by Jo Goodman
PRAISE FOR
Kissing Comfort
“The cast of likable, articulate characters—including the complicated, independent, and altogether impressive heroine—makes this an entertaining and sizzling offering for lovers of Gilded Age pageantry.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Jo Goodman’s books are one of the main reasons why I love historical romance so much.”
—The Romance Dish
“Business, money, lies, betrayal, and love are a dynamic recipe…Jo Goodman is a master at historical romance. Kissing Comfort is charming, humorous, all-consuming, and a blast to read.”
—Fresh Fiction
“A wonderfully intense romance that entertained me from beginning to end…A captivating read.”
—Romance Junkies
“Jo Goodman is one of my favorite authors and is one of the few historical romance writers that still sets her books in America…I absolutely adored her latest book, Kissing Comfort, where she has spun a gripping tale that absorbed me to the very end.”
—Night Owl Reviews
“Goodman’s longtime fans will recognize the author’s signature style and new fans will enjoy this good, old-fashioned Western.”
—RT Book Reviews
“An exciting American romance starring two likable protagonists and an overall wonderful cast.”
—Genre Go Round Reviews
PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JO GOODMAN
“A perfect treat for readers who enjoy smart, sensual love stories à la Amanda Quick.”
—Booklist
“Goodman has a real flair for writing romantic tension and sexy love scenes…Fans of historical and western romances will also appreciate Goodman’s witty dialogue, first-rate narrative prose, and clever plotting.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Exquisitely written. Rich in detail, the characters are passionately drawn…An excellent read.”
—The Oakland Press
“Jo Goodman is a master of her craft, and it’s easy to see why she is a bestseller. She has the rare talent to put you in the hearts and minds of her characters…If you see her name on a book, it’s a guaranteed good read!”
—Night Owl Reviews
“For the pure joy of reading a romance, this book comes close to being some kind of perfection.”
—Dear Author
“Goodman’s…prose is rich and luscious.”
—The Romance Reader
“Delightful and exciting…Goodman holds the suspense as well as the surprises and never lets up on the passion.”
—RT Book Reviews
“Goodman is a thoughtful and intelligent writer who can make her characters live and breathe on the page.”
—All About Romance
Berkley Sensation titles by Jo Goodman
KISSING COMFORT
THE LAST RENEGADE
The
Last Renegade
JO GOODMAN
THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP
Published by the Penguin Group
Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Group Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi—110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, Auckland 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.
THE LAST RENEGADE
A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author
PUBLISHING HISTORY
Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / September 2012
Copyright © 2012 by Joanne Dobrzanski.
Excerpt from True to the Law by Jo Goodman copyright © 2012 by Joanne Dobrzanski.
Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.
Cover design by Rita Frangie.
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or
electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of
copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
ISBN: 978-1-101-58961-8
BERKLEY SENSATION®
Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,
375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.
BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that this book is
stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher, and neither the
author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
This one has to be for my terrific friends and
colleagues at WVCCA. Remember, while I incorporate
your names shamelessly, I haven’t killed one of you off.
Yet.
Table of Contents
Prologue
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
Epilogue
About the Author
Prologue
October 1888
Wyoming Territory
Kellen Coltrane looked up from his reading to acknowledge the stranger. The interruption annoyed him, but he did not permit himself to reveal it. It was impossible for him not to hear his mother’s gentle admonishment at times like this, “There is no reason you cannot remove your nose from a book long enough to be civil.” That’s why a smile was tugging at the corners of his mouth when he met the eyes of the dead man.
Not that the stranger was dead yet. Just that he soon would be. The man’s gaunt face was nearly drained of color, and in spite of the chill in the passenger coach, his skin had the damp sheen of a sickly sweat.
Then there was the blood. It was not immediately evident. The dying man was making some effort to hide his condition, perhaps even from himself, but his posture was listing now, the knees no longer locked to attention, and the hand he had
pushed inside his coat to cover the wound was insufficient to staunch the flow of blood. A dark crimson bloom had begun to appear on his shirt above the button closures of his vest and coat.
Kellen looked around quickly and saw the man had attracted no particular notice. This passenger car hadn’t been overcrowded since Omaha and was down to five other souls since the stop in Cheyenne. There were cars forward where passengers were still seated elbow to elbow. If there was a choice, most people opted to ride as close to the front of the train as possible, where they believed the cars swayed less. Smoke and cinders were inescapable wherever one sat, even in the Union Pacific’s most expensive private coaches. For Kellen, his choice of seats hinged on how much conversation and company he wanted. He had moved several times to achieve exactly this much isolation.
Apparently, so had the dead man.
Kellen stood, placed a hand under the stranger’s elbow, and slipped his dime novel under the man’s coat. “Press this against your wound,” he whispered. “Let me help you sit.”
Summoning enough energy to glance at the book’s colorful cover illustration, the man grasped it with bloodstained fingers. “Hate to see Nat Church put to such a use.”
Kellen offered a thin smile. “If you believe the stories, he’s seen worse.”
“Oh, I believe. Believe ’em all.”
There was a pause, and Kellen thought he was going to say more, but a weak cough and a spittle of blood on the man’s lower lip were all that followed. Kellen eased the man down on the wooden bench and helped him slide into the corner beside the window, the same space Kellen had previously occupied.
Kellen bent low and spoke quietly into the man’s ear. “I’m going to get help.”
“No.”
“The conductor passed through here a few minutes ago. He can’t be far.”
“No.” This time the objection was more forceful, not easily ignored. The man turned his head and stared hard. His soft grunt revealed mild surprise and a measure of grudging respect when Kellen didn’t blink or back away. “Guess I ain’t in a position to argue.”
“That’s right.” Kellen started to straighten and move away, but the dying man reached out and grabbed his wrist. His strength made Kellen hesitate even while it filled him with a greater sense of urgency. Perhaps he had mistaken the hopelessness of the stranger’s condition. He looked down at the white-knuckled fingers gripping his wrist. “What is it?”
“My valise.” He jerked his chin toward the narrow aisle. “Put it here. Beside me.”
Kellen’s own valise was stored under the bench. He didn’t bother offering to put the stranger’s bag there. He picked up the bag, discovered it was heavier than he’d anticipated, and hefted it onto the bench. He then went in search of the conductor.
He found Mr. Berg four cars forward. It had taken him more time than it should have because passengers two cars ahead had opened up their baskets and were sharing food across the aisle and between the benches. The atmosphere in that car was as festive as a summer picnic, and he was encouraged by every traveler of the female kind to sample a slice of this and a square of that. Exigency warred with civility. He was polite but firm, then coldly polite, and finally merely cold. No one offered him anything on his return passage.
The conductor, a smallish man with widely spaced eyes and spectacles that sat too narrowly on the bridge of his nose, had his hands full keeping two women from clawing each other—or him. Lying in the aisle between the would-be combatants was a flattened black velvet bonnet, artfully decorated with black-and-white glass beads and a large, black-tipped ostrich feather. Kellen assessed the situation as a standoff. While passengers on either side of the aisle called out their opinion and generally egged on the spitting and hissing females, Kellen slipped the toe of his boot under the bonnet’s brim, gave a little kick, and sent the bonnet sailing toward the coach’s ceiling. Both women leaped, and once they were airborne, Kellen reached between them, grabbed the conductor’s arm, and yanked him free of the dispute.
Kellen couldn’t be sure, but he thought he glimpsed a look of gratitude before the conductor began to make all the proper noises about not abandoning his post even as he was being dragged toward the rear of the car.
Between cars, Kellen explained the situation. He had precious few details to offer. No, he couldn’t say who was responsible. No, he didn’t know when the man was injured. Yes, he was certain it was a grievous wound. Yes, the man required a doctor’s attention if one could be found.
The conductor, in Kellen’s opinion, delayed their progress unnecessarily by insisting on proper introductions, and Kellen had the impression his name would find its way into an official report to the Union Pacific Railroad, or more concerning, to the local vigilance committee.
“There is a physician in the next car,” Mr. Berg explained. “Go on ahead, while I’ll ask him to attend us. I won’t be but a minute or so behind you.”
When Kellen arrived back at his car, he didn’t immediately see the wounded stranger, and thought the impossible had happened and somehow the man had moved on. That wasn’t the case. As Kellen moved closer to his seat, he saw the stranger was doubled over, bent so far forward as to be invisible from the front of the car. Far from being dead, the man was purposefully rooting through his valise. Kellen had a distinct memory of setting the bag on the seat beside the stranger. Had it fallen to the floor?
“What do you need?” asked Kellen. “Let me get it for you.” The man removed his hand as quickly as a child caught in the act of swiping his finger through a freshly frosted cake. “Then let me get it out of the way.” Kellen pushed it under the bench beside his own bag and sat down. “Conductor’s bringing a doctor. Maybe you’ve got longer than you think.” He helped the man straighten and situated him once more in the corner of the seat, allowing him to rest his shoulder against the side of the car. His head lolled against the window. Kellen removed his long leather coat, folded it, and placed it under the man’s head and shoulder.
“You want to tell me what happened?” Kellen asked.
The stranger lifted one ginger eyebrow. “You interested?”
“I am.”
“Didn’t seem like you might be. Runnin’ off the way you did.”
Kellen had to lean close. The man’s voice was weak, softer than a whisper, and hard to hear over the steady clickety-clack of the train on the rails. He watched the stranger’s lips and strained to hear.
“Thought you might be squeamish. Didn’t think you were when I first noticed you, but you never know.”
Kellen ignored that. “You’re wasting your breath,” he said. “Literally. Who are you?”
“Name’s Nat Church. Heard of me?”
Arching an eyebrow, Kellen revealed his skepticism. “Nat Church.” His wintry blue eyes dropped to where the stranger’s hand disappeared under his coat. Somewhere beneath the heavy woolen overcoat, the man was still pressing a dime novel against his wound. “Nat Church and the Ambush at Broken Bow. Nat Church and the Indian Maiden. That Nat Church?”
“That’s right.”
“Huh.”
“You don’t believe me.”
“Sure don’t, but I don’t think it matters.” Kellen watched the man who called himself Nat Church shrug and immediately regret the small movement. A grimace twisted Mr. Church’s mouth into a parody of a smile. Kellen looked away and in the direction of the passenger car’s door. Help wasn’t arriving as quickly as the conductor had promised. Perhaps the doctor was reluctant to offer assistance.
Several rows ahead of them, a father sitting with his young son glanced back. The father immediately turned away, apparently disinclined to become involved. When the boy started to swivel in his seat, the father clamped a firm hand on the back of his son’s skull and made him keep his eyes forward.
Another quick survey of the car told Kellen all he needed to know about the likelihood that there would be help from another quarter. The passengers studiously avoided meeting his eyes. They al
l knew now that something unpleasant was happening within spitting distance of their seats, but their instinct was to maintain that distance lest some spittle attach itself.
Their reaction struck him as odd. They were behaving counter to his experience. In his travels, he’d found that people in the wide-open Western territories were more likely to step up and lend a hand than city folk or the denizens of small towns, where the yoke of lawlessness was still a heavy burden.
There was a possibility, however, that explained it. Kellen bent his head slightly and addressed Nat Church. “You told them to stay away.”
Mr. Church did not pretend that he didn’t understand. “Course I did.”
Kellen had the impression that Nat Church was not only at peace with what he’d done, his fleeting smile seemed to indicate that he was satisfied that Kellen had figured it out. “All right,” said Kellen. He concluded there was no point in challenging the dying man’s assertion that he was Nat Church, in spite of the fact that he looked nothing at all like the hero described in all twenty-two of the wildly popular dime novels. The fictional Nat Church was in his twenties, easily half this stranger’s age. Nat Church of the serialized adventures had hair as black as tar and eyes so impenetrable that light was neither emitted nor reflected. The man sitting beside Kellen had a face that was infinitely more expressive, eyes that were as gray as the wiry strands of hair at his temples, and a thin face with deep lines that were a map of life experience. The hero of Nat Church and the Sleeping Detective and Nat Church and the Hanging at Harrisonville had wide shoulders and wore a beaten, buttery-soft brown leather duster, not a woolen coat with the heavy collar turned up to hide a pencil-thin neck, and Church, the hero, sported scuffed brown boots with tarnished silver spurs, not ones that were polished to a military shine. “Are you going to let me see your wound?”
“Can’t…lift the book…I’ll bleed out.”
“You were stabbed, is that right? Not shot.”
“How you figure?”
Impatient with the man’s need to hear an explanation, Kellen decided to humor him. He said, “You didn’t board the train injured. It’s my habit to watch people at the stops, see who’s coming and going. I saw you walking the platform; saw you waiting to climb aboard. Hands at your sides. Patient to take your turn. Watchful but not worried. I saw enough to be confident that whatever happened, happened after you stepped on the train. I didn’t hear a gunshot. No one in this car reacted as if they’d heard one either. That leads me to conclude you were stabbed.”
