Molly's Hero

by Susan Amarillas

  “Every time we look at each other it’s like lightning and I want—”

  “I’m married!”

  “Dammit, don’t you think I know that! If I could find your husband, I’d shoot the son of a bitch where he stands just for leaving you and Katie.”

  “Oh, I see. If you can’t get the land by making love to me, then you’ll resort to shooting my husband.”

  This time it was Ethan who paced away. “You aren’t going to listen, are you?”

  “No.”

  “Molly,” he said softly, reaching out to her, wishing, praying she’d reach back.

  She didn’t.

  “Leave, Ethan” was all she said.

  “Molly…”

  Tears glistened in her eyes and clogged her throat. “I am telling you for the last time to get out of here! Get away from me! Stay far away from me!” She swiped at the tears that ran down her cheeks. “Damn you, Ethan Wilder…!”

  Dear Reader,

  Much of the beauty of romance novels is that most are written by women for women, and feature strong and passionate heroines. We have some stellar authors this month who bring to life those intrepid women we love as they engage in relationships with the men we also love!

  We are delighted with the return of award-winning author Susan Amarillas. Dubbed “queen of the frontier romance” by Affaire de Coeur, Susan follows suit with her new Western, Molly’s Hero. Here, Molly Murphy is trying to make ends meet after her husband disappears, leaving her alone with their small daughter and big ranch. Things get complicated when handsome railroad builder Ethan Wilder shows up, determined to talk her into selling her land. Only, Ethan starts falling in love with her instead…. Don’t miss this wonderful tale of forbidden love!

  In The Viking’s Heart, a medieval novel by rising talent Jacqueline Navin, a proud noblewoman unexpectedly falls in love with the fierce Viking sent to escort her to her own arranged marriage. Will she choose love or duty? My Lady’s Dare by Gayle Wilson is a Regency-set tale that will grab you and not let go as the Earl of Dare becomes fascinated by another man’s mistress. Nothing is as it seems in this dangerous game of espionage and love!

  And don’t miss Bandera’s Bride, in which Mary McBride gives her Southern belle heroine some serious chutzpah when, pregnant and alone, she travels to Texas to propose marriage to her pen pal of six years, a half-breed who’s been signing his partner’s name….

  Enjoy! And come back again next month for four more choices of the best in historical romance.

  Sincerely,

  Tracy Farrell,

  Senior Editor

  Molly’s Hero

  Susan Amarillas

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and SUSAN AMARILLAS

  Snow Angel #165

  Silver and Steel #233

  Scanlin’s Law #283

  Wyoming Renegade #351

  Wild Card #388

  Molly’s Hero #518

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter One

  War Bonnet, Wyoming

  1871

  The stranger cut the trail at the base of the ridge and rode straight up the hill. The horse’s hooves sent rocks flying as the gelding lunged up the steep bank. At the top of the rise, he reined in. For several minutes he merely sat there, staring down at the isolated ranch.

  One hundred and twenty acres, according to the records he’d checked at the land office in Cheyenne—mostly dirt, spotted with buffalo grass. That was enough to graze, oh, four steers. Yeah, not much of a ranch by Wyoming standards or anyone else’s, for that matter.

  From his vantage point, he could make out a log cabin with a tin roof and a cottonwood log corral that looked as though it had been built by a drunk, it was so crooked. There was overturned earth beside the cabin, which he figured was a garden of sorts. But was that supposed to be a barn over there? Hell, he’d seen kids’ tree houses built better. There wasn’t a drop of paint anywhere and he knew, sure as sunrise, that by August that siding would be dried and curling like smoke. Not that he cared. They’d be gone long before August. Yeah, long before. That’s what he’d come for.

  He snatched off his tan hat, the crown stained dark from sweat, the brim bent in the front and back from too many rainstorms. He plunked it down on the saddle horn and wiped his face with the curve of his elbow. Perspiration turned the faded blue of his shirt a navy. There were thunderheads building over the mountains to the west. Maybe there’d be rain.

  The gray gelding bobbed his head, making the reins tug and slip in his work-hardened fingers. “Easy,” he said, and soothed the animal with a pat. “Easy.” The creak of leather and the startled call of a meadowlark punctuated his words. Overhead, the sky was slowly fading from blue to gray.

  Touching his spurs lightly to the horse’s side, he rode the ridgeline in a lope, moving easily with the rhythm of the horse. Four years in the Union cavalry had taught him two things—how to ride and how to kill.

  He surveyed the land with a trained eye, taking in the way the flat prairie rushed to meet what was really only the foothills of the Laramie Mountains. There was one and only one opening through those hills for a hundred miles.

  And it was right down there. Right through the middle of that ranch.

  Rage mixed with frustration. Goddamn, this should never have happened. He had scouted this area a year ago and it was all open range. Even six months ago there hadn’t been a thing but jackrabbits and now this. Billy had botched things but good.

  He’d sent a couple of thick-necked types to handle negotiations. Myers and Oberman had wired that some hardheaded woman had run them off the place with a rifle. Now that he would have liked to have seen.

  A smile tugged up one corner of his mouth—but it was gone in an instant. This was serious business. Woman or no woman, he was going to get what he’d come for.

  He reined up again and reached for the canteen hooked over the saddle horn. Just as he raised it to his lips, something moved and caught his eye.

  A little girl dressed in bright-yellow calico darted out of the cabin and raced toward the corral. Behind her came a woman, dressed in a black skirt and a white blouse. Sunlight glinted on her auburn hair making it the color of flame. So that was her, he thought.

  His adversary.

  Putting up the canteen, he settled his hat more firmly on his head and started down the hill.

  Lady, you’re about to meet your match.

  Sunlight appeared from behind a cloud and sliced knife sharp into Molly’s eyes. A sudden flood of tears blurred her vision. Her steps faltered. She blinked hard and turned her back to the sun long enough to swipe at her eyes. Jaw clenched, she turned around again and headed straight for the corral. She didn’t have a minute to spare.

  She was sick—throat-aching, head-pounding sick, had been since around midnight, close as she could figure. That was when her fever had started or at least when she’d first noticed.

  Now she had the chills so bad that even on this hellfire hot morning, it was all she could do to keep her teeth from chattering she was so cold. This wasn’t good.

  “Katie, honey,” she called to the little girl who’d already climbed between the rails. “Be careful around the horses.” Molly slid the cottonwood log from the corral fence and let it slam to the ground with a bouncing thud that sent a small puff of dust to coat the front of her skirt.

/>   “I will,” Katie shouted back in the way of five-year-olds who aren’t really listening at all.

  Molly was having trouble getting her eyes to focus and it was taking a conscious effort to get her legs and brain to work in unison. Two steps and the breeze—there was always a breeze in Wyoming—came whipping between the barn and the house lifting the hem of her skirt, chilling her bare legs beneath. “Stop it,” she ordered as she shoved the hem back in place. The skirt hung on her like her grandmother’s nightgown. She wasn’t wearing petticoats or stockings—only the minimum amount of underwear. She was lucky she’d managed to get dressed at all the way her head kept spinning.

  With three unsteady strides, she circled around the two draft horses munching on the last of the hay in the feed trough. Her destination was blessedly in sight—the harness shed. Okay, it wasn’t actually a shed, in fact it was nothing more than a couple of pegs on the shady side of the barn wall with a little roof-type covering jutting out. Jack had promised to make an enclosure. Jack had made a lot of promises. This shed was the least of ’em. She and Jack…Well, that was another story, a long and exasperating story that made her sad as much as anything. Poor Jack. He’d tried, she supposed, it was just that his goals and hers—

  “Mama, watch me!” Katie called as she slid down the haystack just inside the barn door opening and landed with a thump on the hard ground. Immediately she was up and climbing again.

  “Be careful,” Molly cautioned with a painful rasp in her voice. The child knew no fear. For that matter, most of the time neither did Molly, at least she’d never admit to any.

  Lifting on her toes, she strained up to unhook the harness. Muscles in her back ached for the effort. Her fever was building—fast. Her throat was on fire and she was seriously thinking of taking up spitting because it hurt so much to swallow. At this rate, she’d never make it into town.

  “Mama, can we get licorice at the mercantile?” Katie asked. Molly liked the way the child had taken to calling her mama even if she was really only her aunt.

  “No. Oh, maybe.” She was distracted by something else, something called survival. She had to survive, if not for herself, for Katie. No way was she going to die. No way would she leave this child an orphan—not again.

  “Watch me this time,” Katie called, and Molly did. Sick as she was she couldn’t help feeling proud looking at the child who was a joy, her joy now, she thought sadly, remembering the pain of her sister’s death less than a year ago in that miserable excuse for a tent in an even more miserable gold camp. The child’s father and Molly’s own father had died only a few months later in a mining accident. To lose so many so fast had been almost more than Molly could bear, like tearing the heart right out of her. But then there’d been Jack, full of charm and smiles and promises of forever after. While she didn’t exactly love Jack, she liked him and he treated her and Katie kindly enough. What else could a woman expect? So they’d married. As winter had closed in, life in the camp had gotten miserable, wet, muddy and well-bottom cold. Then, lo and behold, Jack announced that he had the deed to this piece of property he’d taken in payment of some gambling debt. He’d never seen it but…

  Molly didn’t care. Land. Their land, not the muck and mire they’d been used to at the camp. As far as she was concerned there was nothing to discuss. She packed faster than a person could say, “So long.”

  Snow was falling as they pulled out of camp headed for their new home. Her first and only home—finally.

  Home. The word fairly rang in her head. Her home. Katie’s home. Their home. The first time she’d seen it she’d fallen in love. It was as if this spot had been made just for her: big green trees, a brook running year-round, even some structures. A cabin and a barn, at least. It was a start. It was heaven.

  “Mama? Are you watching?” Katie’s voice cut Molly’s thoughts short.

  “Good, Katie.” Molly waved then swallowed hard.

  Grinning, Katie went right back to climbing and Molly went back to working on getting that darned harness down. It hadn’t seemed so tough when she’d put it up here last week.

  With a final effort, she managed to release the heavy leather straps that came falling toward her and nearly sent her sprawling. Feet braced, she steadied herself. She was going to do this. Molly was nothing if not stubborn. That was the Irish in her, she supposed.

  She straightened, positioned the harness over her left shoulder and started for those horses.

  “Mama, can I play with Timmy when we’re in town?” Katie stood breathless in the opening that should have had doors, but didn’t because Jack hadn’t…Oh, the devil with it.

  “Sure,” Molly replied, wincing at the tear in her throat the answer cost her. Young Timmy was the son of Mr. Brinsfield, who owned the local mercantile. He and Katie had hit it right off. Unfortunately, he’d been sick the last time they’d been in town, even Mr. Brinsfield had been sneezing and wheezing. Is that where she could have gotten this…whatever this was?

  She was hoping a few doses of Dr. Campbell’s Patent Remedy would fix her up.

  Molly went back to work. Sunshine heated her shoulders. A couple of blackbirds fluttered down to peck at the grain near the feed trough.

  Molly half dragged, half carried the heavy leather in the direction of the horses. Her loose hair kept blowing in her eyes and annoying the hell out of her. She made a quick motion with her head to get it clear. Big mistake. That motion sent a blinding wave of dizziness washing over her. Her eyes slammed shut. Hand out, she came up short. Her knees threatened to buckle but she refused to give in. She was going to be all right.

  A few deep breaths and she felt better, steadier anyway. What was wrong with her? Words like typhoid, diphtheria, pneumonia ran through her mind.

  No. She wouldn’t think that way!

  “Katie?” she called out the way a mother does, not looking, just needing a confirmation that her child was okay.

  “Yes?” came the answer from somewhere deep in the darkness of the barn.

  Satisfied, Molly made her way toward Elmo, the brown draft horse who’d already seen her and was turning away with one of those, if I don’t look at her, she won’t make me do this looks that animals and small children seem to master early on.

  “Don’t you walk away,” Molly admonished, speaking to the horse’s hind end and getting only a swoosh of tail for a reply. She grabbed Elmo by the halter. A big black horsefly buzzed her head and she swatted the creature away. “Come on, Elmo,” she said to the horse, “we’re going into town whether—”

  As she turned, she spotted the man. A lone rider about three or four hundred yards south and coming in slow. She stilled and released Elmo long enough to shade her eyes. Was it Jack? After six months, she’d hoped he’d return…. The rider got closer. Her momentary relief dissolved faster than butter in a skillet. It wasn’t him.

  But if he wasn’t Jack, then who?

  Cautiously, she watched. Molly liked people generally, liked parties and friends. She had darned few of those being new here. But these days strangers made her nervous. For a woman alone, a strange man could be dangerous. That thought sent a whole new sort of shiver prickling down her spine.

  Why the devil hadn’t she grabbed that Henry rifle she had loaded and propped inside the door of the cabin for this kind of occasion? But, of course, she’d forgotten. Now she was sick and weary and weighted down with the harness and she couldn’t run to the cabin if her life depended on it. She hoped it didn’t.

  He wasn’t more than a hundred yards away. She figured she’d bluff it through. After all, odds were he was some cowboy riding the chuck line, wanting water for his horse, maybe a hot meal for himself.

  Pretending not to be wary, Molly led Elmo to the wagon and backed him into his place. She let the harness slide off her shoulder and it hit the ground with a thud and clink of metal buckles. Her white shirtwaist was streaked with dirt. Her skirt was just as bad. “Good, Molly. Always wear white when you have to harness the horses.”
It was habit more than concern that made her brush at the stains.

  The steady clip-clop of the horse’s hooves told her he was close. She kept on working.

  “Morning,” he said in a deep, rich voice. She turned to see that he was still seated on his horse. “Mind if I step down?”

  “Suit yourself,” she told him, relaxing at his polite tone. Murderers hardly bothered with pleasantries.

  She reached for the harness.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” he said, that deep voice of his easy on her ears yet stirring some strange feeling low in her stomach.

  Must be the fever. “No, thanks.” She gave him a quick once-over, just enough to notice that he was tall and broad shouldered and wearing a Navy Colt on his right hip in the comfortable way of a man who knows how to use one. His dark clothes were trail stained with dust. His hat shadowed most of his face, except for his mustache, which was black, streaked with gray and curved down almost to his jawline. He looked strong and rugged and imposing. He looked one more thing—dangerous—but in ways that had nothing to do with her personal safety…. Or did they?

  “Name’s Wilder. Ethan Wilder,” he finally offered up. Not that she’d asked, but he figured he’d try the polite approach first. She was obviously having trouble with the harness so, ignoring her earlier refusal of help, he tossed down the reins and took a half step in her direction. “I’ll do that,” he told her, trying to take the leather out of her hands.

  “I said no!” Molly lashed out at him, her temper riled by fever and fear and what she knew to be unreasonable independence. “Who’d you think does this for me when you’re not here!”

  “Well, you’re welcome,” he came back, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You don’t have to take my head off. I was only trying to—”

  “Don’t try.”

  “Now, look, lady, I—”

  “If you want water for your horse, the trough is over there.” Molly motioned with her head and got another wave of dizziness for her trouble.