Wild Burn (28 page)

She laughed, a real laugh this time, though she did blink back the sting of threatening tears. Calming, she asked, “Have you spoken with Delaney yet?”

He nodded. “Just left him.”

She knew the time had come to search Del out. They needed to talk, about yesterday, about tomorrow. “Is he at the boardinghouse?”

“In the jail, actually.”

“He’s in
jail
?” With a disbelieving glance, Moira gathered her skirts and prepared to make her second mad dash toward Delaney in as many days.

“Miss Tully,” Hood said in a bland tone, halting her momentarily. When she turned back, she saw him bend to grab something—two somethings—off the schoolhouse steps. He faced her again, and she thought she saw the vaguest hint of amusement in his solemn expression. “Don’t forget these.” He extended his hands, one holding a battered black hat, the other a blue velvet ring box.

With a glare, she snatched the items from him and whirled on her heel, running for the small, square jailhouse. She swore she heard Hood chuckling behind her.

The jailhouse door was already open, the building’s interior dark and unwelcoming, but she rushed heedlessly in. “Delaney?” Worry colored her voice as she called out, making it hoarse. Her gaze went immediately to the three cells along the back wall, all of which were empty. “Delaney, are you here?”

A noise to her left had her jumping, and there was Del, pushing himself back from the chair behind the…the sheriff’s desk. His brow creased as he hurried around the desk toward her. “Moira, what’s wrong?” His hands landed on her shoulders but quickly ran down her arms, as if checking her for injury.

“I…” She frowned. “The marshal… He said you were in jail.”

“Did he?” Realizing she was all right, Del stepped back, half sitting and half leaning on the edge of the desk, and crossed his arms over his chest.

Moira stared at him. He looked tired, nearly as tired as he had that first day in Red Creek, with dark circles under his striking eyes. A night’s worth of dark stubble shaded his sharply defined jaw, and his hair was an adorably rumpled mess, as if he’d done nothing but run his hands through it for hours. He was back in his old clothes too, though they appeared a little neater than normal, and he’d donned a plain black-wool waistcoat over his worn gray homespun shirt. He’d rolled the sleeves up to his elbows, revealing the darkly tanned length of his forearms, dusted in fine black hair and stark with tendon and muscle.

All in all, a healthy, handsome specimen of a man—and Moira wanted to keep him.

Straightening her shoulders, she tossed his hat at him, which he caught reflexively. “I found this on my way home from the encampment yesterday. I thought you might need it.”

“Thanks.” He was staring at her with disarming intensity. “What’s in your other hand?”

“Oh, this?” She lifted the ring box, keeping her voice casual. “This is mine.”

His lips curved in a wry smile, the one that hinted at the presence of an errant dimple, should he choose to widen that smile. “Is it, now?” He spoke quietly, his drawl pronounced.

She nodded and stepped closer, until her calf brushed his through the layers of her dress. “Yes, it is. But before I put it on, I wanted to talk to the man who gave it to me.”

“About…?”

“Yesterday.”

His flirtatious smile disappeared. “I can’t decide if you were very stupid or very brave.”

“How about a little bit of both?” she asked lightly. When her stab at humor failed to soften his expression, she sighed. “I’m sorry.”

“I told you to stay at the cabin.”

“And when have you
ever
gotten the impression that I enjoy being told what to do?”

He merely arched a brow.

Blushing, she wrapped her arms protectively around her torso. “What we did in the wagon doesn’t count.”

“Like hell it doesn’t.” He shifted then, planting his feet wide to make a place for her between his thighs. He drew her in with a strong hand at the curve of her waist. “You shouldn’t have gone to the camp.”

She could smell him now, the scents of soap and fresh linen and man clinging to him. But there was something else there too, something fresh and nostril-stingingly pure, like mountain air in the morning. “Maybe not. But it’s a good thing I was there.”

He shook his head as if exasperated with her, but his other hand came up to cup her hip, and he maneuvered her closer, inch by inch. “Would’ve handled it fine on my own.” His voice was tight, his features unyielding. “Hell, Moira, I’m not even sure what to say here. You were reckless. You could’ve died. How am I supposed to deal with that?”

“By talking to me.” She reached up to stroke her hand down the side of his face. “Don’t shut me out.”

A concerned frown had his brows lowering. “After Matthews…are you all right?”

She nodded, opening her mouth to tell him as much, but her lower lip trembled. She clamped her mouth shut.

Understanding radiated from him, and his stern demeanor melted away as he drew her into his embrace. His arms banded around her, calming her, and she allowed herself a moment of weakness where she threw her arms about his neck and squeezed. The fronts of their bodies melded together, soft to hard, and there was a savage comfort in the easy forgiveness of their physical dichotomy. Nature declared they could fit together, and so they did.

They fit together perfectly.

His lips pressed into her hair. “You could’ve knocked me over with a feather when I saw you standing there with your Colt. You looked…fearless.” There was pride in his voice.

“I wasn’t.” She’d been so afraid when she snuck into the encampment, breathless from her run through the forest, her heart pounding in her throat. She had approached Matthews from behind, stepping carefully over twigs and staying as far out of sight as she could. She hadn’t even seen Maahe, held in front of Matthews as he was—all she’d seen was the bastard raise his pistol at Del’s chest, and Del’s grimly determined face as he stared the other man down.

It came down to a simple matter of survival. If Del was killed, Moira’s heart would cease beating right along with his. So she lifted her arm, aimed true, and she saved her own life. Hood hadn’t lied—it
was
self-defense. But after the round left her revolver and she watched Matthews fall with macabre slowness to the ground, she’d been slammed with a veritable tidal wave of feeling. Guilt, horror, relief, and most of all an overwhelming flood of soul-shattering love.

She loved Del so much. It seemed impossible they’d known one another for so few days, but the hours spent together—not to mention the hours apart—felt like weeks, months. She had tried not feeling anything at all, a battle she’d fought for years as a nun. Yet Del broke through the clouds, the brilliant sunshine in her dreary life, and Moira was now forever altered.

Suddenly, something sharp poked her in the chest, the stinging prick of a pin. “Ouch.” She pulled back, looking for the source of her discomfort, and saw the gleam of polished metal peeking out from beneath his waistcoat. “What is that?”

“What? Oh. Huh.” He fiddled with the object on his chest, then offered it to her as it rested in his palm. “Funny thing…”

She took the badge from him. “You’re the sheriff,” she breathed. It appeared Marshal Hood and the government had found some other use for him after all. “You’re the sheriff…of Red Creek?” She glanced up, needing to be certain.

He was staring at the brass star in her hand. “Sure looks that way.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably. “Already made John White Horse my deputy.”

Moira could do nothing but beam at him. “Look at you,
Sheriff
Crawford.” She could see he wanted to grumble at her teasing, but a pleased flush colored his high cheekbones. She leaned in and slowly pressed her lips to his, keeping the kiss soft and simple, then pulled back. “I’m so proud of you.”

“I love you,” he said without preamble, a reckless glint in his green eyes. “I wanted to tell you yesterday. I wanted to tell you Saturday.” He reached up to tuck a wisp of hair behind her ear—her injured ear. “I probably could have told you from the moment I met you.” His thumb gently petted the curved shell, avoiding the area that was still pink and tender. “It was the freckles.”

Her heart, which had felt like bursting out of her chest, stuttered for a confused moment. “The freckles?”

He nodded, both hands on her face now, stroking her cheeks, her jaw, the sensitive skin of her throat. “I wanted to count them, all of them, and then I realized it would take me a lifetime to do it.”

“No, it wouldn’t. I don’t have that many…” Affronted, she tried to brush his hands away, but he held fast, one hand sliding around to cup her nape as the other lifted her chin higher.

He held her chin, forcing her to meet his gaze directly. “I’m a slow counter.” When she didn’t respond, he winked, drawling, “Very thorough.”

Then she was laughing, falling against him, kissing him and murmuring, “I love you. I love you too.” She wanted to hold on to him but couldn’t, one hand claimed by the ring box and the other by his sheriff’s badge, so she leaned into him, trusting him to keep her balanced. Trusting him to love her back.

And he did.

Author’s Note

There’s some debate over how many lives were lost during the American Civil war—anywhere from 650,000 over the span of its four years to upwards of one million—but there can be no argument that the following decade (and change) of the Reconstruction Era was a decade of both great suffering and great hope. The decision to set
Wild Burn
in Colorado Territory, some eleven years before it was admitted as the 38
^th
state, allowed these characters to rebuild their war-torn lives in a western frontier that was definitely still wild.

The expulsion of the Cheyenne and other Native American tribes from the territory was the culmination of a series of violent incidents now commonly referred to as the Colorado War. The most infamous attack—the Sand Creek Massacre of 1864, led by an angry, intoxicated colonel and his army of volunteer guardsmen—left over one hundred Arapaho and Cheyenne women, children and elderly reported dead. Though official Congressional hearings occurred, there was no resulting conviction or punishment, and Coloradans’ fear of native reprisal remained strong in the wake of the lack of justice served. John White Horse and his uncle’s tribe would likely have never succeeded in their efforts to peacefully coexist with the town of Red Creek, but for the purposes of the narrative, it can be assumed that the integration initiative eventually met with success.

In another example of the marriage between historical research and artistic liberty, there were a number of federal court martial records from the time period concerning reported incidences of rape, for victims both black and white. If the perpetrator was found guilty, the assigned sentence was often death by either hanging or firing squad. As a United States Marshal, Alonzo Hood would have acted as an agent and emissary of the government’s justice system in wild territory, including collecting a witness’s deposition and executing lawful necessities…such as the appointment of a new town sheriff.

About the Author

Edie Harris studied English and Creative Writing at the University of Iowa and Grinnell College. She fills her days with writing and editing publishing contract proposals, but her nights belong to the world of romance fiction. An avid reader/tweeter/blogger, Edie lives and works in Iowa City. Visit her website for backlist titles, contact information, and regular updates on upcoming projects—
www.edieharris.com
.

Look for these titles by Edie Harris

Coming Soon:

The Bourbon Boys Quartet

The Corrupt Comte

She’s learning to live. He’s forgotten how. Love will be their teacher.

Endless Heart

© 2012 Emma Lang

Heart, Book 3

Lettie Brown has lived in the shadow of violence. After escaping her brutal past, she’s finally at home in Forestville, Wyoming, where she would live a normal life—if she knew how. She’s content working at The Blue Plate and printing the town newspaper, if not happy. Then a stranger stumbles into her world and turns everything upside down.

Shane Murphy is a shell of a man, destroyed by the aftermath of the war, his personal tragedies and a penchant for cheap whiskey. When he lands, literally, on Lettie’s feet, his future takes a hard right turn.

As they fumble through a relationship that should not have been, a deep love takes root, one that cannot be denied. Together they discover a bond as unbreakable as steel and as undeniable as life itself—until the past rears its ugly head and threatens the happiness they’ve found in each other.

Warning: Get ready for a deep, intense love story that will leave you crying, cheering, shouting, squirming and sighing. Prepare for a hero who needs to be held, a heroine who needs to be loved, and a story that needs to be told.

Enjoy the following excerpt for
Endless Heart:

The wagon was ready and waiting outside the restaurant. The rig and the horses had been rented from the livery in town, costing the Gundersons money. Yet she knew others in town had contributed some, asking for supplies of their own. Lettie had a hefty list of goods to purchase, and she hoped the store in Benson had everything she needed.

Without waiting for assistance, she climbed into the wagon and settled onto the seat. The wood creaked and popped as Shane hoisted himself up beside her. He didn’t say a thing, but his thigh settled inches from hers. Feeling petty but unable to help herself, she pulled her skirt closer so it didn’t touch him.

What was wrong with her? He was a seemingly good man, who for some unknown reason found her attractive, and she pushed him away. It wasn’t logical, and she could hardly explain it to herself. Here they sat, uncomfortable and out of sorts, barely speaking. It seemed like a lifetime ago she’d bathed his body and they’d kissed. In the days since then, she had dreamed of making love with him.