by Karen Leabo
Lana’s Lawman is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.
A Loveswept eBook Edition
Copyright © 1997 by Karen Leabo
Excerpt from Blaze of Winter by Elisabeth Barrett © 2012 by Elisabeth Barrett.
Excerpt from Light My Fire by Donna Kauffman copyright © 1997 by Donna Kauffman.
Excerpt from Santerra’s Sin by Donna Kauffman copyright © 1996 by Donna Kauffman.
All Rights Reserved.
Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Lana’s Lawman was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1997.
Cover design: Derek Walls
Cover photo: © John Burke/Getty Images
eISBN: 978-0-345-53460-6
www.ReadLoveSwept.com
v3.1
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
The Editor’s Corner
Excerpt from Elisabeth Barrett’s Blaze of Winter
Excerpt from Donna Kauffman’s Light My Fire
Excerpt from Donna Kauffman’s Santerra’s Sin
PROLOGUE
Ten Years Ago
“Please, guys, could you wait your turn?” eighteen-year-old Lana Walsh pleaded as she tried to make sense of the handfuls of grimy dollar bills being thrust at her. She’d warned her friend Callie Calloway not to put her in charge of carnival tickets. Math was her worst subject.
“One at a time,” she tried again. It was hot in the gym. Why didn’t someone turn on the air-conditioning? It was April in central Texas, for crying out loud. Texans needed their A/C.
She looked up at the half-dozen senior boys who had descended on her booth. Then she noticed the boy in back, standing slightly apart from the others, and her breath caught in her throat. Sloan Bennett. What was he doing here? With his long hair and his motorcycle and black leather jacket, he was every schoolgirl’s bad-boy fantasy.
What no one knew—at least, not from her—was that Sloan was more than Lana’s fantasy. For twenty-three days he had been her reality. Her obsession. The boy who’d found dark, uncharted territory in her soul and scared her to pieces at the same time.
Almost two weeks had passed since their explosive breakup. She’d managed to avoid him since then, although it didn’t feel right, not after what they’d shared. But she’d taken a long look at herself, at her goals, her dreams, and she’d known she was better off without Sloan in her life. She’d had to get out—while she still had choices to make.
Then why, when she tried to put it all behind her, did it hurt so much?
Sloan wasn’t bad, not deep down. He wore the outward trappings of a rebel—perhaps because that’s how other people had labeled him from early on—but to those who really knew him he was more hotheaded than truly destructive, even if you took into account the fact that he’d once stolen a car.
He hadn’t pressed Lana to make love. She’d been perfectly willing.
Lana suddenly found herself wishing she could rush through the ticket sales to these boring football players so Sloan could advance to the front of the line and she could talk to him. They’d both cooled down by now, she reasoned. Maybe she could make him understand.… Or maybe you’re hoping he’ll make you change your mind, an inner voice whispered seductively.
“You, Gaston,” she said, addressing Bart Gaston, the team captain. “You first. How many tickets would you like?”
Bart, big and blond and too sure of himself, leaned across the table until he was uncomfortably close. “However many you got.”
“I have several thousand. How much money do you have?”
The other boys snickered, and Bart looked annoyed. “Enough,” he replied, peeling off a bill from a wad he’d pulled from his pocket and smacking it down on the table. “I’ll take a hundred.”
Lana’s eyes widened. The bill was a fifty—a pretty healthy sum of money to blow on carnival tickets, even for the son of a banker. Well, it wasn’t any of her business if that’s how Bart wanted to spend his allowance. She carefully counted out one hundred tickets and handed them over.
“Me next,” another boy hollered out, waving a twenty in Lana’s face. She brushed it aside. That’s when she saw Callie the Carnival Queen herself elbowing her way through the crowd toward her, clipboard in hand.
“Excuse me, official business,” she said as she bulldozed through, carrying a full head of steam.
“Hi, Callie,” Lana said with a smile. “Ticket sales are booming.”
Callie nodded with obvious satisfaction. “Mrs. Dingmeir can handle sales for a while,” she said, motioning to the kindergarten teacher who sat at the table next to Callie with nary a customer. “We have some official business to take care of.”
“But …” But then Lana would miss her chance to talk to Sloan. She could hardly tell Callie that. No one knew. Her brief liaison with Sloan had seemed so fragile, so unreal, Lana had been unable to speak of it to anyone.
Bart, who’d been listening to Callie with amused interest, now put his hand on top of her head and exerted just enough backward pressure that she was forced to look up at him. “What kind of official business?”
Looking supremely irked, she ducked out of his grasp. “Nothing that concerns you, lunkhead.” She turned her attention back to Lana. “Coming?”
“Sure.” Lana smiled apologetically to Bart, then cast one cautious, regretful look toward Sloan. Their eyes met briefly. As always, his burned with a fire that seemed to brand her as his, never mind that she’d refused to see him anymore. She looked away quickly, her heart pounding.
Forcing herself not to dwell on might-have-beens, Lana shook off the memories like a dog shakes off water. She put Sloan out of her mind—firmly.
“You shouldn’t be so rude to Bart,” Lana whispered as she and Callie left the group of boys to Mrs. Dingmeir. “I think he’s going to ask me to the prom. Has Sam asked you yet?”
“Sam and I won’t be going to the prom.”
Lana opened her mouth, then snapped it shut when Callie gave her a quelling look. Lana knew that look. It meant Callie wasn’t ready to talk. But how could they not be going to the prom, when they were practically an institution? They’d been dating since freshman year.
Callie abruptly changed the subject.
“Where’s Millicent?” Millicent Whitney was the third on their student carnival committee.
“She’s helping out with the face painting, remember? Honestly, speaking of not having a date for the prom …”
Callie frowned a warning.
Lana continued, undaunted. “I mean, Millicent’s not as plain as she thinks she is. If she would only try to meet some boys …”
“I know. But she’s so darn shy.”
“She’s going to end up alone and lonely,” Lana said sadly. “And that’s really a shame. She’s smart and nice, and she loves kids.”
That much was obvious. As the two girls approached the face-painting booth, they found Millicent busily painting a unicorn onto a little girl’s cheek. The child, about four, sat still as a stone, enthralled by the artist’s soft voice as Millicent told her a story. She finished up just as she saw Callie and Lana approaching.
&n
bsp; “Hi, how’s it going?” Millicent lifted the child from the table where she’d been sitting and put her on the ground, sending her off with a pat on the head.
“Fine with me,” Lana said, “but Callie says we have official business to take care of.”
Millicent looked to Callie for clarification.
Callie pushed her glasses up on her nose and pointed to the corner of the gym, where a red-silk-swathed booth glittered invitingly. “Did y’all see that?”
Where had that come from? Lana wondered. She hadn’t noticed it before. The small booth featured a gold-lettered sign that read THEODORA, FORTUNE-TELLER.
“The fortune-teller?” Millicent said. “What about her?”
“She’s not on the list. Where’d she come from?” Callie asked.
The two other girls shrugged. “Does it matter?” Millicent asked.
“Of course it matters. She might have sneaked in here under false pretenses. She might be taking cash under the table.”
“Callie, you’re so suspicious,” Lana scolded gently. “Maybe Mr. Stipley forgot to tell us about her.” Mr. Stipley was the principal of Destiny High School, and the carnival was his baby.
“I want to find out for sure,” Callie said. “And I want you both to come with me.”
Lana laughed. “All right. But if we find out she’s legit, we all have to have our fortunes told. Agreed?”
The other two girls nodded, though they appeared less than enthusiastic.
“Theodora” sat behind a silk-draped table with a crystal ball in front of her, as if she’d been waiting just for these three customers. She looked convincingly Gypsyish in a peasant blouse and multicolored tiered skirt, bangles on her wrist and a scarf covering her thick black hair.
She smiled warmly at the trio of new customers. “Well, now, what do we have here? Did you come to find out which boy will ask you to the prom?”
Lana glanced nervously at Callie. Hadn’t they just been talking about that very thing?
“Actually, Miss, uh, Ms. Theodora, this is an official visit,” Callie said. “I’m head of the Carnival Committee student division, and these are my committee members.” She pushed her wire-rimmed glasses to the bridge of her nose once more and consulted her clipboard. “You aren’t on my list.”
“My, aren’t you the official one,” Theodora said, still smiling. To Lana and Millicent she added in a loud stage whisper, “I’ll bet nothing gets by this one, eh? She probably dots all her i’s and crosses the t’s.”
Millicent covered her mouth to disguise her smile, and Lana laughed out loud, stopping only when Callie scowled at her.
“You’re the skeptical type,” Theodora continued, looking at Callie. “You love to ask questions and you can’t stand an unsolved mystery. You would make a very good newspaper reporter.”
“H-how did you know that?” Callie asked.
Lana was surprised too. She knew that Callie was planning a career in journalism.
“I know all kinds of things.” Theodora wiggled her eyebrows mysteriously. “Would you like to hear more?”
“I’d like to hear who gave you permission to set up here,” Callie persisted. “You’re not on my—”
“Chill out, Callie,” Lana said. Callie was such a stickler for correct procedures. “I’d like to hear more. Can you tell me who I’ll go to the prom with?” She briefly pictured herself on the arm of a tall, dark-haired boy … but the image dissolved when she couldn’t picture Sloan in a tux. Anyway, he didn’t do school functions.
Theodora gazed into her crystal ball while Callie pulled a small pad and pen from the back pocket of her jeans. “I see you going to the prom with a football player,” Theodora said.
Lana sighed. Maybe Bart would ask her. So he was a little overbearing and stuck on himself. She would still have a fun time if she went to the prom with him, and her mother would be pleased.
Theodora looked up at Lana. “You have many talents, you know,” she said. “I see you surrounded by flowers.”
Lana giggled. “I hope that means Bart will bring me a big ol’ corsage for the dance. Now, what about Millicent?” She pulled her friend forward. “Who’s she gonna go with?”
Millicent sighed. “I don’t need a fortune-teller to give me that answer. I won’t be going.”
Theodora peered into the ball. “I see you painting. You have such talent!”
“I’ll probably be painting the prom decorations,” Millicent said wistfully.
“Oh, who cares about this silly prom business,” Lana interrupted, refusing to allow Millicent to focus on her lack of a love life. “We want to know who we’re going to marry. Right?” She looked to the other two girls for confirmation.
“Gee, I’m not sure I want to know.…” Millicent said, but Theodora was already staring into her crystal ball.
The Gypsy was quiet for a long time while the girls waited nervously. Then, to Lana’s surprise, Theodora looked up and recited a poem:
One will tarry, losing her chance at love
The next will marry, but her spouse will rove
A third will bury her man in a hickory grove
But all will find marriage a treasure trove
With a little help from above.
Lana blinked and shook her head, trying to clear it. Had Theodora cast a spell on them or something? Lana felt thoroughly spooked, and she knew without a doubt which line of the poem was meant for her. She never dated any boy for longer than a few weeks because she always lost interest—except with Sloan, she thought, then pushed the thought aside. Her mother had told her a hundred times that she was going to fritter away her youth and beauty if she didn’t set her sights now on good husband material.
So Lana would be the one to tarry, and lose her chance at love.
“The poem’s nice, but it’s not very helpful,” Lana pointed out. “I want a name. How will I know my future husband when I meet him?”
Theodora smiled. “No problem. Everyone who has her fortune told by Theodora gets a souvenir. These mementos will help you recognize the man who will make you happy.” She reached under the table and pulled out a cardboard box that appeared to be filled with gum-machine toys and other plastic junk. She rummaged around in it for a moment, then held out her hand toward Callie.
Callie, her expression still filled with skepticism, nonetheless reached out and accepted Theodora’s gift. It was a plastic key chain in the shape of a cowboy boot.
Lana bit her lower lip. Did this fortune-teller, this stranger, somehow know about Callie’s Sam, who worked at his great-uncle’s ranch?
“I’m not marrying anyone who wears cowboy boots,” Callie said, folding her arms. Theodora merely gave her a knowing smile.
Lana actually trembled as Theodora handed her a “souvenir,” hoping to get an equally clear directive, but it didn’t make much sense to her. It was a cheap toy policeman’s badge.
Theodora had to search a bit longer for something to give Millicent. She finally came up with a small bottle made of brown glass. Lana had seen such bottles in antique shops.
As the three girls studied their gifts, Theodora quietly stood and walked to the back of her booth.
“Hey, where’d she go?” Callie asked.
Lana pointed to the wavering curtain in the rear of the booth. “Back there.”
Callie lunged forward, with Lana hot on her heels and Millicent close behind. Callie pulled back the curtain, but no one was there.
The girls stepped outside the booth, looked around corners, under tables. There was no glimpse of Theodora.
“This way!” Callie suddenly said, pointing toward the back door of the gym. They all three took off at a run in hot pursuit of the fortune-teller. But outside, again they found no sign of her.
“I knew it,” Callie said, breathing hard. “I knew she was some kind of charlatan.”
“I didn’t think she was so bad,” Lana said. “She told our fortunes for free.”
“We’ll have to go to Mr. Stipley,
” Callie said. “Something’s definitely fishy.”
They went back into the gymnasium, but almost before the door slammed behind them, Callie skidded to a stop so suddenly that Lana ran into her, and Millicent did the same. Lana imagined they resembled the Keystone Kops.
“Look,” Callie whispered. She pointed toward Theodora’s booth—or, rather, the place where Theodora’s booth had stood a minute or two earlier. Now there was no sign of red silk or glitter. A dart game occupied the space.
The three girls stared at one another, and Lana felt a prickling of fear. Her friends had to be thinking the same thing she was—that there was no way anyone could have moved Theodora’s booth that quickly.
“D-did we just have a group hallucination?” Millicent squeaked. Her face was downright pasty.
Lana opened her hand. The tin policeman’s badge glittered bewitchingly at her, mute testimony to the fact that she hadn’t dreamed her visit with Theodora. She saw that her friends still had their prizes too.
“I’m not sure what it was,” Callie said. “But I don’t think we should tell anyone about it.”
“Agreed,” the other two girls said together. They all clasped hands. Lana felt a shiver, and she knew that what had just transpired would somehow prove to be very important in her life.
ONE
Rain poured down on the windshield in murky sheets. Lana Gaston flipped the wipers up to high, continuing her creep along the dark, narrow lane that led to St. Theresa’s Church. She would have pulled her Mercedes onto the nearest side street to wait out the storm, but she was already running late, and she loathed the idea of her tardiness holding up the wedding.
“Think we’ll have a tornado?” her eight-year-old son asked hopefully, tugging at the collar of the new button-down shirt she’d coerced him into wearing. “That would be really cool.”
“It’s a little late in the year for tornadoes,” Lana answered. Then she smiled. Given the turbulent relationship between the bride and groom, a tornado for their wedding would be almost apropos.
She glanced skyward. “Just kidding,” she murmured toward heaven. “I don’t really want a tornado. In fact, I’d really really appreciate it if you’d let up on the rain a little so I can make it to the church.”
