Victoria Bylin - The Bounty Hunter's Bride

“I hope so.” Dani shivered as she remembered the pistols she’d seen in his room. “But he’s been looking for revenge for so long, I wonder if he can stop.”

“A man can change.”

“If he wants to.”

“God has a way of making that happen.” Dani stared out at the rain. “But right now, Beau’s out in the storm.”

“It’s what men do,” the minister’s wife reminded her gently. “They fight for the people they love. There’s just one thing for you to decide—whether you love him enough to fight for him.”

Dani’s chest swelled with longing. “I do,” she said, and realized it was true. She wanted Beau, and she wanted the children. And she was ready to fight for them.

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fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate from UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were each reading the Bible.

Five months later, they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

Feel free to drop Victoria an e-mail at VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her Web site at www.victoriabylin.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Even the sparrow has found a home,

and the swallow a nest for herself,

where she may have her young—

a place near your altar,

O Lord Almighty, my King and my God.

—Psalms 84:3

For my brother John Bylin…

Dad would be proud of you. I know I am.

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

Questions for Discussion

Castle Rock, Colorado

June 1882

“You know the story of Cain and Abel?”

“I do.”

“Patrick was Abel. I’m Cain.”

Daniela Baxter gaped at the man in the doorway. Unshaven and bleary eyed, he looked enough like Patrick to be his brother. Except Patrick would never have answered the door in dirty trousers and a wrinkled shirt.

Patrick and she were engaged to be married. Tomorrow. At the church she’d spotted outside of town. When he’d failed to meet her at the train depot, Dani had hired a buggy and driven the five miles to his dairy farm. She’d expected her fiancé to greet her with a smile and an apology for missing her train. Instead, a stranger had answered the door. She’d asked for Patrick by name and been assaulted by his sneering question about Cain and Abel.

Her insides knotted. “I don’t understand.”

“Patrick’s dead.”

Dani blinked. “I must be at the wrong house.”

The road had forked a mile west of town. She’d guessed and taken the straighter of the two trails.

The man with Patrick’s eyes studied her more closely. “Who are you?”

“Daniela Baxter. I’m his fiancée.”

She and Patrick had been introduced through letters by Kirstin Janss, his cousin and Dani’s best friend. They had corresponded for six months. He’d written often about the town of Castle Rock, his growing dairy business and his three young daughters.

The man’s gaze stayed hard, but his voice softened like hot caramel, sweet but still sticky. “I’m sorry, miss. Patrick died five days ago.”

Gasping, Dani clutched her reticule. It held her only picture of the man she loved, the one he’d taken just for her. He’d combed his thick hair with pomade and dressed in his Sunday best, a black suit with a crisp shirt. She knew his dreams. He knew hers. She loved him. She loved his daughters and yearned to be a mother, both to his girls and the babies to come.

The porch started to spin. Dani grabbed the rocking chair for support, but it tipped, throwing her to her knees. As she hit the threshold, pain shot through the marrow of her bones.

A strong hand gripped her elbow and hauled her to her feet. “Don’t faint on me, lady.”

“I won’t.”

As tears filled her eyes, he dragged her to a chair in the front room where she collapsed on the cushioned seat, taking in the horsehair divan and a scattering of flower petals. She smelled lilies and realized a coffin had sat in this room. Patrick…her love. An anguished cry exploded in her throat.

The man shouted into the kitchen. “Emma! Get some water.”

Dani pushed to her feet. She’d come to be a mother to the girls, not a burden. “I’ll be fine.”

The man glared at her. “You don’t look fine.”

“Who are you?” she demanded.

Before he could answer, Patrick’s oldest daughter came into the room with the glass of water. Judging by the tight pull of Emma’s brows, she disliked this man. “Here,” she said, shoving the glass in his direction.

He put his hands on his hips. “It’s not for me.” He indicated Dani with his chin.

The instant the child turned, her oval face brightened with hope. “Dani?”

“Yes, sweetie. It’s me.” Dani crossed the gap between herself and the child and offered a hug.

Emma clung to her like moss on a tree. Long letters had made them friends over a span of months. Grief made them family in an instant. Water from the tipped glass sloshed down the back of Dani’s dress, but she didn’t care. Holding Emma brought Patrick to life. He’d written proudly of his girls. Emma, Ellie and little Esther, who’d been born on Easter Sunday. We’ll have more, Dani. I want a son. She’d written back about Edward, Ethan and Elijah. He’d countered with Earl and Ebenezer. Laughing to herself, she’d cried uncle in the next letter.

Dani released her grip on Emma, took the glass and set it on the table. “Where are your sisters?”

“Upstairs,” Emma said. “Esther’s taking a nap.”

Emma, barely ten years old, had the tired eyes of a young mother. Who would take care of the girls now? Not this man with tattered clothes and bristled cheeks. As Dani turned in his direction, he paced to the front window. Standing with his feet apart, he peered through the glass, studying the sky like a man expecting a storm. Dani tried to imagine Patrick striking such a belligerent pose but couldn’t.

The picture in her reticule showed a man with gentle eyes. He had described himself as wiry and slight, a man with the rounded shoulders of a dairy farmer. The stranger at the window stood six feet tall and ramrod straight. Judging by his stance, he bent his knee to no one.