Texas Outlaw
Wild Texas Nights
Book 1
by
Adrienne deWolfe
Award-winning Author
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ISBN: 978-1-61417-315-1
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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.
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TEXAS OUTLAW
Awards & Accolades
AWARDS
Rita Finalist, Best First Book
Romance Writers of America
Rita Finalist, Best Historical Romance
(under 100,000 words)
Romance Writers of America
Finalist, Reviewers Choice Award (Best Debut Novel)
Romantic Times Magazine
Winner, Honey of a Heroine Award
West Houston Chapter, Romance Writers of America
REVIEWS
"Texas Outlaw is a real triumph. Adrienne deWolfe is a brilliant author."
~Literary Times
~
"Funny, fresh, fast-paced and romantic, Texas Outlaw is an entertaining read."
~Susan Wiggs, National Bestselling Author
~
"Adrienne deWolfe's writing is clever and unconventional... guaranteed to please."
~Pamela Morsi, National Bestselling Author
Dear Reader,
I wrote Texas Outlaw because I wanted to read a story about an adventurous woman, who wasn't afraid to buck the conventions of her society.
When Fancy Holleday sprang into my mind, I was writing about an era that was far from civilized. I envisioned Fancy as a woman who could 'charm, seduce or just plain outsmart' any lawman alive. Fancy was no strait-laced woman of Victorian virtues, but she yearned to be loved by a good and honest man.
When I announced to my published friends that I was writing a Romance about a heroine who had robbed a train, those authors told me that I would never get Texas Outlaw published.
"Readers want virginal, upstanding, rule-abiding (pick your favorite adjective) heroines who are the darlings of their society," my published friends told me.
Sometimes as an aspiring author, you have to ignore the naysayers and write the book that’s in your heart.
Bantam Books published my debut novel, Texas Outlaw, to rave reviews. It became a finalist for three national writing awards; it won a regional writing award; and it produced two spin-off novels, Texas Lover and Texas Wildcat. Not too shabby for a lady train robber!
Fancy remains one of my favorite characters in the Wild Texas Nights series. I hope you will cheer for her as she finds the courage to trust her heart and turn her life around, thanks to the redemptive power of love.
Happy reading,
Adrienne deWolfe
Austin, Texas, USA
To Mom, who taught me how to imagine and to dream;
To Dad, who inspired my love of books and history;
And to my sister Lori, who kept the faith and stood by me,
no matter what. When I think of heroes, I think of you.
Thank you for believing in me.
Some men are born rascals; some have rascality thrust upon them; others achieve it.
—George Devol
Mississippi Riverboat Gambler
Chapter 1
Eagle Valley, Nevada December 1873
The last time Fancy Holleday robbed a train, she did it in her bloomers.
On that singular occasion, she'd had only one hired gun to distract from his duties. Tonight, the train carried a railroad detective and a deputy U.S. marshal. As skilled as Fancy was at disposing of lawmen, even she had to admit she had limitations.
She scowled, careful to hide her tapping boot beneath her skirts. She'd made the unfortunate decision to concentrate her charm on the marshal, since she reasoned that a federal tin-star could do her mission more damage than the detective. Cord Rawlins, however, had barely glanced her way. Now her time was running out.
Perhaps the Texican had grown too fond of his horse, she mused uncharitably. How else might she explain his indifference? Other men positively drooled over her lavender eyes and bulging bustline; Marshal Rawlins acted as if beautiful women were as common as fleas on dogs. She had half a mind to plop down on his lap to see for herself if he were bull or steer.
She smirked at the thought—until she heard the clock chime the quarter hour. Her heart lurched. Only fifteen minutes remained before the other outlaws boarded. Only fifteen minutes were left to prove to her Spanish lover that she was still valuable to him, in spite of her twenty-five years.
Damn that Marshal Rawlins. Did she have to look like a beefsteak to interest the man?
Gazing past the scurrying waiters with their trays of crystal and gleaming silver, she glared once more at her mark. He had made a face at the menu's exotic selection of blue-winged teal and had specially ordered beef. His suffering waiter had been sent back twice with orders to "burn" the steak. Now Rawlins was shoveling beans down his gullet with a slab of cornbread.
Fancy sniffed. As far as she could see, Rawlins's badge was the only thing that distinguished him from a cowpoke. She supposed she had expected more from a federal tin-star. Foolish of her, really. She had yet to meet a lawman whom she could respect. The ones in San Francisco all seemed to be more crooked than she was. That was why she never had qualms about drugging them when they interfered with her lover's casino business. The way she saw it, laudanum was a far kinder fate than anything Diego might have planned.
But Rawlins, of course, was oblivious to the favor she'd tried to do him. He had refused to sneak off with her to the sleeping car, and he had declined her invitation to dine. Now, short of cracking open his skull in full view of a dozen witnesses, she didn't see how she could possibly render him unconscious before Diego's thugs derailed the train.
Diego Santana, so help me God, this is the last time I will ever participate in one of your heists.
She winced inwardly as she remembered their last job, when she'd had to strip to her underclothes before the laudanum finally took effect on the railroad detective. Her gun hand quaking as much from cold as from guilt, she had herded the pajama-clad passengers from the sleeping car to the snow, where Diego had looted and ridiculed them.
She had hoped then, as she did now, that Diego would come to appreciate her loyalty and that, finally, he would ask her to marry him. Although she and Diego had had their differences of late, tonight he w
as counting on her to crack the safe in the express car. He had given her another chance, thank God, even though he'd been furious with her for begging him to forget his dreams of a counterfeiting empire. Arguing with him had proven useless, so she had finally swallowed her misgivings and agreed to help him accumulate the kind of wealth he would need to control the Barbary Coast. Although she didn't share his new fondness for armed robbery, she loved him. That would have to see her through this ordeal.
Uh-oh. Fancy's heart tripped. Marshal Rawlins was on his feet. He was heading for the door! If she bungled this job, Diego might send her back to the whorehouse! She would never see an altar, then.
There was only one thing left to do. Make a scene. Hadn't Diego always said that scene-making was her second-greatest talent?
With theatrics worthy of the great Laura Keene, Fancy bounded to her feet, swept the china from her table, and loosed an ear-splitting shriek.
"You cad!" she exclaimed, looming over the innocuous-looking gentleman who sat behind her.
Until that moment, her neighbor had been staring dreamily out the window at the starlight and pines rushing by. Now he turned, blinking owllike at her through thick, round glasses. Only then did Fancy notice his black frock coat and starched white linen collar. She nearly groaned aloud. Her mark was a preacher! Why in God's name had she let herself be seated next to a preacher? Convincing Rawlins that this worm of a creature had tried to fondle her would demand the performance of her lifetime.
She let her forefinger shake as she leveled it at the cleric. "Loathsome man. Never in my life have I been so... so vilified! And you, a pillar of the church. Have you no conscience? No shame?"
The parson had yet to recover his wits, and Fancy glanced hopefully at Rawlins. The marshal looked like he was about to yawn—or worse, to continue on his way. She battled a wave of panic.
"How dare you hide your depraved, disgusting behavior behind the trappings of your office!" She flared her nostrils at the man.
"My dear young woman, I think you must have mistaken—"
"Charlatan!" She filled her lungs until her breasts nearly spilled from her artfully rigged corset. "You lie! You would have these good people questioning my integrity. Marshal!" Her bellow rattled the windows and caused at least one passenger to douse his lap with turtle soup. "Arrest this man!"
Rawlins folded his arms across his chest. Straddling the threshold, with the gaslight slanting across his shoulder, he looked like one of the gunslingers that always seemed to adorn the covers of penny dreadfuls.
"You want the preacher cuffed, eh?"
"Yes, sir, I most certainly do!"
"What in blazes for?"
Fancy hiked her chin. Obviously, Mama Rawlins had neglected to teach her son the finer points of etiquette.
"Because that—that beast of a man dared to—" she paused dramatically, "to grope me!"
Rawlins chuckled, a rich, warm sound in the breathless silence of the car. "Whoa, darlin'. No one was over there groping anything that you didn't give away a good long time ago."
She bristled. Rawlins's drawl was so pronounced that words like "whoa" and "thing" dragged on for nearly three syllables. But that wasn't the worst part. The worst part was he had seen through her ruse. Despite her stylish emerald traveling suit and the demure black ringlets that framed her face, Cord Rawlins had pegged her for a trollop. She wasn't sure she could ever forgive him for that.
"If you're not man enough to defend my honor," she said coolly, "then I shall be happy to speak to the railroad detective whom I saw dining here earlier."
Every eye in the car shifted eagerly back to Rawlins. He appeared undaunted. Hooking his thumbs over his gunbelt, he strolled to her side. She was surprised when she realized he was only about three inches taller than she. Standing in the doorway, he had appeared much larger. Nevertheless, the lawman exuded an aura of command. He reminded her of the wild mustang stallion that Diego had corralled last spring.
"Well, Preacher?" Rawlins tipped his Stetson back with a forefinger. A curl so dark brown that it verged on black tumbled across the untanned peak of his forehead. "Speak your piece."
The cleric continued to gape. "Well, I, um..."
"Spit it out, man. Did you or did you not grope this..." Rawlins paused, arching an eyebrow at the straining buttons of Fancy's bodice. "This, er, lady."
She glared narrowly into his dancing eyes. They brought to mind the jade dragon Diego had won for her—then gambled away. The hurtful memory only made her twice as determined to dislike Rawlins. Fortunately, the man had dimples. Bottomless dimples. They looked like two sickle moons attached to the dazzling white of his grin. She thought there should be a law against virile Texicans with heart-stopping smiles. Cord Rawlins had probably left dozens of calf-eyed sweethearts sighing for him back home on the range.
"I'm sure there must be some reasonable explanation," the preacher babbled. His scarecrow's body trembled as he towered over Rawlins. "I'm sure the young lady just made a mistake—"
"The only mistake I made," Fancy interrupted tartly, "was thinking that this lawman might come to the defense of a lady. No doubt Marshal Rawlins finds such courtesies an imposition on his authority."
"Begging your pardon, ma'am." He indulged her this time with a roguish wink. "I thought you did a mighty fine job of defending yourself."
Oh, did you now? she thought, seething. Then just wait till you get a load of my .32! If only that blessed moment would come. Where in hell is Diego?
"Show's over, folks." Rawlins waved his audience back to their meals. "Your pigeons are getting cold."
"That's it?" Fancy gaped at him, forgetting to hide the embarrassing gap between her front teeth. "That's all you're going to do to help me?"
"'Fraid so, ma'am. You aren't any the worse for wear, as far as I can see. And I reckon Parson Brown isn't any worse off, either."
"Why, you—!" Fancy remembered belatedly that ladies didn't curse. "You can't just walk away," she insisted, grabbing Rawlins's sleeve and hoping he would mistake her panic for indignation.
"Says who?"
A nerve-rending screech pierced the expectant silence in the car. Fancy had a heartbeat to identify the braking of iron wheels. In the next instant, the floorboards heaved, throwing her against Rawlins's chest. Silver, crystal, and a diner's toupee flew. She cringed to hear the other passengers scream as she clung to Rawlins's neck. His curse ended in an "umph." Fancy was grateful he'd sacrificed his own spine rather than let hers smash against the carpet. For a moment, Rawlins's tobacco and leather aroma and wiry musculature imprinted themselves on her senses. Then her mind whirred back into action. She had to get his Colt.
Having made a career of outsmarting men, Fancy found it no great feat to shriek, thrash, and wail in a parody of feminine terror. She wriggled across Rawlins's hips and succeeded in hooking her heel behind his knee. She knew she could pin him for only a moment, but a moment was all she needed to slip her Smith & Wesson from her boot and jam its muzzle into his groin.
"Whoa, darling," she taunted above the distant sounds of gunfire.
His face turned scarlet, and she knew he had correctly assessed his situation. He couldn't reach his holster without first dumping her to the floor. And that would be risky, she gloated silently. Most risky indeed.
"Have you lost your goddamned mind?"
"My dear marshal, you really must learn to be more respectful of ladies," she retorted above the other passengers' groans. "Now real slowly, I want you to raise your hands and put them behind your head."
"The hell I will!"
She cocked her .32. "Then you'll have one helluva time explaining to Mrs. Rawlins why you can't father a little lawman of your own."
His eyes darkened to pine-needle green. Fancy felt herself grow uncomfortably warm beneath the challenge of his gaze.
"You're all spit and no claw, girl."
A sudden blast of winter air raced down Fancy's spine. She glanced up to see masked men swarming into the
car.
"Perhaps, senor, you are right," said the lean, elegantly dressed man who stalked toward them. "My Fancy, she is just a woman after all. But I am fond of watching federales bleed. Too long have I been denied the pleasure."
She caught her breath, recognizing Diego's muffled Castilian accent and his immaculate black frock coat and shirt. Squinting against the wildly swinging gaslight, she saw four of his men race into the next car. Two others remained behind, waving revolvers at the diners. Gold, watches, and jewels plunked into grain sacks; a pile of holsters, guns, and knives accumulated at the center of the car. Diego stopped to stand beside that small arsenal. Above the silk neckerchief that covered two-thirds of his face, his coffee-colored eyes were bright with the thrill of his conquest. Fancy shivered a little. She couldn't help but notice the bullwhip on his hip.
"Now then, senor. I suggest you do as the senorita says, unless, of course"—Diego's revolver glinted like a black diamond in his fist—"you wish to piss lead for the rest of your life."
Rawlins wore a poker face. No one would have guessed that his heart hammered against her breast or that his thighs tensed beneath hers like straining ropes. He was a cool one, this Texican.
"I might have guessed that the dove was in cahoots with someone." Rawlins's lip curled, leaving no doubt in her mind that he considered her a very soiled dove indeed. "But you're wrong, dead wrong, mister, if you think you can get away with this robbery."
"Big talk wastes time, little man. Raise your hands or lose your pecker."
Fancy's eyes locked with Rawlins's. The outrage that blazed there reminded her again of Diego's mustang, a spirited young stallion that he'd whipped to a bloody death. Would Rawlins actually sacrifice his manhood for a show of proud heroics? She found herself holding her breath, half-fascinated, half-frightened by the thought. Having lived the last seven years on the Barbary Coast, she was not accustomed to stubborn displays of grit. Most men met their deaths from behind in the alleys of San Francisco's tenderloin district.
Texas Outlaw (Wild Texas Nights, Book 1) Page 1
