A Kiss in the Shadows Read online

  A Kiss in the Shadows

  Marie Patrick

  Avon, Massachusetts

  Copyright © 2015 by Donna Warner.

  All rights reserved.

  This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Published by

  Crimson Romance

  an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.

  10151 Carver Road, Suite 200

  Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.

  www.crimsonromance.com

  ISBN 10: 1-4405-9493-7

  ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9493-9

  eISBN 10: 1-4405-9491-0

  eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-9491-5

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.

  Cover art © [The Killion Group, Inc.].

  To my beta readers, Jan Walkosz and Paige Wood, thank you so much for taking the time to read through my manuscript and for giving me your valuable insight. I appreciate you both more than you know.

  To Jess Verdi, editor extraordinaire, for helping me make this the best story it could possibly be.

  To Lexi and Ann, my critique partners, for holding my hand and encouraging me every step of the way.

  And lastly, to my husband for being my hero, for always supporting this passion of mine, for… everything!

  Thank you for purchasing a Crimson Romance novel. Please sign up for our weekly newsletter for information on new releases, contests, discounts and more.

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Author Bio

  More from This Author

  Also Available

  Chapter 1

  New Mexico 1885

  Stephanie Raelene Buchanan, Stevie Rae to those who knew and loved her, slouched in her chair in the corner of Hagan’s Saloon and watched the room darken as Brock MacDermott opened the batwing doors, his broad shoulders blocking the sunlight. A hush settled over the occupants as all eyes turned toward him. Even the piano player missed a few keystrokes in his rendition of “Camptown Races,” which didn’t seem to make much difference.

  “Brock, honey!” A woman straightened against the long mahogany bar running the length of the room, feathers fluttering from a twist in her flaming red hair. She pulled the strap of her maroon and black gown back up her shoulder, patting the attached silk flower for good measure, then directed her attention to the man behind the bar. “Winston, whiskey for Mr. MacDermott.”

  No smile graced Brock’s face as he took careful measure of each and every person in the room. Stevie Rae held her breath as his gray glare fell upon her then released it when his gaze drifted on to the next person. Seemingly satisfied, he sauntered into the saloon as if he hadn’t a care in the world and yet, she knew better. He had a loose-hipped gait, but she could see the tension in him—his eyes darted from one side of the room to the other. Did he expect trouble? Here in Little River? In Hagan’s Saloon?

  Well, of course, he does. He probably expects trouble everywhere he goes.

  “Pepper,” he said, acknowledging the woman now rushing across the floor, a glass of whiskey in one hand, the bottle in the other. He pulled his hat from his head, revealing a wealth of dark hair with just a touch of gray at the temples. He removed his dark brown duster and laid it across an empty chair, then took a seat at a small table with a long, drawn-out sigh. Pepper placed his glass as well as the bottle in front of him. “Thanks.”

  Stevie Rae continued to watch from beneath the brim of her hat, fascinated by everything about him—the way he moved, the dark stubble on his face, and the tightness of the black shirt stretched across his wide chest. He was more handsome than she’d remembered him to be and his voice…well, his voice was something straight out of heaven.

  She shook herself and clamped her lips together tighter to ignore the heat bubbling in her stomach.

  He took a drink, tipping the glass back until all the liquid was gone, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed. He slid the glass onto the table, then ran his fingers through his hair before pouring himself another shot of Pepper’s whiskey.

  She didn’t know him personally, had never met him, but she’d seen him before and knew of him. From Denver, Colorado, to Albuquerque, New Mexico, and all places in between, everyone knew of the bounty hunter Brock MacDermott. His reputation, at least. No one could claim to know the man behind the reputation. Speculation abounded. Some said he was a former military man. Others said he’d been a lawman in Texas. Or it could have been Colorado. Maybe Arizona.

  No one in Little River seemed to know. He’d shown up one day a little over a year ago, bringing three outlaws to Sheriff Hardy, and had been back a few times since, but he never stayed long…only long enough to collect his money, send a couple of telegrams, have a drink, and perhaps a little tumble with one of Ruby’s girls, before he left again.

  Rumor had it he always got his man…except for one…the same man Stevie Rae hunted. Zeb Logan. Thief. Cattle rustler. Bank robber. Murderer. No, cold-blooded murderer. Thinking about the man who had changed her life made her heart hurt all over again.

  Stevie Rae took a sip of the whiskey in front of her and turned her attention back to Brock MacDermott. She hadn’t seen him in over six months, not until earlier today when she saw him ride into town with Hank “The Gun” Simms tied to the saddle of the horse behind him just moments after she had arrived in town empty-handed once again. Zeb Logan proved to be elusive prey, though she’d searched for him throughout the mountains and valleys of northern New Mexico—heading out several times in the four months since he’d killed her father.

  She decided then and there she’d offer to ride along with him in his pursuit of Logan. Two heads were bound to be better than one when it came to the outlaw. She didn’t even want the bounty on the man. She just wanted her revenge for the senseless killing of her father. Now, all she had to do was work up the nerve.

  She took a deep breath, mentally preparing what she would say, but a flash of color and the glint of metal grabbed her attention as Tripp Simms pushed through the batwing doors, his pistol pointed directly at Brock. She recognized him immediately from the poster hanging in the sheriff’s office.

  “Ya got no cause to be lockin’ up my brother, MacDermott!” His words were slurred, as if he’d found false courage in a bottle of whiskey. The gun shook in his hand, but his eyes were focused and intent upon the bounty hunter.

  “You don’t want to be doing this, Simms.” Brock didn’t move, didn’t look away from the man ready to take his life. “Put your gun back in the holster and walk away. We’ll forget this ever happened.”

  “The hell I will!” Tripp pulled the trigger. The shot went wild and glass tinkled to the floor as the bullet shattered the mirror behind the bar.

  Before she could draw her father’s army-issue Colt revolver, Brock jump
ed from his seat, his chair clattering to the floor behind him. In one smooth motion, his pistol cleared leather and a bullet left the chamber with a poof of smoke and a sharp report that made her ears ring. The dark-haired man coming through the batwing doors didn’t have time to clutch at the blood staining his filthy shirt before he crumpled to the floor, the revolver still in his hand. No one had time to scream. Or dive for cover. Or anything else. It was over before it had begun.

  Lane Coswell, the faro dealer, tugged down the edges of his silver brocade vest and inspected the damage to the man on the floor. He whistled low and turned his attention to Brock. “Mighty fancy shootin’ there, MacDermott. He’s dead.”

  Brock said nothing as he slipped his Peacemaker back into its holster and approached the body. He crouched down and inspected the dead man just as the faro dealer had. “Ah, hell, Tripp, why’d you have to do that?” he asked, his voice harsh, his disappointment and regret clear. He turned to Pepper. “Sorry about the mess, Pepper. I’ll notify both Sheriff Hardy and the undertaker, but you might want to cover him up until Digger gets here.”

  He adjusted his hat on his head and grabbed his coat, then without another word, left the saloon.

  Stevie Rae finished her whiskey in one swallow, tugged at the waistband of her trousers, and adjusted her hat, making sure her eyes were shielded from the midday sun before she followed him. Once outside, she pulled the edges of her cream-colored duster closer together against the sudden chill the day had taken despite the steady stream of sunlight.

  It wasn’t that long ago when she’d trodden this same sidewalk, her hand firmly in her father’s as they picked up supplies from Garrity’s General Store, then later, her hand tucked into the crook of Lucas’s elbow as they made plans for their future.

  How quickly it all had changed.

  In the space of a heartbeat, whatever plans she had made for her future were gone. Her father was now buried beside her mother in Little River’s cemetery. Lucas had broken their engagement and left town, unable and unwilling to understand her determination to see justice done.

  And Logan? The man responsible for all the changes in her life? The man whose image was burned into her brain?

  He remained free. But he wouldn’t be for long. She promised herself he wouldn’t. She’d ridden out several times in search of him—once with Sheriff Hardy’s posse and the rest alone—but each time she returned without him.

  Stevie Rae inhaled deeply and let the memories dissipate with her exhale. Her gaze drifted from Brock MacDermott’s wide shoulders, broad back, and perfectly rounded backside to the dress on display in the window of Mrs. Manville’s dress shop.

  It was still there—the dress she had been saving up to buy for her wedding to Lucas. No one had purchased it yet. She had the money now. The crisp bills folded neatly in her pocket from the sale of the last things she could sell, including her father’s horse, were more than enough to pay for the dress, but why should she bother? Lucas was gone. There would be no wedding.

  And if she were truthful, when would she ever have opportunity to wear a dress like that? Besides, the money was needed to buy supplies so she could head out again.

  She shook her head, freeing herself of her thoughts, but continued to stare at the dress, hope springing eternal in her heart. From the corner of her eye, she watched Brock step into the undertaker’s place of business.

  MacDermott wasn’t inside the building long. He paused outside the door for a moment, hands resting on his hips, staring at…well, she didn’t know what he stared at, but he sure was intent upon it, whatever it was. After a moment longer, he stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.

  “Mr. MacDermott,” she called out as she, too, stepped into the street. He stopped and turned. Stevie took a deep breath to calm the pounding of her heart in her chest and swallowed. Her mouth suddenly dry as dust, she approached him. Her voice still came out hoarse. “Can I talk to you?” This close to him, she realized he was taller than she first thought and broader, yet she detected an inherent kindness in his face. “I saw what happened.”

  The dark slash of his eyebrow rose over one eye, seeming to disappear beneath the hat pulled low on his forehead. “And?”

  “Tripp Simms drew on you. It was a righteous kill. I can tell Sheriff Hardy,” she said in a rush. She shifted her weight from one leg to the other, then licked her dry lips. “I saw you bring in his brother earlier.”

  “Is that so?”

  Weariness settled on his face in the fine lines that radiated from the corners of his clear gray eyes and in the firm set of his mouth. She understood that weariness. She lived with it each and every day, like an unwelcome guest who refused to leave.

  “Thanks for your kind offer, but I don’t need your help.” He turned and strode away, heading toward the sheriff’s office, his long legs eating up the distance and churning up dust in the dirt road.

  Stevie Rae raced after him, jumping up to the wooden sidewalk beside him. “I wasn’t done.”

  “But I was,” he said simply, then entered the sheriff’s office, leaving her standing in stunned silence, her mouth open. She took a deep breath and debated her options. She could rush inside and make a nuisance of herself—she was pretty good at that—or she could wait for him here. Deciding that it wouldn’t help her cause to interrupt the man now, she folded her arms across her chest and took a seat in the rocking chair on the sidewalk to wait.

  The people of Little River nodded toward her as they went about their business. Some smiled at her and truly meant it when they wished her a good afternoon. Some didn’t mean it at all and after saying hello, turned to their companions, no doubt to whisper in hushed tones about the death of her father. Or about Lucas, the man who had proclaimed to love her, breaking their engagement and leaving town. Even her best friend had abandoned her. Edie Sinclair wouldn’t look at her now, let alone talk to her. Like Lucas, Edie didn’t agree with the path Stevie Rae had chosen to take.

  Uncomfortable beneath the scrutiny, she lowered the brim of her beat-up hat even more, swallowed over the lump growing in her throat, and tried to let their comments and remarks flow off her back. They couldn’t understand what drove her now. No one could. Except, maybe, Brock MacDermott.

  She rose from her seat, unwilling to face any more well-meaning and not-so-well-meaning townspeople, and tramped to the door. It swung open just as she reached for the doorknob. Brock stepped over the threshold, followed closely by Sheriff Hardy.

  The sheriff acknowledged her presence with a quick nod in her direction before he adjusted the gun belt slung low on his hips, stepped off the sidewalk, and headed toward Hagan’s Saloon. He met up with Henry Barstow, the undertaker, who had earned the unfortunate nickname of Digger many years ago, on the other side of the street.

  “Mr. MacDermott, I still need to talk to you.” She stepped in front of him, for the moment barring his passage. He could easily slide around her or simply push her out of the way, but she didn’t think he would.

  “You again.” He didn’t seem angry, just annoyed by her persistence. “All right. You have two minutes.”

  Now that she had his attention, she didn’t quite know where to start. She licked her dry lips again and blurted out, “We are after the same man, Mr. MacDermott. I thought, maybe, we could do it together. Two heads are better than one in the hunt for Zeb Logan.”

  He didn’t look at her. His gaze went to the street, to the people walking along the sidewalk on the other side, his impatience clear as he folded his arms across his chest. “Look, kid, I’m a busy man. I don’t have time for this.”

  “I may look young, but I assure you, I’m no kid.”

  His gaze swung back to her and focused, his eyes sharp shards of granite as they took in her appearance from the crown of her hat to the boots on her feet and back again. His lips tightened a bit more before he drew in his breath. “Yes, I can see that now, but that doesn’t change the facts. Zeb Logan is a vicious criminal—”

&nb
sp; “You’re not telling me something I don’t already know.” She’d never be rid of the image of Logan shooting her father while she remained hidden in the root cellar, peeking through the floorboards of their little cabin, unable to move. It had been a senseless killing, with no rhyme or reason except that Logan had seemed to get a certain sick satisfaction from it.

  “Sorry, kid. I can’t help you.”

  “Why not? We could be a help to each other.”

  A muscle jumped in his cheek as his jaw clenched. After a moment, he drew air through his nose and released it slowly through his mouth. “I work alone. By myself. Singular. That means no company, no one traveling beside me. I can’t be worrying about someone else, especially a girl, when I’m after someone as violent as Logan.”

  “You wouldn’t have to worry about me. I can take care of myself.”

  He took a step back, his eyes peering deeply into hers. A long sigh whispered between his lips. Stevie Rae watched him as carefully as he watched her. He was wavering, mulling it over, but perhaps it was all wishful thinking. “Go home, kid. Go back to your mama and daddy. Bounty hunting isn’t for the likes of you.”

  “I can’t go home, Mr. MacDermott. I haven’t got one anymore. Mr. Rendell at the bank took it.” The words brought not only a lump to her throat, but the sharp sting of tears to her eyes. She blinked quickly, hoping he wouldn’t see, and berated herself for her lack of control.

  Understanding dawned. She could see it in the subtle flickering of his eyes, but he still shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my answer is still the same. I work alone, and bounty hunting is no business for a girl.”

  He moved past her, stepping into the street, heading back toward the saloon with his loose-hipped gait. Stevie Rae swiped at her tear-filled eyes and drew air into her lungs. Anger surged through her. She had lost this battle, but she wasn’t ready to give up. She’d find Zeb Logan, with or without Brock MacDermott’s help.

  I ain’t down yet. Not by a long shot.