Victoria Bylin - The Outlaw's Return

“It’s not important.”

She didn’t believe him. Whatever his reason for being at Brick’s, he’d made an effort to find her. She felt cheated by the lie, just as she’d felt cheated in Abilene. “If it wasn’t important, you’d answer the question.”

“I know what I’m doing.”

When he smirked, she saw the man who’d left her pregnant, alone and ruined. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, J.T.?”

His eyes were even bluer than she recalled, and his cheekbones more chiseled. The sun, high and bright, lit up his unshaven jaw and turned his whiskers into gold spikes. The man was untouchable, unreachable.

“That’s right,” he finally said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”

“I have,” she said quietly. “What happened in Abilene is in the past. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my privacy.”

His eyes clouded with something akin to regret. “I understand,” he said quietly. “You won’t see me again.”

His surrender shocked her to the core.

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 of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both 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 email at VictoriaBylin@aol.com or visit her website at www.victoriabylin.com.

www.millsandboon.co.uk

The cowering prisoners will soon be set free;

they will not die in their dungeon,

nor will they lack bread.

For I am the Lord your God,

who churns up the sea so that its waves roar—

the Lord Almighty is his name.

—Isaiah 51: 14, 15

This book was the most challenging writing experience I’ve ever had. For that reason, it requires three dedications.

The first is to my editor, Emily Rodmell.

I’m beyond grateful for her insights into this story.

The second is to Sara Mitchell.

She’s my dearest friend and a gifted writer.

I owe her more than I can say.

The third is to the people of CenterPointe Christian Church in Lexington, Kentucky.

From the day Mike and I first stepped through the doors, you made us feel welcome.

A special shout-out goes to the ladies of the Flippin’ Pages Book Club.

Let’s hear it for Christian fiction!

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

Epilogue

Letter to Reader

Questions for Discussion

Denver, Colorado

July 1876

When J. T. Quinn vowed to find Mary Larue, he never once imagined they’d meet on a perfect Sunday morning in Denver. On those long nights when he’d lain alone in his bedroll, he’d imagined seeing her on a stage in some high-class opera house. He’d pictured himself in a black suit and a white shirt leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed as he listened to her hit the high note only she could hit. Their eyes would meet and she’d recognize him. She’d miss a beat, but she’d pick up the song with even more power than before and he’d know…she still loved him.

That wasn’t going to happen today.

It wasn’t Saturday night, and J.T. wasn’t wearing a suit.

It was Sunday morning, and he had trail dust in every pore. He also smelled like the inside of a saloon. He hadn’t visited such an establishment for six months, but last night he’d walked past a gaming hall with a head full of memories. A drunken cowhand had stumbled out to the boardwalk with an open bottle of whiskey, and the contents had sloshed on J.T.’s trousers. The smell had sickened him in one breath and tempted him in the next. He’d have changed clothes, but the garments in his saddlebag were filthy. They stank, but not with whiskey. He’d resisted that temptation, and he’d done it because of his love for Mary Larue.

Heaving a sigh, he looked down at his dog. “What should we do, Fancy Girl?”

She whapped her tail against the boardwalk and looked up at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. J.T. didn’t know what kind of dog she was, but they’d been best friends since he’d walked out on Griff Lassen at the Dudley place. They’d been running off Ambrose Dudley and his brother, squatters up in Wyoming, when the dog had charged at them and started barking. Griff had ordered J.T. to shoot her dead.

J.T. had done a lot of mean things in his life, but not even he could shoot a dog. On the other hand, he’d come close to shooting Griff. When the man aimed his Sharps at the mutt, J.T. had shoved the barrel downward. The bullet had ricocheted off a rock and creased Fancy Girl’s head. J.T. had mopped her blood with his bandanna and fed her jerky from his pocket. When she’d followed him to his horse, he’d poured water from his canteen into a pot. She’d lapped every drop, and he’d filled it again.

He’d left the Dudley place with the job undone and Griff promising to get even, but the dog had followed him. That night he’d named her Fancy Girl because her fur reminded him of Mary’s blond hair, and he’d made a decision. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who hunted squatters and shot at dogs.

Over the past ten years, J.T. had sold his gun for money. He’d been nineteen when he’d first been paid to hunt down cattle rustlers, and next month he’d turn thirty. For a gunslinger, he had a lot of years on him. Today, standing outside a saloon and listening to Mary sing, he thought back on those years. He’d drunk oceans of whiskey and been with too many women. The whiskey had never failed to work its magic. The women, though, had lost that power, and it was because of Mary.

She’d been in his head for two years now, ever since Kansas, where they’d been a pair and she’d made him smile. Really smile. Not the sneer he usually wore. And not because she was generous with her affections. Mary made him smile because she believed he was a good man. He wasn’t, but after the mess at the Dudley place, he wanted to try. Leaving that day with Fancy Girl, he’d decided to find Mary and make a new life. He had some money saved, enough to open a saloon, a place where she could sing and live the life she’d always wanted. He didn’t plan to marry her. He’d changed, but not that much. Picking up where they’d left off seemed noble enough.

He and Fancy Girl had been searching for six months, and he’d finally caught a break. He hadn’t touched a woman or a drop of whiskey since the mess in Wyoming, but he still had to eat. Last night he’d taken supper at the boardinghouse where he was staying with his dog. One of the boarders, an old man with bad eyes, had told him about a woman named Mary who sang like a nightingale.

You’ll find her tomorrow morning at Brick’s Saloon.