Kathryn Albright - The Angel and the Outlaw

www.millsandboon.co.uk

To my mother and father, who taught me

to go after my dreams.

Thank you for your love, support and encouragement.

Prologue

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 Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

San Francisco, California, 1870

At the sound of someone running up his ship’s gangplank, Matthew Taylor looked up from the scatter of charts on his desk.

“Matthew! Let me in! I must speak with you.”

He strode to the door and stopped short at the sight before him. “Linnea!”

The light from the cabin’s oil lamp exposed harsh bruises against the pale skin on her face. Blood dripped from a cracked lip. Under the dark hooded cloak, her blond hair, usually swept up in the latest fashion, hung unkempt to her shoulders.

“My God! What happened?”

“I…I killed John!” she gasped. “He was going after Hannah.”

Suddenly he realized the bundle she held was her daughter. “Let me take her.” He pulled the cover away, breathing a sigh of relief that Hannah was free of any sign of battering. She was shaking, just as her mother was. He laid her on his bunk and turned back to Linnea. “Tell me what happened,” he said, the rage in his voice barely subdued.

Her eyes filled with tears. “I…Might I use your handkerchief?”

He handed one to her. God, he couldn’t stand the tears. “Don’t cry, Linnea. You know I’ll help.”

“Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”

With his fingers under her chin, he lifted her face to the light. “How long has this been going on?”

She turned away from him. “Awhile.”

He poured a brace of whiskey into his mug and handed it to her. “It’s all I have.”

“Taylor!” John Newcomb bellowed from outside.

Linnea’s eyes widened. “I thought he was dead!”

“Taylor!” John was closer now. “You holing up with my wife? You send her on out here. We’ve got unfinished business.”

Linnea started to rise.

“No,” Matthew said, and motioned for her to stay put.

She grasped his arm. “Matthew. Be careful. He’s changed since you last saw him.”

He stared at her, taking in the changes the past few years had wrought on her. A hundred things went through his head in that moment, none of which he could say to her as a married woman. Why did you marry this animal? Why didn’t you wait for me? He sighed. At the least, he could protect her.

He squeezed her hand. “I’ll just talk to him. I don’t want a fight, but I won’t run from one, either.” He reached into a desk drawer and drew out his Colt .44.

On the wharf, John Newcomb leaned heavily against the railing, his tie askew against his linen shirt. “Send my wife out, Taylor. She don’t belong with you.”

“You’re drunk, Mr. Newcomb. Go home and sleep it off.”

“I’m not leaving without my girls. Linnea! We need to talk. I…at least give me a chance to apologize.”

Matthew heard the door creak behind him.

“Go away,” Linnea said softly, her body half-hidden behind the door post. “We’ll talk later.”

“We’ll talk now,” John growled, and started up the gangplank, clutching his chest. “Then I’ll have words with Taylor, here.” Suddenly he stopped and leaned awkwardly on the ship’s railing. As he straightened, he pulled a gun from his belt and aimed past Matthew.

A shot rang out.

“Mama!” Hannah screamed.

Matthew watched in horror as Linnea crumpled to her knees, a look of stunned surprise on her face.

John stormed up the gangplank, aiming his gun for a second shot at her. “I’ll teach you to at shoot me.”

“No!” Matthew roared. He whipped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger.

In the loud report of the gun, John Newcomb staggered, but then regained his footing. He swung his gun toward Matthew. “You can’t have her, Taylor. I’ll kill you both before I let that happen.”

Matthew steadied his gun, aimed at Newcomb’s chest and fired.

Newcomb fell forward hard, landing with a heavy thud. The wharf’s gas lamp cast a yellow light over the blood saturating his shirt and dripping onto the wooden planks beneath him.

Matthew threw down his gun and hurried to Linnea. Blood trickled across her forehead. She was so still, so pale. Crouching, he gathered her in his arms, unable to breathe, afraid she was hurt or—worse—dead.

Her large gray eyes fluttered open. “I’m all right.”

His heart pounded in his chest.

She raised her hand to his cheek, the worry in her eyes for him now. “Matthew, I’m all right.”

He let out a long, shuddering breath. “I thought…”

“Yes. I know.”

He hugged her to him, burying his face in her neck until his heartbeat slowed to normal. He couldn’t bear to lose her.

After a moment she struggled up on her elbows. “Is he dead?”

Matthew followed her gaze. He walked over to the still form. Not breathing. He rolled Newcomb over to his back and felt for a pulse at his throat.

Nothing.

“What happens now?” Linnea asked, her voice shaking. “Should we contact the authorities?”

Southern California, 1873

Stuart Taylor crouched on a flat boulder and pulled his trap up from the harbor floor. A small brown lobster slid to the corner of the crate. He grabbed it, turning it over to make sure of its size, and then tossed it back into the water. “Come back when you’ve grown,” he murmured. Then, placing new bait in the trap, he stood and swung the trap out as far as possible, releasing the hemp rope at the last second. The crate splashed into the brine and sank quickly beyond sight.

He looked for his other lobster trap, but it was gone—rope and all. Someone was still stealing from him. He’d warned off two boys a few days ago with a bullet into their boat. Their sudden departure had convinced him they wouldn’t try again. Maybe he’d been wrong.

Great. Guess he and Hannah would be eating beans tonight. Not the best way to celebrate a birthday. He grabbed the bucket at his feet and made his way up the narrow dirt path.

Hannah stood at the stone doorstep, anxiety filling her heart-shaped face until she caught sight of him. She wore her one good dress, the dark-chocolate-brown one he’d laid out last night. A white pinafore covered it, wrinkled in one spot now where her hands had twisted and worried the fabric. Uncanny how that trait of her mother’s manifested itself in Hannah, though she’d only been three when Linnea died.

“Did you eat?”

She nodded, and with the bob of her head, he spied her tangled mass of blond hair. “Forgot something, birthday girl,” he said gruffly, turning her toward the kitchen. “You can’t go into town looking like something washed in by the waves.”

She crossed her arms over her chest and stood stiffly while he brushed her hair then tied it in a ponytail with an old blue ribbon. The face that stared back at him grew more like her mother’s every day. The dove-gray eyes shone with anticipation for the promised trip. She was lonely here. So lonely the thought of a trip into town had her flushed with excitement and up before dawn. He felt it, too—the isolation, the quiet. But it was safe.

He followed Hannah outside and boosted her onto his horse, Blanco. She fidgeted, patting the dusty animal on its withers. He grabbed the lead rope. “See that you don’t wiggle right off your perch.”

They took the trail that led from the tip of the windy peninsula, four hundred feet above sea level, to the small town on the water’s edge. He didn’t get into town much, only when supplies ran low, but today was August 10, Hannah’s birthday, and he wanted to make it special for her.

He drew closer to La Playa and his anxiety increased in measure. Surely the risk of discovery had diminished now. It had been more than three years since the accident. Hannah didn’t even look the same. She had stretched up into a thin wisp of a girl who seldom stood still. Her naturally pale skin had taken on a golden glow over the long summer days.

He rubbed his smooth chin, remembering the dark beard and mustache that once covered his face. He didn’t look the same either. Still, doubts niggled at his mind. Dorian wasn’t stupid, and he wasn’t a quitter. San Francisco might be five hundred miles away but sooner or later Dorian would find him—and if Dorian found him, so would the law. Perhaps he should think about moving on.

Halfway to town, the trail sloped steeply through a brush-studded canyon. Two small lizards scurried from under the horse’s shadow and dashed into the nearby chaparral as he led Blanco around one last sandstone curve. The harbor opened up before them, deep blue and sparkling in the sunlight. Barely visible through the scruffy bushes to the south lay the whaling port. He raised his face to the wind and sniffed. “Smell that, Hannah? Just salt and sage. No whale butchered today.”

Turning toward La Playa, he led Blanco past a steamer moored at the new wharf before heading up San Antonio Street and past the Mexican Government Custom House. A few odd-shaped buildings, some built of wood and some of adobe, hugged each side of the square like ticks on the ears of a short-haired dog.

Stuart stopped at the community well and filled his canteens, all the while taking in the surrounding sounds the way a deaf man would who for one day is able to hear. Loud clanging rang out from the livery’s half-opened doorway as the blacksmith forged a new tool or horseshoe. A thin, aproned woman swept the front boardwalk of the town’s only mercantile.

Hannah tugged on his shirt.

“All right, all right. I’m going.”

Looping the two canteens over the saddle horn, he walked back to Morley’s Mercantile. Two young women stood at the opened doorway of the store, giggling and whispering behind gloved hands. He glanced up while tying the reins on the hitching rail. Both attractive, especially the blonde. He turned back to help Hannah.

“There on his forehead. Do you see it?”

He slowed in the act of setting Hannah on the ground. So he was to supply their gossip for today. He clenched his hands. He’d hate to disappoint them. Straightening, he leveled his gaze at the two.

The blonde quieted. She must be the banker’s wife—or daughter. Her dress was quality through and through, right down to her matching green parasol. He hadn’t seen anything so fancy since he’d left San Francisco. Her eyes judged him coolly before she whirled about with a toss of her head and entered the store.

Anger surged through him. Already he could feel people staring at him through the streaked windowpanes. He couldn’t care less that they talked about him. But Hannah—Hannah, he worried about. She might not talk anymore, but she could hear just fine. He’d rather take her anywhere than into the store right now.