by HELEN HARDT
The Outlaw’s Angel
Daughters of the Prairie: Book One
Helen Hardt
Contents
Copyright
Praise for The Outlaw’s Angel
Praise for Helen Hardt
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
Continue the Daughters of the Prairie Series with Book Two
Chapter One
Message from Helen Hardt
Also by Helen Hardt
Acknowledgments
About the Author
This book is an original publication of Helen Hardt.
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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 assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.
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Copyright © 2016 Waterhouse Press, LLC
Cover Design by Viola Estrella
Cover Photos: Fotolia
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All Rights Reserved
No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic format without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.
Praise for The Outlaw’s Angel
The Outlaw’s Angel by Helen Hardt gave us a sensual love story about 1869 Dakota Territory and a bounty hunter, Bobby Morgan. He was falsely accused of murder, and in desperation, kidnapped the preacher’s daughter, Naomi. Their escapades were impressive and just kept getting worse. The strong, dynamic characters, as well as the people they met during their journey, made the story fabulous. This story, as well as the surprise ending, grabbed my attention and wouldn’t let go.
~The Romance Studio
Praise for Helen Hardt
Flawlessly written and in my opinion a work of art…
~Girly Girl Book Reviews
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Is it hot in here? I mean it’s July, the sun is blazing, but I’m sitting in an air conditioned house sweating bullets. Congratulations Ms. Hardt, you dropped me into the middle of a scorching hot story and let me burn.
~Seriously Reviewed
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Ms. Hardt has a way of writing that makes me forget I'm reading a book. It's more like slipping into a world she created and getting lost for a while.
~Whipped Cream Reviews
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I loved this book. The characters were wonderful. They each showed their vulnerable sides as well as their strengths. They are real people and have real problems but also some very loving solutions…
~Night Owl Reviews
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Ms. Hardt creates magic…
~The Romance Studio
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Helen Hardt writes as smooth as a hot knife cutting through butter. Her words take you away and you feel like you are watching the story play out right in front of you.
~Delightfully Dirty Reads
To the women at The Wild Rose Press who gave me my start in editing and publishing
Chapter One
Dakota Territory, 1869
“I’m tellin’ you, I didn’t kill anyone!”
Bobby Morgan sat, his wrists bound behind him, looking at lean, red-faced Justin Stiles, Sheriff of Dugan, Dakota Territory. The muscles underneath his scalp pounded like a hammer into his brain, and his eyes stung from the rotgut whiskey that had trickled into them when a bottle had crashed onto his head.
“I got a saloon full of men say you did,” the sheriff said.
“A saloon full of crazy drunks.” Bobby shook his head. “What about Frank, the bartender? He’ll vouch for me.”
“Frank didn’t see anything.”
“The hell he didn’t! He was behind the bar when this all happened.”
“Says he took a break.”
“Goddamn coward.” Bobby was never setting foot in that saloon again. He exhaled sharply. “Then who was manning the bar?”
“Don’t know. Don’t care. But I got one man dead, and five witnesses who say you done the deed.”
Bobby squirmed in the hard wooden chair. His jaw ached, his head throbbed, and his face still burned from the alcohol seeping into the lacerations. He let out a sarcastic chuckle. After losing stage robber Jack Daily’s trail, he’d stopped in Dugan for a drink. Worst decision he ever made. At least he’d finally gotten some sleep. Course he hadn’t expected to wake up on the dirt floor of a jail cell.
“I’ll say it again. He attacked me. And when I heard his pistol cock, I shot him in the foot. Through his boot. Just enough to take him down so I could get the hell out. That’s it.” He sighed. The coarse rope bit his wrists.
“These men just like to git rowdy,” Stiles said. “I ain’t never had a one of ’em in my jail for anything other than drunk and disorderly conduct.”
“Really?” Bobby’s tone was sardonic as he cocked his head to indicate the dozing drunks in the cell. “So none of them are in here for shooting anyone?”
“Nope. That’d be you, Mr. Morgan.”
Bobby stretched his neck while fumbling with the rope ties behind his back. Were they loosening? Yup. The good folks of Dugan had elected a sheriff who couldn’t tie a decent knot. He kept his facial expression noncommittal, and without moving his head, scanned his surroundings. He’d need the sheriff’s gun, but it was holstered at his waist. Problematic. A blade would do, or something that could masquerade as one. Most likely the sheriff lived in the backroom.
There’d be a knife in there somewhere.
Idiot hadn’t thought to bind his legs to the chair. What a greenhorn. The sheriff couldn’t be more than twenty, twenty-two. Bobby had age and experience on his side, and he planned to use them.
But first he needed a diversion.
The other prisoners were out cold, so he couldn’t depend on them. By the time a suitable diversion presented itself, he’d be back in lock up.
Damn.
He closed his eyes, and despite his thumping head, willed his mind to churn. He’d gotten out of some pretty sticky scrapes over the years. He’d get out of this one.
He breathed in deeply to clear his brain.
Lavender.
His mother’s pretty face emerged in his mind, and he was a boy of ten again, before the Indians had stripped him of everything he held dear. He hadn’t thought of her in years. How had he conjured her out of nothing? It was the lavender. His mother had smelled of lavender.
He opened his eyes, and before him stood an angel. Although her sable hair was bound in a tight knot, he imagined it flowing over shoulders the same creamy shade as her beautiful face. She was tall for a woman, and slender, but with full, luscious breasts. One pale hand curved around a wicker basket covered by a red-checkered cloth.
“M-Miss Blackburn”—the sheriff’s face turned a deeper red—“I-I didn’t expect you today.”
“Pa heard in town this morning that you had to lock several men up last night.” Her voice was smooth and just a little husky.
Bobby’s curled his lips slightly upward.
The young woman’s brown skirts rustled as she set a basket on the sheriff’s desk. The earthy lavender scent wafted to Bobby again. It was her. The angel.
T
hen he noticed her eyes. He’d mistaken them for blue at first, but they were actually deep violet—the rich hue of his mother’s amethyst brooch.
Course the Indians had stolen her prized possession after they raped and slaughtered her.
He shook his head to dislodge the repugnant thoughts. He hadn’t gone down that path in decades, and he wasn’t about to start now. There were more important things at hand. His very life, for one. Keeping his body completely still, he pulled one hand free of the ropes.
Stiles hadn’t responded to the lady’s query about the prisoners. His mouth opened, shut, and opened again, and his cheeks reddened even further. If the man got much redder he’d surely explode.
Bobby chuckled under his breath. The sheriff was smitten. Smitten with this beautiful angel. Well, who wouldn’t be?
“I take it this young man is one of your prisoners?” The lady nodded to Bobby.
“Yes, m-ma’am,” Stiles stammered.
Young man? Bobby scoffed. He’d become a man at ten and seen twenty-two years past that. He’d shot and collected bounties on criminals this angel couldn’t even imagine.
“I’m being held on a false report, ma’am,” he said. “The sheriff here seems to think I killed a man last night. He is, however, mistaken. I am no murderer.”
Truer words had never been spoken. He might be a killer, but he was no murderer. Not like the savages who’d murdered his ma in cold blood.
“Now I’ve told you, Morgan, I have witnesses.” Stiles’s voice cracked.
“Goodness, Sheriff,” the woman said. “You might be a little more polite. If this young man says he didn’t do it—”
“Naomi...er...Miss B-Blackburn—” Stiles sat down behind his desk and opened a drawer.
Bobby stopped listening to the conversation to inspect the drawer’s contents. The gleam of a mirror caught his eye. Next to it sat a leather strop.
Where there’s smoke...
He waited. Seconds ticked by as his heart thundered so loudly he thought it might wake the other prisoners. There’d be a chance. He had to believe it. Stiles was so smitten with Miss Naomi Blackburn that he’d let his guard down eventually. Bobby just needed to be patient.
“I brought fresh bread for you,” Naomi said as she removed the checkered cloth.
The yeasty aroma wafted toward Bobby, and he inhaled. Though the bread smelled good, and God knew he needed a decent meal, he was sorry it diluted her lavender fragrance.
“I’ll enjoy that with my lunch, Miss Blackburn.” Stiles cleared his throat. “Thank you.”
“You are, of course, welcome to it, Sheriff,” Naomi said, “but you are to share it with these men.” She gestured to Bobby and then the others still snoozing in the cell. “That is on my pa’s orders.”
“Y-Yes, of course I will,” Stiles said, still blushing. “Now please, let me see you to the door. This is no place for a lady.” The sheriff rose and left the desk, taking Naomi’s elbow, his back to Bobby.
Quick as a rattler yet quiet as a mouse, Bobby hopped from the chair and rummaged through the still open drawer. Underneath the mirror, partially hidden by the strop, was the sheriff’s straight razor.
Eureka.
He grabbed it, crept toward the door where Stiles and Naomi stood, their backs to him, and whipped one arm around the woman’s waist, the thick rope dangling from his wrist. With the other, he settled the razor against her neck.
“Oh!” Her husky voice rose an octave. “Sheriff...do something!”
“Now, Morgan, you don’t want to hurt that lady.” Stiles stepped forward, his hands trembling in front of him. One inched lower, toward his gun.
“You know better than that, Sheriff. Get your hands in the air, or I’ll slit her throat.” Bobby pressed the blade into that creamy neck, taking care not to scratch her skin. “You’re right. I don’t want to hurt her. But neither do I want to hang for a crime I didn’t commit. Now you’re going to get in that cell with the rest of those derelicts, and the lady and I are going to walk on out of here.”
“I shoulda hog tied you, Morgan,” Stiles said.
“But you didn’t. Lesson learned for another time. Naomi, angel, we’re going to walk toward the sheriff real slow like, and you’re going to take his gun, you hear?”
“I...I...”
“Now don’t you worry. It won’t hurt you.” He walked forward, the heat of her curves against him a lusty distraction, but he braced his nerves against the tightening in his britches. “There we are. Just reach out and put it in my hand.”
Naomi shook as she complied. Soon Bobby held the gun in the hand at Naomi’s waist. He continued to press the blade against her throat.
“Now his gunbelt, darlin’.”
“But I—”
“You’re not doin’ anything improper. But I need the belt and the ammo.”
Naomi deftly unfastened the belt.
“Just hold onto it for now, angel,” Bobby said. “Empty your pockets please, Sheriff. You know what I’m looking for.”
“Morgan—”
“Now, or the lady takes a bath in her own blood.”
Naomi’s warm body trembled against him. She was scared, and he felt bad about that. He truly did. She was a beautiful angel and she didn’t deserve to be in the middle of this mess. But he’d discovered long ago that life sometimes only coughs up one opportunity for each situation. He’d learned to identify it and take it. She was his opportunity to get the hell out of this town.
Stiles pulled out his ring of keys.
“Hand them to the lady, Sheriff, and show her which one opens the cell. Come on, you’d best hurry, before those drunks wake up.”
The keys clanked together as he pressed them into Naomi’s hand. “It’s this one,” Stiles said, indicating. “I’m so sorry about this, Naomi.”
“Save it, Sheriff,” Bobby said. “Now we’re all going to walk nice and slow over to the cell, and Naomi, you’re going to open it. All right?”
She nodded against his chest, and he caught a whiff of her scent. He shook his head to clear the fog. No time to get lost in a dream of lavender and soft woman.
They moved in tandem to the cell door, and Naomi’s fingers trembled as she turned the key in the lock. Bobby held the razor steady at her neck, though sweat trickled from his forehead into his eyes and stung. He blinked, but the blade never wavered.
“Step inside, Sheriff.”
Stiles obeyed, shutting the door behind him.
“Lock him up, angel.”
Naomi’s shaking hands turned the key with a clink.
“You got what you want, Morgan,” Stiles said from the cell. “Now let her go.”
Bobby chuckled, though he did let the blade rest a bit more lightly against her soft flesh. It’d be a shame to scar such a sleek, pretty neck. Such a neck was made for kissing and nibbling, not slicing to smithereens.
“’Fraid I can’t do that, Sheriff. She’d go runnin’ to her pa. And she still has the key.” He lowered his voice, speaking into Naomi’s ear. “How’d you get here, angel?”
“M-My pa’s buckboard is outside. W-We live on a claim...too far to walk.”
“Perfect. Your horse?” He backed away from the cell, dragging Naomi with him.
“A g-gelding. Barney. He’s...gentle. Don’t hurt him. Please.”
What an innocent. A razor at her neck, and she was worried about a horse? He shook his head as they left the sheriff’s office. Once outside in the warm summer air, he lowered the blade and pressed the pistol into Naomi’s trembling back.
“You can let me go now, can’t you? I won’t go to my pa. You have my word, Mister—”
“Morgan. Robert Morgan. Call me Bobby. And though it pains me, I’m sorry, I can’t let you go. You and I are going to take your horse on a ride out of this town.”
“But...but you...you don’t need me.” Her husky voice rose again. “I promise I’ll go straight home and I won’t say a word. I’ll give you time to escape. Please, Mr. Morgan.�
��
Despite the gun in her back, she turned her head, and he nearly melted into her violet eyes. But he steeled his heart against her beauty and innocence. She was an insurance policy, nothing more.
He walked her to the gelding, removed the harness, and unhitched it from the buckboard. Quick as a flash of lightning, he set her on the horse and leaped up behind her. He took a few precious seconds to rub his stiff wrists, trying to ease the rope burn, before he used the razor to cut the reins shorter. A minute later, he’d hooked the sheriff’s belt around his waist, stuffed the razor in his boot, and they were trotting quietly out of town.
“Just who is your pa, anyway, angel?” he asked against her soft neck after they’d escaped the town limits.
“H-He’s the preacher, Mr. Morgan.”
Damnation! He’d kidnapped the preacher’s daughter. He kneed the horse into a gallop and sighed.
He may have avoided the hangman’s noose, but he was surely set to burn in hell.
Chapter Two
Naomi sat stiffly upon old Barney, her derriere sore from three hours of galloping with no saddle. Thankfully her skirt was full enough to allow her to straddle the horse without too much of her legs showing, but the unladylike position still bothered her. Fatigue enveloped her body, yet she held herself stationary, refusing to rest against the handsome outlaw’s chest.
Handsome?
Had she just thought of Robert Morgan as handsome?
So he had clear amber eyes, unfashionably long chestnut hair, and full pink lips. Not to mention a face Michelangelo himself could have sculpted. She jerked forward, catching herself before she melted into his hard torso.
Fear coursed through her, and she shuddered. He’d said he wouldn’t hurt her, but he was a criminal, an outlaw. Truth probably wasn’t at the top of his list of priorities. Pa had taught her to love her fellow man, to practice forgiveness, but was it possible in this situation?
