Victoria Bylin - Of Men And Angels

Under the blazing Colorado sun, a miracle happened. Soulless Jake Malone began to care about Alexandra Merritt, an indomitable, heaven-sent beauty, and the small, squalling life she’d helped bring into this world. But could she help Jake forgive himself his past so that they could have a future?

“Just what the hell do you think is going to happen between us? You think I’m just going to stop with a kiss?”

“Yes. I know you, Jake.”

He shook his head, as if she’d said she could fly. His boots scraped at the ground as if he wanted to run but couldn’t. Something wild rose up in Alex. Her deepest instincts told her that this man needed to be touched—gently, deeply, often.

She’d put up with too much today. “Listen to me! You’re not nearly as bad—”

He snatched her hand and held it tight. “I’m warning you, Alex. Stay away from me.”

Of Men and Angels

Harlequin Historical #664

Harlequin Historicals is proud to introduce

debut author VICTORIA BYLIN

#663 TEXAS GOLD

Carolyn Davidson

#665 BEAUCHAMP BESIEGED

Elaine Knighton

#666 THE BETRAYAL

Ruth Langan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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VICTORIA BYLIN

Of Men and Angels #664

Dedicated to my father,

Jack K. Bylin

This one’s for you, Dad,

for the encouragement,

the coffee,

everything.

I’d also like to thank my husband and sons for their love and support, my mother for just being herself, and my community of friends for sharing this journey with me.

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

Epilogue

Western Colorado Plateau

June 1885

The rain hit without warning.

The mules balked as a flash of lightning cut through the sky, and the driver spurred them with a crack of his whip. “Haul your sorry butts outta here, or you’re gonna be swimming in that goddamn river!”

That wasn’t what Alexandra Merritt wanted to hear.

After a week on a crowded train from Philadelphia and another three weeks in a dirty Leadville hotel, she was almost home. She had given up waiting for repairs to the Denver Rio Grande train tracks and booked passage to Grand Junction on the worn-out stagecoach being used to deliver the U.S. mail.

Waiting another month had been unthinkable. Like a clock that needed winding, her father’s heart could stop without warning. She couldn’t stand the thought of never seeing him again. With the letters they had exchanged over the past ten years, a bridge had been built. William Merritt knew her better than she knew herself. She hadn’t thought twice about leaving her post as president of the Philadelphia Children’s League, or postponing her marriage to Thomas Hunnicutt. She had to get home.

Thunder boomed across the plain, and the stagecoach lurched like a staggering beast. Sitting across from her on the lumpy seat, Charlotte Smith stirred from an exhausted sleep. “What’s happening?”

Alex pulled back the leather flap covering the window. Cool air and the heavy scent of mud rolled into the coach. Charlotte had been as eager as she to get to her destination, and her reason was just as urgent. Alex’s fellow passenger was close to nine months pregnant and eager to reach her sister before the baby came.

“It’s raining,” Alex answered, raising her voice over a staccato burst of hail. “I think the driver’s worried about the road.”

“The road!”

Below them, a streambed writhed with the muddy runoff. Alex could see the water rising, slashing at the sides of the gorge. A shriveled juniper tore loose in the flood, and a man-size boulder tumbled after it.

“Hold up, you beasts!” the driver shouted. The coach skidded but didn’t stop. Gravity flung Alex against the seat just as the driver pounded on the roof.

“Mrs. Smith! Miss Merritt! Hang on!”

The stage lurched as if it had been tipped by an unseen hand. Charlotte screamed. Alex pulled the woman into her arms, but she couldn’t keep her grip. They were bouncing like stones, and the next thing she knew she was weightless, floating in the air like a bird, until the coach hit rushing water with a splash, throwing her against the door with a bone-crunching lurch.

Pain shot through her shoulder. Thunder ricocheted like a rifle shot, and the wheels spun with the rushing water. The mules screamed and kicked in a worthless effort to wrench themselves free. Water seeped through the wooden seams of the coach. It soaked her shoes and pooled at her ankles. Her white blouse was torn at the elbow, and the cool air stung the strawberry scrape on her arm.

Charlotte grabbed her stomach with both hands.

“Help us!” Alex screamed, pushing at the door over her head. “Smitty! Hank!” There was no answer, so she climbed through the opening and sat with her feet in the door well, hanging on to the frame for balance as waves of brown water pounded the brittle wood.

By a stroke of luck, the coach was wedged against a huge rock and a slab of mud. The torrent whipped through the wheels and raced down the gorge, ripping at boulders and exposing tree roots, taking what it wanted. The mud wall melted like chocolate in the sun, and the coach scraped along the bottom of the streambed, moving in inches that threatened to become feet.

“Charlotte, we’ve got to get out of here. We’ve got to hurry.”

Bracing her feet against the door frame, she grabbed Charlotte’s arm and pulled. The coach lurched and slid a foot closer to the wall of the ravine. A juniper branch scratched her face with prickly green needles and Alex grabbed it, pulling to test it with her weight. The trunk was just a foot away. The makeshift rope would have to do.

“Charlotte, grab that branch. Now!”

Sheer terror yanked Charlotte out the door and into the vee of the trunk. Alex hoisted her skirts and followed. It was like climbing a tree as a child except the water had been doing its work, and the coach had slipped farther downstream.

Grabbing the branch with both hands, she clamped it between her knees and shimmied toward the relative safety of the trunk. Rough bark scraped her thighs and soft palms. The weight of her sopping skirt pulled her down, but she kept a firm grip on the bark, sliding to the trunk in inches until she reached Charlotte.

The water was ebbing, and the coach was twenty feet away. By some miracle, Charlotte was still wearing a coy red hat with a bobbing feather. From her perch Alex looked for the drivers, but she didn’t see either of the gray-bearded men. Two of the mules were still screaming with pain. The other two had drowned.