“I chased my freedom. Now, I must decide if I trust the sheriff who stole my heart or risk everything I worked for. Time is running out….”
At just 20 years old, Violet defies her oppressive mother and rejects the advances of her questionable suitor. Instead, she seizes the chance to become a schoolteacher in a remote western town. But the West is wilder than she ever imagined. Kidnapped by a gang’s ruthless leader, Violet’s life hangs by a thread until the sheriff risks everything to save her.
Gabriel is the honorable sheriff in Miles City, a tough town in the rugged frontier. Burdened by his father’s legacy, he is in a ruthless vendetta with a notorious criminal, Hank, who has escaped him until now. When caught in a deadly crossfire with him and his gang, Gabriel must rescue the beautiful woman who’s caught his breath away.
But as sparks fly between them, a deadly threat looms—Hank Logan, presumed dead, returns with vengeance in his heart and Violet in his sights. As danger closes in, Violet must decide if she has the courage to fight for her future—and for a love she never saw coming—or if the forces of the past will tear them apart forever.
January 1885
“How could you do this to us?” Cornelia Thompson’s eyes sparkled with tears as she glared at her daughter Violet, pure contempt twisting her features.
Violet took a step back. Her stomach dropped like a stone as she took in her mother’s expression. She and her mother had never gotten along, always at odds with one another. But tonight, her mother’s brightly flushed face and bared teeth summoned a disturbing thought. She despises me. She always has.
“Do what?” Violet exhaled, her voice trembling. “Refuse to marry the rake of Boston? Know what I am worth?”
“The rake of—” Father’s eyes widened, and he slammed his glass down on the mahogany sideboard. “For God’s sake – Isaac Wilson was our last hope! Without him, we will have nothing to our name. Without him, our family is ruined! This is how you show your thanks? After everything your mother and I have given you?”
Violet’s lungs felt as though they might burst. “I don’t care about things!” she screamed. “I don’t care about grand houses, or pretty dresses, or China dolls. All I ever wanted was a mother and father who love me. I wanted parents who thought the world of me – not spending day in and day out picking me apart. But to you, all I’m good for is preserving your wealth! Are your social status and your trifling friends all you really care about ?”
Father stepped back, his hand raised. Even as Violet opened her mouth to continue, stinging pain bit across her cheek, sending her lurching backwards. She lifted her hand to her face, a sob rising in her throat.
Disbelief flooded through her. Father was standing directly in front of her now, the shadows of the hearth fire dancing across his white, tense features.
“You are to marry Isaac Wilson by June,” he spat, his blue eyes hard and cold, boring straight through Violet. “Do you understand?”
Tears slipped down Violet’s hotly smarting cheek. Her throat closed. Without uttering another word, she whirled on her heel and fled the room, slamming the door violently behind her. I’d do nothing but waste more breath if I stayed…
She rushed up the stairs, eyes blurry with tears, and jostled one of the household servants. The woman let out a surprised cry as Violet pushed past.
She nearly tripped on her skirts as she reached the top of the carpeted staircase…the same staircase she had once descended as a Boston debutante, desperate for her mother and father’s approval. I think I hate this home. You’re not supposed to hate home, are you?
But now, the thought of lingering another minute in this suffocating, soulless place made Violet’s stomach turn. Her slippered feet padded softly on the thick brocade carpet until she reached her own bedroom door and flung it open, darting inside.
She slammed it shut behind her and pressed herself against it. Closing her eyes tightly, she slid to the floor, her knees refusing to hold her.
She pressed shaking palms to her temples. What am I supposed to do? Panic tightened her chest.
As if in direct answer to her plea, someone gave a faint knock on her door. “Miss Vi-Vi? May I enter?”
Violet’s eyes flew open, and her heart leapt.
Lou.
Some of her stifling loneliness drained away slightly, replaced by a tinge of hope.
Violet scrambled to her feet and opened the door. Standing there was Lou her maid, her only friend in the world.
Violet reached out a hand and tugged Lou into the bedroom.
“Miss Vi-Vi, your cheek!” Lou gasped, clapping a hand to her mouth.
Violet shook her head. She reached out and grasped Lou’s arm. “Never mind that. I need your help.”
Miles City, Montana
June 1885
Violet Olivia Thompson stared in dismay at the inky, jagged stroke across her piece of parchment. A black stain bloomed on her gloved fingertip, and she grimaced.
Writing while sitting in a bumping, jostling stagecoach was proving to be a complicated task, but she needed to do something to distract herself.
For two different reasons. The first reason was sitting directly across from her, an unkempt gentleman who called himself Hank. He had a scraggly, patchy beard, and his mouth was twisted into something between a grimace and a smile. He was clutching the old carpetbag on his lap so tightly that his knuckles turned white. A greasy hat slouched across his forehead, and his clothes were sweat-stained and rumpled. A green bandana was tied around his neck, splotched with brown – presumably from liquor.
In the cramped coach’s cabin, she could smell him too well, sour and stale, the same scent her father wore after one too many drinks of port or whiskey in his study. Clearly, Violet wasn’t the only one who noticed. The other women in the coach were furtively pressing handkerchiefs to their noses in an attempt to stifle the man’s unpleasant odors.
But the thing that unnerved Violet the most about Hank was how he had stared at her almost constantly since he had first boarded the stagecoach two hours earlier. Violet spared a cautious glance at him, noticing how his eyes raked over her from her coiffed hair to the pointed toes and button rows of her black Parisian travel boots.
Violet dropped her eyes to her paper again. The second reason she needed to write this letter to Lou right here, right now, in this rickety stagecoach, was to calm the anxiety fluttering in her stomach. With every mile, she drew closer and closer to Helena, Montana, a town thousands of miles from everything she knew. The letter would’ve been so much easier to write on board the train, but she’d been told that her train didn’t reach Helena. She had been compelled to board this stagecoach.
Violet stared down at the letter with unfocused eyes, replaying the fateful night that had changed everything.
Even today, a fortnight later, she still keenly felt the pain of her father’s blow across her face. Her heart had still been pounding like a funeral drum when she flung open her wardrobe doors, searching among the silk and muslin day dresses for her two plainest dresses.
After the dresses, a pair of leather boots, the ones she’d always worn to the park or the museums and art galleries in Boston.
And then Lou—ear, loyal Lou, who had done more for Violet than she could ever hope to repay—Lou had helped her pack the old carpet bag, now stowed atop the stagecoach. Lou hadn’t even paused to question Violet’s plan. Instead, she had flown into action along with Violet. She had packed the underclothes, the boar-hair brush and ivory comb, the bottle of lemon verbena perfume, and even Violet’s Bible. And Lou was the one who had taken a pair of sewing scissors to Violet’s hair, shearing off the silky black curls that had been one of Violet’s vanities.
If it wasn’t for Lou, Violet would already be married to Isaac Wilson, a cad with only his wealth to recommend him to the Boston socialites.
Isaac Wilson. She gave an involuntary shudder. She’d rather die a spinster than marry him. She knew that for certain the night she’d secretly followed him to the door of a brothel.
She’d stopped in her tracks the moment he went through the door. The smells of smoke, whiskey, and waste had nearly choked her. But none of that was as revolting as her final glimpse of him in one of the upstairs windows, tangled in the arms of three women.
Her heart had raced almost as quickly as her feet on the way home. Surely, surely, if Mother and Father knew of such an offense, they would change their minds about the engagement. But she had been sorely mistaken. To them, she had been the offensive one, speaking of unmentionable acts that ought to have been left in the shadows.
Ruefully, Violet rubbed the steel-tipped pen between her stained fingertips. She should never have been surprised that her parents didn’t care.
What she had seen that night was utterly insignificant to Augustine and Cornelia Thompson. As far as they were concerned, Isaac Wilson’s wealth made him the most respectable bachelor in the entire city. Then the stagecoach bumped, bringing Violet back to the present as she struggled to swallow past the lump in her throat. She might have enjoyed this ride, if it weren’t for “Hank” with his soiled clothes and piercing stare.
The other four passengers in the coach were pleasant enough. One was an elderly gentleman in a bowler hat and a faded, pressed tweed suit. Wire-rimmed spectacles were perched on his long, pointed nose. He was thoroughly absorbed in a book by Washington Irving.
His name was Horace Bentley, and his spinster daughter Agatha sat beside Violet. Her clothes were plain, almost insipid, and her personality was much the same. But she had been warm and friendly nevertheless, and Violet found that strangely comforting as the stagecoach carried her deeper into wild territory.
The other two passengers were a middle-aged woman and her teenaged son. The woman was Colleen O’Neil, her Irish blood apparent from her faded red hair and the thick Irish brogue that tinged her every word. Her son Sean, his hair the same shade as his mother’s, dozed with folded arms beside Mr. Bentley.
Violet glanced past him out the stagecoach window. Sweeping plains covered in rippling grasses stretched out as far as the eye could see. Faintly rolling hills rose above the horizon. Lou would love it out here.
Violet twirled her pen between her fingers, exhaling slowly to release the tension squeezing in her chest. This teaching arrangement needs to work out. It had been Lou’s idea——she’d found the teaching position in the paper. And Violet had given every last penny’s worth of her heirloom brooch to cover the significant travel expenses. This was her last chance at freedom.
I wonder what my future students will be like? How wild will Helena be? Violet might be well-read and schooled by the finest tutors in Boston, but she had not a bit of experience teaching children. And she imagined that the polished, wealthy Boston children she knew would be a far cry from the children in a frontier town like Helena.
Across from her, Hank cleared his throat, and Violet made the mistake of glancing in his direction. His mouth tilted in a wry smile, and he straightened a little in his seat. “You don’t look like you’re from this part of the country,” he drawled, planting his palms on his knees as he leaned forward a little.
Violet’s stomach turned. When she spoke, she was careful to use the slower, musical accent she’d been hearing at the train stops ever since Chicago. “Actually, sir, I am. Born and raised in St. Louis,” she lied.
That had been her cover story from Boston to here. She didn’t need anybody knowing she’d traveled from Boston, especially if Mother and Father were looking for her. Though, she was beginning to think they couldn’t be bothered. She’d even planned her clothes to match the part—she thought she looked quite plain, but perhaps she wasn’t blending in as well as she imagined…
“St. Louis, hm?” the man asked, frowning. “Got family out in Helena?”
Again, Violet lied. “That’s right,” she chirped sweetly, hoping he would drop the subject.
How much longer until Helena? She didn’t know if she could abide another hour in the presence of this uncouth man. Please let us be close, she prayed.
“You’re not one of them mail-order brides, are you?” The man let out a wheezing cackle, and Violet stiffened with distaste.
“No, sir.” She wasn’t lying this time. Of course, she’d heard about those opportunities as well. In fact, Lou had once jokingly suggested such an idea, but Violet had thoroughly vetoed it. Could you imagine keeping house for a rancher? she’d had wondered aloud. Hopefully the dashing fellow wouldn’t mind eating porridge for a while, at least until I learn to cook. That had sent Lou into fits of laughter.
The man across from her cleared his throat again, and Violet nearly sighed aloud. When would he realize that she was merely being polite? Doesn’t he know how impertinent it is to ask such personal questions?
“Say, you don’t happen to be any relation to one of them Astors, are you? I must say, I ain’t seen such an elegant lady this side of the Missouri.” He clicked his tongue, winking at her.
Violet opened her mouth to tell him that no, she was not an Astor, when suddenly a piercing boom shattered the air, followed quickly by several more booms that sent Violet’s heart leaping into her throat as her insides coiled tightly in horror. The other members of the stagecoach also jumped, and Agatha let out a loud cry, clutching at Violet’s arm.
Shouts and pounding hoofbeats rose outside, and Colleen O’Neil choked out, “Highwaymen!” in a shrill, panicked voice.
From the number of voices, it sounded like several men were riding near the stagecoach. Violet tried to make out what they were saying. She kept hearing the word “green” again and again. Then, very close by, one of the riders bawled out, “Turn yourself in, you green devil!” A moment later, he appeared in Violet’s window, mounted atop his galloping horse. He was brandishing a gleaming pistol.
Violet’s heart pulsed wildly in her chest as the stagecoach picked up speed. She peered out the window, eyes scanning the road behind, and caught sight of several more riders. Then the coach plunged forward. Likely the horses had spooked. Agatha’s grip on Violet’s arm tightened as the coach lurched and began teetering sideways.
The last thought that flitted through Violet’s head as the world careened sideways was that at least she’d die free, on her own terms, and not as an unwilling bride, especially the bride of a cad like Isaac Wilson.
Violet floated through the air, tumbling down onto her bed, its velvet blankets and goose-feather mattress rising to meet her. Only, when she landed, blinding pain lanced through her, as if she’d just collapsed onto the Boston cobblestones.
Hands were tugging at her, pulling, always pulling. Her mother’s voice resounded through the air, an enraged cry: How could you do this to us?
Violet forced her eyes open. The cobblestone roads and feather beds dissolved, giving way to grass and dirt. Nothing but grass and dirt. The metallic taste of blood spread across her tongue. But the hands were still pulling her. Fingers were digging into her forearms with a bruising grip that caused her to cry out. I’m not in Boston, am I? I’m going to die out here in the middle of nowhere.
Then her body was lifted into the air, and the next thing she knew, she was hanging upside down, face crushed into damp cotton soured by sweat. Something as firm as iron wound around the backs of her knees, securing her in the dizzying position.
The last thing Violet heard was the wheezing, drawling voice of the man from the stagecoach…the man in the green bandana. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head, Miss St. Louis!” Violet’s insides knotted with revulsion, and she opened her mouth to scream. But no sound left her lips.
Something glittered before her eyes. There was a dull as something hard as a stone smashed against her head, and the world went dark.
Gabriel Brooks loosened his forefinger on the trigger of his Colt pistol, watching the short man already several yards in front of him, who was bent beneath the weight of the woman thrown on his shoulder. “If you shoot or follow me, she’s dead,” he yelled across the prairie.
Damn it. He’s getting away. Gabriel tugged on Apollo’s reins to bring him to a stop as he squinted at the man. He’d never seen the Green Terror in person before…but it was impossible that this man could be anyone else. And the fact that he’d taken a prisoner for leverage was exactly what Gabriel would’ve expected.
Sure, the man didn’t look like much. But Gabriel’s information had been thorough, and all the other stagecoach passengers were accounted for.
At least, all except the woman being kidnapped. Gabriel squinted harder, confused. It was a woman, but her hair appeared to have been hacked short, tumbling in loose curls over her face as she slumped across the man’s back. The whole scene was so absurd that Gabriel might have chuckled if it weren’t for the fact that he was watching an abduction play out right before his eyes.
The man paused for a moment and pulled out a pistol, waving it haphazardly in the air. “No tails!” he yelled again. Gabriel clenched his jaw. He glanced behind at his men and gave a shake of his head, indicating that they stand down.
With a sinking heart, he watched as the short man and his captive vanished into the tall grasses. He marked the spot. They were headed for the tree line at the start of the Beartooth foothills.
They’d missed the Green Terror…again. That devil. Hank Logan was his real name. He’d had a chance to run before Gabriel’s posse had reached the wrecked stagecoach, and he’d taken it, along with a captive, to make matters even worse. Next to being the most dangerous man Gabriel had ever hunted, the Green Terror was also the most evasive.
Sighing, Gabriel swung his leg over Apollo’s back and landed in the dust, spurs jangling loudly. “George, you go ahead and trail him,” he called to his deputy. The older man dismounted and handed off his reins to Timothy Hawkins.
Why he’d allowed Hawkins along, Gabriel couldn’t fathom. Hawkins was an upstart of a kid who took himself too seriously. He tended to remind Gabriel of himself sometimes. But Gabriel felt no sympathy for him at the moment. In fact, he was about ready shake young Hawkins within an inch of his life. If Hawkins hadn’t lost control of himself and started pursuing the stagecoach, those horses wouldn’t have spooked, and Gabriel could have ordered the carriage to a halt…and they’d finally have the Green Terror in their grasp.
But Hawkins, impulsive and desperate to prove himself, had urged his horse into a gallop before Gabriel could stop him. And everything had spiraled out of control from there.
Gabriel ignored Hawkins pointedly and addressed George. “We’ll go by the main road and meet you on the other side of the trees. But take care you don’t push ‘em too far south, else we’ll lose him over the border.”
He drummed his fingers impatiently against the grip of his pistol. He wanted to accompany George, pursue the Green Terror, shoot him the second he got a chance. His stomach boiled with impatience. Good Lord, I almost had him. He could barely refrain from shooting Hawkins a withering look. The boy’s head was hanging, and a glance revealed that his face was crumpling.
Gabriel nearly rolled his eyes.
It was downright maddening to be so close to the man he’d been tracking for months on end. He’d watched Miles City dissolve into panic and paranoia, and he’d been nearly helpless to stop it. Until now—for the first time in weeks, he nearly had Hank Logan in his grasp. Nearly had him in the crosshairs of his pistol barrel.
And then, just like that, Logan had darted away.
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