The Outlaw's Kiss (an Old West Romance) (Wild West Brides) Read online

  Also by Anya Karin

  Her Highland Hero

  Thistle and Flame - Her Highland Hero

  Passion and Plaid

  The Unmasked Series

  Unmasked (New Adult Romance)

  Wild West Brides

  The Outlaw's Kiss (Sweet Western Historical Romance)

  Table of Contents

  The Outlaw’s Kiss – Wild West Brides #1

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  The Outlaw’s Kiss – Wild West Brides #1

  An Old West Romance

  by Anya Karin

  *

  Sign up for my mailing list to keep up to date on new releases!

  One

  August 20, 1878

  Omaha Road train depot, Yankton, Dakota Territory

  “Where on Earth have we gotten ourselves, father?” I stepped off the train and faced the morning sun, raising a hand to block both the burning light, and a surprising burst of dust. “This certainly doesn’t look like anyplace that would have gold. All this dirt, this dust. My clothes are going to be filthy.”

  Twisting the corner of the mustache he’d grown especially for this trip, Jefferson James, my father, snorted a laugh. “The very edge of civilization, Clara. And no, this isn’t where I bought the claim. That’s a few hundred miles off still. We’ll be taking a carriage west. If I’m reading this missive correctly, we’re to load up with a handful of other pioneers and depart before the day’s out. And anyway, weren’t you the one who insisted on coming? I tried to leave you home. Those clothes of yours will survive the dust.”

  Father’s tongue curled around the word pioneer. He, a banker from New York, treated himself to a ride across half the country in the finest railcar on the tracks then was about to hop on a carriage caravan to some backwater where he’d bought a gold claim. And he thought himself a pioneer. I covered my mouth to keep my giggling a secret.

  Of all the ideas I’ve ever had, I believe this one to be the worst. Across from the train depot was a run-down saloon, the likes of which I thought only existed in dime novels. Here it was, just past first light, and some disheveled cowboy stumbled out the swinging doors, fell down on his rear, and went right to sleep.

  Pulling my eyes off the slovenly drunk, I turned to my father. “Why are we here? I mean, does the train not go any further west? And you know very well that I came because someone has to keep you on the straight and narrow.”

  Father smiled down at me and adjusted his cravat, making sure the pin was fixed tight. “Not the way we’re going, dear daughter. This is going to be quite an adventure. I hear tell that the cowboys and the miners in the parts we’re about to see are truly wild, near savages who live without law. Except for one fellow, who is pretending to be a kind of sheriff, hailing from Montana.” As he spoke, I could almost feel his chest puff up.

  A sheriff from Montana, who moved to a wild gold-mining camp – there’s a pioneer. A banker from New York is not as convincing. I bet the sheriff even has a mustache he’s worn for more than three weeks. And I bet his mustache reaches past the top of his lip as well.

  The train’s engine let out a great whistling noise that almost sent me reeling to the floor of the depot in surprise, and a plume of black coal smoke filled the sky shortly afterward. Father grabbed one of my arms, and pulled me aside.

  “Loudest damned thing I’ve ever heard. Come along Clara, we’re to meet a man in the stationhouse who’ll be leading our caravan. A Mr. Horatio Barber – quite a name for a trail guide, I assume him to be English. At any rate, we should –”

  Father’s talking was interrupted by a tremendous grunt.

  “This yours?” the train’s porter clenched his teeth and dropped the first of our trunks with a heavy thud.

  “Oh yes, my boy, and those there.” My father pointed to a pile of similarly colored trunks which represented every shred of clothing we owned. “Those as well. Must be prepared, should the worst happen.”

  As the poor man groaned, stooped, and strained to get the seven crates onto a sled to be pulled around front where we were to meet the caravan, father smiled and tugged on his suspenders. I wasn’t entirely sure why he insisted on bringing our entire wardrobes; especially since we were only to be staying in this gold mining camp for a half a year.

  “Prepared,” the porter squatted and pushed the last of the boxes onto the sled. “Yes sir, prepared. Whew! Prepared for what, exactly? I don’t think you’ll need any fashions to wear to the opera house where you’re going.”

  My father continued smiling and tugging at various parts of his clothing to make sure it was all in the right places. Before we left New York, he purchased everything he expected he’d need. Hip waders, chaps, that comical bowler, all of it. In honesty though, he’d used the covers of adventure stories and descriptions from travel journals for his guide. I don’t think he was in any way ready for what we were actually going to find.

  Of course, I’m not sure exactly why we came in the first place.

  Father had got the idea that buying a gold claim in a new boomtown four-hundred miles from the nearest train station was the sure path to riches and fame. The deal was brokered by someone he promised to be honest and upright, and who said the plot he purchased was reconnoitered by the legendary George Hearst himself. Hearst had tried to buy up all the land around this town as he was sure that when the Comstock Lode ran dry, he’d be able to make three times as much in Dakota Territory gold.

  And then there was me. Father was convinced that bringing me along was for the best. I’d never seen the world outside of New York, nor had I even seen much life inside New York. Our home consists of a flat of apartments right next to a Pinkerton office, and down the boardwalk from the bank where my father was a part owner.

  I touched the side of my face when I felt a wet trickle run down. My fingers, to my horror, came away caked with that red dust that seemed to settle into every pore.

  “Clara!” My father’s shout broke my momentary lapse into reminiscence. “Come over and help your father!” He had in his hands a rope, which he offered me. “Take ahold! Or ‘grab ‘er’ as they say here. The rough folks here are so wonderfully quaint, don’t you think?”

  Someone walked past and prickled at the insult until the man saw my father trying to drag Lord-knows how much weight by himself on a sled. That spectacle got a hearty laugh.

  “You want me to pull this? I can’t possibly do that. It’s all I can do to breathe in this dress.” I took the rope anyway, holding it helplessly. Dressed in what I admit were clothes a bit more suited for a New York society club luncheon than a day of hard labor, I wasn’t much use.

  “Ma’am?” A young man, perhaps five or ten years my elder – one of the few I’d seen who didn’t wear a beard – approached me from behind and tipped his hat. “Mind if I take that from you? I’d probably be more help than someone so finely anointed as yourself.”

  Turning, I saw the man was dressed as actual men do in these parts, with hard trousers, leathers on his legs, and a gun at his hip. He tipped his hat a second time when I smiled. Father looked to be straining so hard his eyes were about to burst out of his skull, but the kind man helping him tucked
the rope over his shoulder and took most of the burden. So easily was he able to move the load that he had time to cast a look in my direction.

  Dark blue eyes that reflected the sea, framed by the slight stubble of maybe a days’ worth of growth struck hard.

  I turned to leave but when after catching that bedeviling gaze, couldn’t force myself to turn away. The cords in his shoulders, running down his arms stood out as he pulled the sled. Sweat that escaped his hat trickled down his face, around shapely cheekbones, to his strong chin. To my astonishment, and with a great deal of rudeness, I found myself staring at him, utterly entranced by his strength and more than that, the gentle politeness he’d shown in such an obviously rough place.

  “You two headed west?” He asked my father. “You look like a gold miner.” I caught the sarcasm, though father did not.

  “Yes sir, we are. Have you been out that-a-ways? And – oh, my manners. What may I call you?” He was trying so hard to fit in that he stuck out even more. I covered my mouth to hide my soft laugh.

  “Eli Masterson, and –”

  “Eli, you been out west?” father cut in.

  “Just came back from leading one caravan out that way a day ago. It’s the damndest – ah, excuse my language.”

  Father grinned briefly in between gritting his teeth. “No problem at all, I’m damned used to such speech, I’ll have you know.”

  I’m quite sure I saw the man shake his head and hide a laugh. “Anyways, it’s a hell of a thing out that way. Couple Sioux raids into the settlement there, not long past. Week or two. First in a while though, I believe they’re the first raids since Wild Bill was shot.”

  Following close behind the two men, I heard my father gasp. “Wild Bill?” he said. “As in Hickok? Indian raids?”

  “Uh-huh,” he cut in. “You two are headed to Deadwood, ain’t you?”

  “That’s,” father paused, “no, not exactly. That’s the nearest town to where my claim lies, yes, but I had no plans to spend much time in the town proper. Though I heard it had become more, uh, civilized, of late.”

  Straightening his back and letting my father take a break, Eli turned to me. “Maybe best for the lady to take a seat around front of the depot? This sun, it’s a bit much in all that finery, don’t you think?”

  I took his hint – he wanted to say something to my father without my hearing – but I also took his consideration. And he was right, after all. Even in the early morning, the heat was more than I was accustomed to feeling. “Yes, I think that would be fine.” In truth I was thankful for a short respite from the tingling he’d put in my chest. “Just around front?”

  “Yep. Er, yes ma’am,” he said. “Caravans’ll be around shortly to take you lot on your way. As you can tell, there’s a lot of dust here, so it’s good you brought enough clothes to hold you.” He barely contained a laugh as Father mopped his brow with a handkerchief that came away soaked and caked with red powder. “Anyways, head on around there. We’ll be along shortly.”

  “Thank you kindly, sir,” I said and curtsied slightly, which seemed to amuse him. When he left, I couldn’t begin to explain the tightness I felt at the back of my throat. Certainly I was too reasonable to just up and fall for the first half-way articulate cowboy I happened across.

  Indian raids? Wild Bill Hickok? What in the world is Father thinking? I clenched my jaws tight until the tiny flecks of sand gritting between my teeth were too much to bear.

  My stomach felt like a knot had twisted itself up in there. I supposed that gentleman may have simply been joshing around with Father, trying to get a rise out of the obviously underprepared Yankee. On the other hand, he had a look that was quite serious. If he had just been telling fibs, he could have continued right on in front of me, and father, who just reappeared, would not be mopping his face quite like he was, no matter how much energy he’d exerted.

  “I’m beginning to think I’ve made an awful mistake, Clara,” he said as he hopped down from the platform. Mr. Masterson tipped his hat to me, which I must admit put a bit of a swoon inside me. “Bah!” he quickly corrected himself. “Came for an adventure, didn’t we? Seems like that’s what we’ll get.”

  “Come along, father,” I said. “This seems less an adventure and more an insane charge into the wilderness with nothing but a half-lamed horse to guide you. Before we do anything we can’t change, why don’t we just get right back on that train and avoid this town altogether.” Even as I spoke, something with dark blue eyes and a very easy, graceful smile remained firmly in place at the back of my mind.

  “Township. And it’s only recently been incorporated. And on top of that,” he was chewing on the corner of his mustache. “I’m sure our friend was just telling us a cautionary tale. Still though, if you wish, you could be back in New York in three weeks’ time, put on display at society balls to try and attract a good husband, like my bank manager, Francis.”

  Briefly, that idea didn’t seem so terrible. But something inside me, perhaps the way that man had bored into me with his eyes when he looked my way. “No,” I said, shaking my head and surprising both myself and father. “For some reason I feel the need to stick to this. And I’ve got you to protect me. What’ve I to fear? And any of that is preferable to a life behind a closed door married to Francis Malone. I’ll need at least another ten years before considering that sort of sedate life.”

  Father snickered softly. “Don’t think you’re the only James woman who didn’t want a husband. Perhaps not even long after she had one. You’re a good girl, Clara. Just like your mother was.” I sensed the tiniest tremble in the corner of my father’s eye when he mentioned my departed mother, whom he swears I mirror in appearance and personality. She died with my birth, so all I know of her is a single portrait and what he’s told me.

  Mr. Masterson appeared from the saloon door, breaking up our short exchange, whistled at us and trotted over from the swinging doors. “Carriages are here!” He said, waving his arms over his head, toward the first one. “If I didn’t talk you out of it anyway.”

  “No,” I said, when my father remained silent. “I’m just nervous about the trip. I’m not much for horses, you see.”

  Eli turned up one corner of his mouth in a smirk. “I reckon you’re going to get your fill of the things in the days to come. You two will be in the front coach. It’ll be the safest if the Sioux decide to run a raid.” With the way he was grinning, it was hard to tell if he was serious or not. “I wouldn’t worry about that too much, though, not this time of year anyway. They’re following the river into the western reaches of their hunting grounds. Look,” he took off his hat. “I didn’t mean to frighten you with what I said, Mr. James. Truly I didn’t.”

  “No, no, you were merely being honest. From what you say though, the town is beginning to settle somewhat. I’m sure things will be just exciting enough. After what you told me though, I am a bit on edge about the content of my claim, though.”

  “Well, I can’t do anything for your gold. Whether or not there’s any color in the ground that you bought is up to God. But what I can guarantee is that I’ll make sure you get to Deadwood safe.” He turned away and helped the man in front of the first carriage down, then replaced him in the bench.

  “How can you promise such a thing, Mr. Masterson?” I said.

  My father stood and wiped his brow again as a team of men carried our belongings to the luggage coach.

  “Please, call me Eli. We’re going to be together quite a time, Miss James.” He reached down and offered his hand, which I took. “I’ll be driving you to Deadwood. That’s how I can swear your safety.”

  I shook my head in disbelief. “But, father, isn’t someone named Barber to be our guide?”

  Eli heard me, and looked back, eyes flashing. “Horatio? He owns the company. These wagons are his, but this trail is mine.”

  Such sureness, such half-restrained bravado, would normally have put me off someone immediately. In the past half-hour though, this man had s
hown himself by turns polite, caring, and strong besides. I supposed that he was what a real cowboy was supposed to be.

  A gust blew, pelting the side of the coach, and my face through the open window, with a blast of hot air. Just in time, I closed the curtain, blocking the trailing puff of dust that always came after a wind.

  “Round ‘em up!” Eli shouted to the other drivers. “Luggage all loaded?”

  Someone at the end of the line shouted that everything was ready and everyone was onboard.

  “Hold on, Mr. James, hold on ma’am.” His blue eyes twinkled when he turned to face us where we sat in the back of the coach. “It’s gonna be one hell of a bumpy ride.”

  “Hyah!”

  Eli snapped the reins that held the tremendous horses to the front of the carriage. It lurched, the axles groaned.

  I looked up and out the front of the wagon, past Eli, and into the sun which had just begun to descend. I put my hand on my father’s knee, and he turned.

  “I get the feeling we’re gonna find what we’re looking for out here,” he said. His mood was already improving.

  Smiling, I gave him a nod. He was after gold. Father was after a fortune. As for me? I was after something much, much different. Something I wasn’t quite sure I could even define, much less find in the wilds of the Dakotas.

  Once again I stared out the front of the coach, but this time, my eyes didn’t go past Eli, they settled on the black hair peeking out from under his hat. Even though a husband was the last thing on my mind, the way this rough-shod cowboy had smiled, the way he comforted my father, something about him just struck me. Suddenly, I was thankful for the week of travel it would take to reach our destination.

  “We just might,” I said, my voice distant. “We just might.”

  Two

  August 25, 1878

  Deadwood Trail, Dakota Territory

  “Oh, no, I’m not worried at all.” My father swept a handkerchief across his sweaty face and looked over at me across the campfire. “The hills in the Dakotas are full of gold. Why else would someone like George Hearst have any interest in opening an operation? He doesn’t make mistakes. Often anyway.”