Victoria Bylin - West of Heaven

“This may be a marriage in name only, but I intend to protect you. You’ll be safer here than anywhere else.”

Danger had heightened her senses, making her aware of the taut cords in Ethan’s neck and the heat of his skin. She’d lost so much—her home, her business, her dream of loving a good man. Tears welled and spilled from her eyes.

Ethan brushed them aside with his knuckles. “It’ll be all right. I promise.”

But she couldn’t stop the throbbing in her chest. More tears spilled, thicker than the first ones, until Ethan tipped his head downward and kissed them away, trailing his lips from her temple to her cheek.

Did he feel it, too, this yearning for comfort? She couldn’t be Laura for him, not ever. But just for tonight she could meet a need, both his and hers…!

Of Men and Angels

“An uplifting tale of a spiritual woman, who’s deeply

human, and the flawed man she loves. It’s evident that

Ms. Bylin writes from her heart.”

—Old Book Barn Gazette

“Deft handling makes the well-tarnished Jake

a man to admire.”

—Romantic Times

“Of Men and Angels is the perfect

title for a perfect book. The characters are wonderfully human and well

rounded, and the story is an exciting, heartwarming and

spiritual tale with a magnitude of emotion.”

—Romance Reviews Today

“Unconditional love and the quest for forgiveness

take center stage in this involving romance.”

—The Romance Reader’s Connection

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To Mom and George,

for having the courage to love twice.

I also want to thank my editor, Kim Nadelson, and

executive editor Tracy Farrell for their guidance.

They made this book possible.

As always, hugs to my husband and sons,

who make life…good.

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

Epilogue

Midas, New Mexico

April 1885

“W hat in God’s name is all that racket?”

Her husband’s voice rasped in Jayne Dawson’s ear. She and Hank had been married less than a week and were sharing a real bed for the second time. He’d been whispering that this time would be better than the first, when someone had started pounding on the door to their room in the Midas Hotel.

“Criminy,” he muttered. “He’s gotta be mixed up.”

As Hank went back to nuzzling her neck, Jayne closed her eyes to block out the intrusion. When the man coughed again, she stiffened like a fence post. “Hank, maybe we should—”

Silencing her with a kiss, her husband stroked her breast. The rhythm was too quick for her. She needed time to catch up with him, maybe a little sweet talk, anything to take her mind off the stranger standing just outside their door. With a determined moan, Hank slid a wet kiss down her neck.

Rap. Rap. Rap.

Jayne turned her head against the pillow. “Hank, I can’t do this with someone standing in the hall.”

“He’ll go away. Just relax.”

Knock. Knock. Knock.

“I know you’re in there, Jesse.”

“Shit!” Hank leaped off her as if he’d been struck by a bullet. Moonlight turned his body bone-white as he snatched his pants off the chair and hurried into them. He put on a shirt, then pulled his Peacemaker out of the gunbelt and cocked the hammer.

“Hide, Jayney,” he ordered. “Get under the covers and don’t move a muscle.”

“Who’s Jesse?”

He shook his head. “Just do what I say.”

It wasn’t in Jayne’s nature to obey anyone, but being stark naked put her at a distinct disadvantage. She scooted lower on the bed, flattened herself against the mattress and listened as her husband stepped into the hallway and closed the door behind him.

She strained to hear through the thick oak, but the tinny music from a nearby saloon masked the voices in the hall. She lowered the sheet an inch and peeked over the hem. The oil lamp flickered against the ivory wall, casting shadows through the gloom as a sinister chortle reached her ears. Her gaze narrowed to the doorknob just as it began to turn.

Was it Hank? Or the stranger with the rasping cough? She would have given a month of Sundays to have been wearing her best dress, or any dress for that matter, but she settled for leaping out of bed and shoving her arms into the cotton wrapper Hank had tossed on the floor. There hadn’t been time for a fancy trousseau like the ones she had stitched for the Lexington well-to-do. A week ago she’d been disappointed. Now she was just glad to be covered.

Clutching the flaps of the garment around her middle, she dropped to a crouch in front of her trunk and rummaged for her mother’s sewing shears. If the stranger came at her, she’d fight with her last breath before she’d let him touch her. And she had a few things to say to Hank, too. He owed her an explanation.

As her fingers gripped the scissors, Hank slipped back into the room, turned the lock and braced both hands high against the door. With his wheat-colored hair and slim build, he reminded her of the little Dutch boy with his finger in the dike.

Still clutching the scissors, she pushed up from the crouch. “Who was that man?”

Her husband raised his face to the plaster ceiling, blew out a breath, then dropped his arms to his sides and faced her squarely. “Do you remember when I told you I had a past?”

How could she forget? They’d been alone in the tiny sitting room above her mother’s dress shop. He’d told her she was the best thing that had ever happened to him and that he wanted a fresh start in life. That’s when he had revealed that he’d been a lawman in Wyoming and that he’d killed a good man by mistake.

“There are things I can’t tell you,” he had said. “But if you can see fit to forgive me for my secrets, I’ll love you forever.”

Forgiveness sprung from her soul as easily as water from an abundant well. She’d met him in church just two months earlier on Christmas Eve, and never before had she seen a man with such soulful eyes. His sun-bleached hair had been tipped with gold, like the ornamental angels hanging in the snow-crusted windows of the sanctuary.

“God can forgive anything,” she’d said. “And so can I.”

Until tonight, not once had it occurred to her that the past might not be ready to forgive him. How naive she’d been. But thoughts of California had stirred her blood. She had wanted to see more of the world than the streets of Lexington, and so she had trusted Hank with her dreams. At least until now. Tying a knot in the belt to her robe, she made her voice firm. “You have to tell me everything, Hank. Right now.”