Jan Hudson - The Judge

“Yes?”

“I’m going to kiss you.”

“I wish you would.” Her voice was none too steady either.

He lifted her chin with the backs of his fingers and she closed her eyes as he bent toward her. The first touch of his lips was a tentative brushing against hers.

She loved his lips. They were warm, full, gentle.

Then he gathered her into his arms and deepened the kiss. He groaned and put his heart and soul into it, and she responded in kind.

Dear Lord, he was so fine. She clutched handfuls of his shirt to keep from puddling at his feet. She was just getting started when he broke away.

“I really enjoyed the evening,” he said. He dropped a quick kiss on her forehead instead of on the lips she blatantly offered. “Good night.”

And then he was gone. Out the door faster than greased lightning.

She lifted her eyebrows and stared at the door that had closed behind him. “And good night to you, too, Judge.”

Dear Reader,

This is the second of three books about a family of tall, dark and handsome fellows, the Texas Outlaws. In keeping with family tradition, the Outlaw brothers are named for famous desperadoes and are in law enforcement and public service. I hope that last month you read and enjoyed the first book of the miniseries, about J. J. (Jesse James) Outlaw, sheriff of Naconiche (NAK-uh-KNEE-chee) County, Texas. This story is about his older brother, Frank James Outlaw—who wouldn’t vote for a judge with that name?

Again set in the tall-timbered, rolling hills of the fictitious small county seat of Naconiche, this tale features more of the colorful characters typical of small East Texas towns around where I was born—warm, welcoming and often a shade eccentric. East Texas is where the Old South meets the West, so there’s a mix of cowboys and country folks, and most people are friendly—but a few still live in the backwoods, guard their privacy as if they were still moonshinin’ and tote shotguns to ward off strangers.

When Carrie Campbell blew into town, she never imagined that she would meet and come to love so many people—especially a judge with a pair of rambunctious twins. But magical things seem to happen when you stay at the Twilight Inn. Come along and see.

Warmest regards!

Jan Hudson

The Judge

Jan Hudson

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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For Mary Hudson And with special thanks, for Marilyn Jefferies Meehan, attorney and former landman.

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

Still steamed, Carrie Campbell yanked open the door and strode into the justice of the peace’s offices. It had chapped her good when that moon-faced Gomer had given her a speeding ticket not two minutes after she’d crossed the county line. Doing seventy-one in a fifty-mile-an-hour zone, he’d informed her in a nasal drawl. She hadn’t seen a different speed posted. How could she be held accountable when a humongous semi parked on the shoulder had clearly blocked the sign? She’d gone back and looked.

She ought to fight it. Everything in her screamed to go to the mat about this. But she needed to play it low-key around Naconiche County, Texas—at least until her business here was finished. She could just hear her uncle Tuck saying, “Get down off your high horse, girl, and pay the damned ticket. Play your hand close to your vest and don’t stir up the locals. Remember you’ve got a job to do.”

Carrie stopped, took a deep breath and forced herself to relax. She couldn’t let her temper screw up things.

Okay. She’d pay the damned ticket—if she could find somebody to take her money. Nobody was sitting at the front desk.

Spotting a door ajar at the back of the large ante-room, she headed straight for it. The sooner she got this over with, the sooner she could get on with her plans.

Horace P. Pfannepatter, Justice of the Peace, Precinct 2 was painted in black letters on the frosted glass panel. Through the crack, she could see a dark-haired man in a white shirt and tie sitting at a desk, rummaging through a drawer.

She rapped on the glass and pushed open the door. “Judge?”

“Yes,” he said, glancing up.

Stunned, for a moment she could only gawk. The judge was drop-dead, movie-star gorgeous. He had big brown eyes with eyelashes a foot long and one of those perfectly sculpted faces she’d only seen on young Greek men. She hated to admit it, but the guy took her breath away.

A pity about the name.

Who could seriously consider anyone named Horace P. Pfannepatter?

“What does the P. stand for?”

He stared at her in a sort of slack-jawed way that made Carrie wonder if his mother had married her first cousin. Mostly his eyes seemed to zero in on her bare legs. From his expression, you’d have thought he’d never seen a woman in shorts before. She yanked off her sunglasses and tapped her foot impatiently.

His eyes finally made it back to her face, and he gave himself a little shake. “Pardon?”

“What does the P. stand for?” she said a little louder, thinking maybe he had a hearing problem.

He gave her another out-to-lunch look, then frowned. “The P.?”

Despite his good looks, this guy didn’t seem to be the sharpest knife in the drawer. What did it take to get elected to JP around here—being able to sit up and take nourishment?

“The P. in Horace P. Pfannepatter. What does it stand for?”

“Oh. Puffer. It’s a family name.”

Figured. A real shame. A real shame, too, about the gold wedding ring he wore.

“Your eyes are…very unusual,” he said, squinting at her. “I—I suppose you hear that a lot.”

She smiled. “A lot.”

After a slow trip down her body, his gaze went back to her legs. She almost reconsidered paying the ticket. Twenty to one that with a little sweet talk, she could get Horace to dismiss it, especially with the photo of the sign and the parked semi she had taken—and given his preoccupation with her exposed skin.

Better not. Resigned to her earlier decision, she sighed. “I need to pay a ticket.”

“A ticket? Oh. Maureen can help you with that.”

“Maureen?”

“Yes. At the desk out front.”

“Nobody was there when I came in.”

“Let’s see if we can find her,” he said, standing.

If Carrie thought he looked good sitting, on his feet he was dynamite. He must have been six-two or-three and no slouch in the body department. When he touched her back to usher her from his office, she felt as if she’d been zapped with a cattle prod.

Odd.

Static electricity, she was sure. He was married for goshsakes.

He smiled and her knees wobbled. He had a mouth full of perfect white teeth and a killer of a lopsided smile. “Ah, there’s Maureen. She can help you.”