Delores Fossen - Justice is Coming

“It doesn’t matter that I’m your usual type, because I’m still the wrong woman.”

“You got it.” He flashed a half smile that melted that ball of ice in her stomach. “But then, I’m the wrong man for you.” No half smile now. “And I’m pretty sure that makes this one of those irresistible situations we’re just going to have to resist. Or at least keep reminding ourselves to do it.”

Yes. She wondered, though, if a reminder would be just wasting mental energy. “I don’t want to find you attractive.” But she did. Mercy, did she. On a scale of one to ten, he was a six hundred, and even with the danger, he fired every nerve in her body.

Justice is Coming

Delores Fossen

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Imagine a family tree that includes Texas cowboys, Choctaw and Cherokee Indians, a Louisiana pirate and a Scottish rebel who battled side by side with William Wallace. With ancestors like that, it’s easy to understand why USA TODAY bestselling author and former air force captain DELORES FOSSENfeels as if she were genetically predisposed to writing romances. Along the way to fulfilling her DNA destiny, Delores married an air force top gun who just happens to be of Viking descent. With all those romantic bases covered, she doesn’t have to look too far for inspiration.

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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 One

Marshal Declan O’Malley eased the saddle off his chestnut stallion. He tried not to make any sudden moves, and he didn’t look over his shoulder, though Declan was pretty sure someone was watching him.

That “pretty sure” became a certainty when he spotted the footprints on the partially frozen ground.

What the heck was going on?

Since he’d been a federal marshal for nearly six years, he was accustomed to having people want to do him bodily harm, but threats like that rarely came right to his doorstep.

Or rather to his barn.

Declan put the saddle on the side of the watering trough and adjusted his buckskin jacket so he could reach the Colt in his belt holster. He gave the chestnut’s rump a gentle slap, and as Declan had hoped he’d do, the stallion headed for some hay in the side corral. If there was going to be a shootout, Declan sure didn’t want his horse caught up in the gunfire.

He stepped to the side of the barn door. And waited.

Listening.

But the only thing he could hear was the bitter December wind rattling the bare trees scattered around the grounds. He didn’t mind the cold when he was on his daily ride, but he minded it a lot when he was waiting for something bad to happen.

Or maybe not bad.

He looked at the footprints again. Small. Like a woman’s. He hadn’t been in a relationship in the past three or four months, but maybe this was an old girlfriend come to visit. Still, it didn’t feel like something that simple.

Or that fun.

His house wasn’t exactly on the beaten path, not even by rural-Texas standards. He was literally on the back forty acres of his foster family’s horse-and-cattle ranch. A good ten miles from the town of Maverick Springs, and with not even a paved road leading to his place. Besides, there wasn’t much of value in his small wood-frame house to make it a target for thieves.

Declan glanced around. Kept listening. And when he was finally fed up with the cold, he drew his Colt and moved away from the barn door so he could follow those footprints. From the looks of it, the prints started at the back of his barn, and that meant somebody had probably walked in from the pasture and checked out the barn itself.

Maybe looking for him.

Or looking to make sure he’d indeed gone on his daily ride.

And then the trespasser had made her way to the back of his house. Declan went in that direction now, using the trees for cover.

Finally, he saw something.

Or rather someone.

There was a person dressed in dark clothes and equally dark sunglasses peering around the edge of his back porch. Judging from her size, it was probably a woman, though he couldn’t be positive since his visitor was wearing a black baseball cap slung low on her head, and the brim covered most of her face. Declan expected her to duck out of sight when she spotted him.

She didn’t.

She put her index finger to her mouth in a keep-quiet gesture.

What the hell?

And just to confuse things even more, she motioned for him to come closer.

Declan debated it. He debated calling out to her, too, but she frantically shook her head and made that keep-quiet gesture again.

He looked to see if she was armed. Couldn’t tell. But since she’d had ample opportunity to shoot at him and hadn’t, Declan decided to take his chances. He didn’t put his gun away, but he went closer.

Yeah, it was a woman all right. About five-six, with an average build. Judging from the strands of hair that had slipped out from the back of the baseball cap, she was a brunette.

“Inside,” she whispered and tipped her head to his back door. “Please,” she added.

Well, if she was a criminal, she was a polite one, that was for sure. The please didn’t sway Declan one bit, but her shaky voice did. There was fear in it. Or something. Something that told him she wasn’t a killer.

Well, probably not.

He’d been wrong before. And he had the scar on his chest to prove it.

But did that stop him?

Much to his disgust, nope, it didn’t. He’d never been a cautious man, and while this seemed like a really good time to start, Declan went even closer, still looking for any sign that she was armed.

Okay, she was.

Without any prompting, his mysterious visitor opened the side of her jacket to show him the gun—a Glock—that she had tucked in a shoulder holster. Since she made no attempt to draw it, Declan walked even closer, up the side steps. He also tapped the badge he had pinned to his holster, just in case she didn’t know she was dealing with a deputy U.S. marshal.

She kept her head down so he still didn’t have a good look at her face. “I know exactly who you are, Declan O’Malley,” she whispered.

Well, that wasn’t much of a stretch. Everyone in Maverick Springs knew who he was. He and his five foster brothers, who were all marshals, too. Anyone could have found out his name and where he lived within minutes after arriving in town. Heck, he didn’t even have a burglar alarm because he figured no one would be stupid enough to do what this woman was apparently trying to do.

“Inside,” she repeated.

It wasn’t caution but rather common sense that had him staying put when she turned toward his door. “I want answers first,” he insisted.

“Shh.” The fear in her body language went up a significant notch, and she fired a few nervous glances around his yard.