Laurie Kingery - A Hero in the Making

Man on a Mission…

Nate Bohannan won’t let anything stand in the way of his grand plans in California. Even if it means traveling there with unreliable huckster Robert Salali. But after a destructive bender in Simpson Creek, Texas, the unscrupulous Salali runs out, leaving Nate to carry the blame—and the debt. He can fix broken furniture…but can anything fix the despair in café owner Ella Justiss’s eyes?

When her café was destroyed, Ella felt sure she’d lost her dreams along with it. Yet somehow Nate’s cheerful care and optimism fill her with hope again. Painful secrets from her childhood make Ella wary of men. When danger threatens, will Nate be the hero Ella can finally trust—and love?

Brides of Simpson Creek: Small-town Texas spinsters find love with mail-order grooms!

“I caught a fish! My very first!” Ella cried.

Nate couldn’t help but grin at her excitement. “Your papa never took you fishing?” he asked.

“No.” Nate knew by the way her lips tightened that he’d strayed onto dangerous ground.

“Well, now I have to catch up to you,” he said, keeping his tone light. “My honor as an experienced fisherman is at stake.”

By the time they left, they had a stringerful of fish. Ella had laughed and enjoyed herself more than he’d imagined her capable of. Had no one ever shown her how to have fun?

“Thanks for taking me.” She reached for the stringer. “I guess I’ll see you later…”

“Tsk-tsk, Miss Ella, did you think I was going to leave you with the nasty job of cleaning the fish after I had the fun of catching them with you?” Nate told himself it was mere chivalry, and not the fact that he wanted to earn more of her brilliant smiles.

She gazed up at him. “You’d do that for me?” she breathed, eyes wide and luminous.

“Sure,” he said, feeling as if there wasn’t much he couldn’t do under the effect of her grateful smile.

LAURIE KINGERY

makes her home in central Ohio, where she is a “Texan in exile.” Formerly writing as Laurie Grant for the Mills & Boon Historical line and other publishers, she is the author of eighteen previous books and the 1994 winner of a Readers’ Choice Award in the Short Historical category. She has also been nominated for Best First Medieval and Career Achievement in Western Historical Romance by RT Book Reviews. When not writing her historicals, she loves to travel, read, participate on Facebook and Shoutlife and write her blog at www.lauriekingery.com.

A Hero in the Making

Laurie Kingery

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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Be not forgetful to entertain strangers: for thereby some have entertained angels unawares.

—Hebrews 13:2

To Tom, my own “jack of all trades” and master of many. I’m so lucky to spend my life with you!

And to Ella Lorene (Hill) Schroeder, my mother, for whom my heroine is named.

Contents

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

Dear Reader,

Extract

Chapter One

Simpson Creek, Texas

September 1869

“Could I interest you in a sandwich, cowboy? Maybe a bowl of chili?”

Ella Justiss didn’t like the look of the man who leaned on the counter, studying her instead of the menu posted behind her. He had a scraggly scruff of a beard, narrow, calculating eyes and smelled of sweat, stale whiskey and the cheroots that peeked out of his shirt pocket.

“So here’s where Detwiler keeps his best gal!” the drifter crowed, staring at her with red-rimmed eyes. “I knew he had to have somethin’ better than the ones he’s got out there servin’ rotgut. What’s your name, pretty gal?”

Pretty? Me? The drifter must have drunk a powerful lot of the saloon’s whiskey before coming to her little café in the back of the building. “Whoa, cowboy, I think you misunderstood. I’m not one of the saloon girls. See the sign?” she said, pointing behind her. “I’m selling food, cold tea, lemonade and coffee, nothing else.” There was no one else in the café at the moment, and nothing between her and the drifter but a long, battered and scratched pecan-wood countertop with a narrow opening at one end so she could bring orders out to the tables. She’d have to leave its safety and go right by him to reach the saloon or out into the alley behind her café. And something in his avid gaze told her she’d never make it past him, that he might try to force his way behind the counter. Then she could be trapped between the stove and the wall.

“Are you hungry? Would you like something to eat?” she prompted, keeping her voice natural, hoping to distract him.

His eyes went narrower still, and she knew she’d said the wrong thing.

“Oh, I’m hungry, all right, gal. An’ you look purdy enough to eat. C’mere.” Before she could think to back away or try to call for George Detwiler, the saloonkeeper, the stranger made a grab for her, pulling her out from behind the counter, snaking an arm around her waist and hauling her toward him.

Suddenly she was a frightened child back in the asylum at night, waking at the sound of the creaking of the floorboards in the darkness. Her eyes strained to see through the gloom, but she couldn’t make out what had roused her. Around her, she could hear snores from some of the cots, the quiet breathing of children from others. And then there was a hand over her mouth...

Ella could never remember further than that. She didn’t know why confrontations with overfriendly customers made her think of the asylum, but they always did. Her stomach clenched, as it always did when this half memory paid a visit.

“Stop it!” she screamed. “George, help me!” She boxed her assailant’s ears and clawed at his face as he succeeded in pulling her out of her sanctuary, but she might as well have pounded on a tree trunk.

The stranger guffawed, amused by her attempts to free herself, and clamped a smelly hand over her mouth, muffling her screams. “Settle down, woman, I jes’ wanna kiss... You don’ weigh any more’n a minute, you know that?”

Oh, yes, she knew folks said she was thin as a fiddle string and short as an ant’s eyebrow, and now her size was a distinct liability in the fight. The tinkly piano music in the saloon had probably drowned out her cries. Detwiler would never hear her in time to come to her aid.

Dimly she was aware of the door opening behind her, but she was too busy fending off her attacker, who had begun to paw at the neckline of her dress, to pay any attention to what the sound might mean. Then all at once she was free, and the drifter, his nose bloodied, had fallen heavily on his backside, out cold. Ella found herself looking into the clear blue eyes of yet another stranger.