richards. She’d never trust a man again.
Never
.
Carly grasped Henry’s hand and then, with one last glance at the grave, at the overall-clad men already covering the casket with shovelfuls of dirt, stepped away from her past.
* * *
A woman stood between Nate Sergeant and a young boy like a petite, beautiful fortress. Pink lips, flushed cheeks, her fair complexion in sharp contrast to her coal-black hair, the delicate female couldn’t outweigh a hundred-pound bag of grain. Under slashing brows, dazzling blue eyes met his, sizing him up, her expression wary, alert.
