The Gunfighter and the Heiress Read online

  “Stop!”

  A female voice came from the doorway as Donovan Crow flashed the would-be gunfighter his trademark glare.

  Every man in the saloon turned to stare at the stunning woman. Her trim-fitting yellow gown displayed her full creamy breasts to their best advantage. Her dark eyes sparkled with so much inner spirit that Van became lost in their depths.

  To his amazement, the alluring woman headed straight to him and positioned herself in front of him like a human shield.

  “Mr. Crow and I are going to be married day after tomorrow and I will thank you not to spoil my wedding, sir,” she said in a heavy Southern drawl to Van’s opponent.

  “Married?” The crowd hooted in unison.

  Staring down at this stranger’s shimmering auburn hair, Van couldn’t recall a single instance in his life when he had been struck speechless.

  Until now.

  Praise for

  Carol Finch

  “Carol Finch is known for her lightning-fast, roller-coaster-ride adventure romances that are brimming over with a large cast of characters and dozens of perilous escapades.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Bandit Lawman, Texas Bride

  “Finch has made her reputation on wonderfully realistic and humorous westerns filled with biting repartee and nonstop action. She’s at her finest with this action-packed tale of a lawman and a spitfire.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Texas Ranger, Runaway Heiress

  “Finch offers another heartwarming western romance full of suspense, humor and strong characters.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  Lady Renegade

  “Finch’s forte, verbal repartee, is at its best here.

  With well-developed characters and a quick pace, this tale is highly reminiscent of her classic westerns.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  McCavett’s Bride

  “For wild adventures, humor and western atmosphere,

  Finch can’t be beat. She fires off her quick-paced novels with the crack of a rifle and creates the atmosphere of the Wild West through laugh-out-loud dialogue and escapades that keep you smiling.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  The Ranger’s Woman

  “Finch delivers her signature humor, along with a big dose of colorful Texas history, in a love and laughter romp.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  CAROL FINCH

  THE GUNFIGHTER AND THE HEIRESS

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  CAROL FINCH

  Call of the White Wolf #592

  Bounty Hunter’s Bride #635

  Oklahoma Bride #686

  Texas Bride #711

  One Starry Christmas #723

  “Home for Christmas”

  The Last Honest Outlaw #732

  The Ranger’s Woman #748

  Lone Wolf’s Woman #778

  *The Ranger #805

  *Fletcher’s Woman #832

  McCavett’s Bride #852

  Cooper’s Woman #897

  The Bounty Hunter and the Heiress #909

  Texas Ranger, Runaway Heiress #927

  Cowboy Christmas #963

  “A Husband for Christmas”

  The Kansas Lawman’s Proposal #976

  Bandit Lawman, Texas Bride #995

  Lady Renegade #1017

  The Gunfighter and the Heiress #1051

  Look for Carol Finch’s novella

  Christmas at Cahill Crossing

  part of the anthology

  Snowflakes and Stetsons

  Coming October 2011

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our

  children, Kurt, Shawnna, Jill, Jon, Christie and Durk.

  And to our grandchildren Livia, Harleigh, Blake, Kennedy,

  Dillon, and Brooklynn. And to Kurt and Shawnna’s

  children, whenever they may be. Hugs and kisses!

  Contents

  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 One

  Wolf Ridge, Texas, 1880s

  “Go away.”

  Donovan Crow groaned as he dragged the pillow from his head and listened to the persistent knocking at the door of his hotel suite.

  “Can’t,” his friend and business manager called from the other side of the door in the sitting room. “You told me to wake you after you’d had a full day’s sleep.”

  “Changed my mind,” he mumbled.

  “You told me you’d say that, Van. Now I’m supposed to say, ‘Get up and open the damn door and do it now!’”

  Muttering, he levered himself onto the side of the bed. He raked his hand through his disheveled raven hair and forced himself to stand upright. Sluggishly, he reached for his breeches. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been this tired. The past few weeks of riding back and forth on the Higgins Stagecoach Express line to stop the rash of robberies had taken its toll on him. Come to think of it, he should have told his business manager to let him hibernate for a week.

  “Van? Are you up yet?” his friend called impatiently.

  “More or less,” Van mumbled.

  “Then open the blasted door. I have several telegrams and letters offering you jobs.”

  Van strode from the bedroom to the sitting area to open the door. Bartholomew Collier stared at him all too cheerfully as he invited himself into the suite. Bart was two years younger than Van. He stood five foot eight and had a wiry build and tireless energy. He had curly brown hair, a broken nose and pale green eyes covered by wire-rimmed glasses. Van had saved Bart from disaster eight years earlier and in return he’d acquired a business manager and a friend for life.

  Since then, Bart had handled the steady flow of paperwork that arrived at Van’s hotel headquarters. He hadn’t thought that advertising himself as a gun for hire would bring in so much business, but he was bombarded constantly with jobs.

  “You look like hell,” Bart observed as he plunked himself down in the chair, then dropped the stack of letters and telegrams on the table near the window.

  “Thanks. Sure would hate to look better than I feel.” Van strode over to pour himself a glass of water to lubricate his parched throat. He wished it were that easy to cure all the aches and pains caused by bouncing around on the inside of a stagecoach for days on end.

  “Oh, almost forgot.” Bart bounded up like a jackrabbit and sailed from the room. He returned two minutes later with a heaping tray of food, two cups of coffee and a bottle of whiskey.

  Van arched a curious brow as he studied the food Bart set in front of him. “What time is it?”

  “You mean what day is it?” Bart helped himself to a slice of bacon. “I let you sleep an entire day away, just as you requested.”

  Van took a cautious sip of steaming coffee. “That last assignment was a bitch.” He narrowed his eyes at Bart. “Don’t sign me up for that kind of assignment again.”

  Ever cheerful—damn him—Bart grinned, revealing the slight gap between his front teeth. “You sure about that? Think of all the money you made and the attention you received for arresting those two stagecoach robbers.”

  Bart always insisted that Van demand high prices because he risked his life as a detective for railroad
s, stage lines and cattlemen battling rustlers. He also served as a personal bodyguard for the highbrows who traveled through wild country to reach their destinations on the east and west coasts.

  Unfortunately, Van was rarely in town long enough to spend the money piling up. He had countless job offers but he didn’t have much of a life. Not that many whites invited him to social gatherings. He was the dispensable mixed-breed scout—detective and gun for hire who did his job, but was then quickly dismissed in favor of socially acceptable friends.

  “Mr. Higgins is singing your praises to high heaven and you’ve received publicity in newspapers from Arizona to Louisiana. I should know,” Bart declared. “I subscribe to several of those papers so we can keep abreast of what’s going on. As for Mr. Higgins, he wants to pay you handsomely to keep you on retainer so you can put the fear of God in would-be outlaws trying to rob his coaches.”

  Van snorted sourly, then sipped his drink. “Can’t stand that much confinement. What other jobs are waiting?” When Bart picked up a telegram, Van flung up his hand to forestall him. “And bear in mind that I am not taking any assignment until I catch up on my rest.”

  Bart shrugged and smiled wryly. For the life of him, Van couldn’t imagine why his friend—and Van didn’t have many of them in white man’s society, so he was careful not to offend Bart—looked so amused. Certainly nothing in their conversation accounted for it.

  Bart tapped his forefinger against the stack of telegrams and letters. “You have a wide range of jobs to choose from. You can serve as a railroad detective to quell trouble on the line from Fort Worth to points east near the Mississippi River. Several robberies are occurring on the line. Also, you can become a personal bodyguard for some highfalutin politician who wants to inspect the Texas Ranger stations on the frontier.”

  Bart leaned toward Van. “Personally, I think the Ranger captain is trying to recruit you. He thinks if he can get you to show up at one of their headquarters, you’ll cave in and finally agree to join.”

  “Not happening.” Van munched on a slice of bacon, then slathered sand plum jelly—his favorite—on the toast.

  “I’ll be sure to quote you verbatim when I respond to the Ranger captain and the politician.”

  Van disliked the Rangers that had swooped down on the Kiowa and Comanche village where he’d grown up. His clan had been in constant conflict with the army and Rangers…until the military had received orders to slaughter Indian horse herds and to march surviving tribe members to the hated reservations in Indian Territory. His mother’s people had urged him to take advantage of the fact that his father had been a white trader and to avoid confinement by becoming white.

  He had fled to begin indoctrination into white society. Now he had his freedom and he received exceptionally high fees for his skills as a hunter, tracker and shooter. But he refused to take any assignment for the Rangers or the military. They couldn’t pay him enough to forget the heartache his people suffered at their hands.

  “Van?” Bart prompted.

  Van shook off the unpleasant memories then sipped his coffee. “Sorry. My mind wandered. What were you saying?”

  “Some large ranchers in Colorado are feuding with sheepherders who have slaughtered their livestock…or so they claim. Five big ranchers formed a stock growers association and want to hire you to investigate. You’ll receive the usual going rate of two thousand dollars for every conviction, plus reward money and traveling expenses.”

  Van munched on his tasty meal while Bart listed other assignments that would take him hither and yon, investigating a recent robbery in the no-man’s-land between Indian Territory, Texas and Kansas and a horse theft in the Texas Panhandle.

  He didn’t show much interest in any of the assignments until Bart said, “But I agree that you won’t have time for too many new jobs since this telegram states that your fiancée will be arriving tomorrow on the five o’clock train from Fort Worth.”

  “MY WHAT?” Van croaked—then choked on his toast.

  Bart leaped to his feet to whack Van between the shoulder blades until he caught his breath. “That’s what I said,” he remarked while Van wheezed and coughed. “You never mentioned a fiancée.”

  “That’s because I don’t have one,” Van chirped, then guzzled his coffee to dislodge the toast from his throat.

  “Apparently you have one now. Congratulations, by the way. When is the wedding?” Bart asked, and chuckled.

  Van leveled a glare at his grinning friend. “I didn’t hire you for your sense of humor,” he muttered as he snatched the telegram from Bart’s hand. Sure enough, the message stated that his fiancée would arrive tomorrow at five.

  Bart plunked down in his chair, pushed his drooping spectacles up the bridge of his crooked nose and stared speculatively at Van. “I’ve always wondered what your fiancée might look like. Is she Indian or white?”

  “I’m not the marrying kind. Not now. Not ever. I don’t know who this charlatan is but I damn well intend to find out.”

  Bart’s pale green eyes glinted with amusement as he gestured toward the plate of food. “You should keep eating. Keep up your strength for when the fiancée arrives.”

  Van gave Bart “The Stare” he was famous for. He’d backed down many a troublemaker with that chilly glare. His friend merely snickered.

  “But what if she’s really attractive and charming and you decide to keep her?”

  “I can’t imagine why anyone would pull such a stunt. This has to be a trick.” Van shoved aside his plate and poured himself a tall drink of whiskey.

  Bart jerked upright in his chair. “You’re right! Maybe this has something to do with that threat—” He sorted through the stack of letters on the table and then waved it in Van’s face. “I didn’t give this warning from the Harper Gang much thought. Outlaws always vow revenge after you wrap up an assignment that didn’t end in their favor. But according to this letter the Harpers are out to get you for killing their little brother, Robbie.”

  Van slouched back in his chair to read the missive. It said:

  Eye for an Eye. We will get you for this.

  Three months earlier, Van had been on assignment to track bank robbers who’d split up. He’d hunted them individually. He’d been forced to shoot and kill the twenty-four-year-old Robbie Harper, who’d had too much to drink and drew on Van in a saloon in a dusty, no-name little town west of San Antonio.

  The drunken fool had tried to make a bigger name for himself. Instead, he’d made the obituaries.

  Van had apprehended Georgie Harper, age thirty, Charley, age twenty-eight, and Willy, age twenty-six. He had collected the hefty rewards, but he hadn’t had time to recover the stolen money because a high-profile murder assignment awaited him. He’d told the bankers to let the Texas Rangers hunt for the missing money since they worked cheaper.

  Unfortunately, the three Harper brothers had escaped from jail and now they were out for Van’s blood.

  “You must admit this ploy of an arriving fiancée would entice most men to show up at the railroad depot at five o’clock, if only to see what a fiancée of yours might look like,” Bart was saying when Van got around to listening. “You’re right. This has bushwhacking written all over it.”

  “My thoughts exactly.” Van chugged his whiskey. “That’s why you will meet the train and I’ll reconnoiter the area to see if Robbie’s vengeful kin are lying in wait.”

  “Me?” Bart crowed.

  “You’re the business manager, a practicing lawyer and my spokesman,” Van teased as he rose to stare out the window that overlooked Main Street. “In the meantime, I’m planning to catch up on my missed sleep.”

  “That’s it?” Bart huffed. “That’s all the forethought you’re giving this potential threat? But what if it isn’t the Harpers who are using a distraction to lure you out and gun you down? What if you really have a fiancée that you conveniently forgot about?”

  “I think I’d remember if I had a fiancée.” He strode over to gra
b the tray and handed it to Bart. “That’s not the sort of thing a man like me would forget.”

  Bart, with tray in hand, headed for the door. “Seems to me that plenty of men conveniently forget about fiancées and wives, in favor of visiting the harlots in Cardinal Row.”

  Cardinal Row was the red light district that Van and Bart visited occasionally, along with dozens of other local patrons. If Van had approved of blackmail schemes, he could make a killing off unfaithful husbands who frequented the local brothels. Maybe he’d take up that line of work when his lightning-quick accuracy with pistols and rifles failed him in old age. If he managed to dodge the bullets with his name on them for the next thirty years.

  Sighing tiredly, Van returned to the adjoining room and stretched out in bed. He’d need quick reflexes and sharp wits at five o’clock the next day if he planned to deal effectively with the bloodthirsty Harper Gang. “A fiancée?” Van chuckled at the preposterous thought.

  What the hell would he do with a fiancée? Leave her at his hotel headquarters for Bart to tend to while Van took one long-distance assignment after another? Anyway, what sort of female would want to attach herself to a mixed-breed with his reputation as a gun for hire? Women didn’t line up to fill a position as his future wife. Never had. Never would.

  “No woman with a lick of sense would consider marrying me. I’m the furthest thing from husband material that any man could get,” he mumbled drowsily, then promptly fell asleep.

  Natalie Blair, alias Widow Anna Jones, craned her neck to survey the landscape outside the train window. Anticipation bubbled inside her as she appraised Wolf Ridge. The Western community of three thousand residents—more or less—sat on a rise of ground, surrounded by a tree-choked creek known as Wolf Hollow. Even the possibility of this area jumping alive with wolves—and who knew what other vicious predators of the two-and four-legged variety—didn’t diminish her excitement.

  She had been riding the rails for four long, tedious days. She was about to reach the end of the line—literally—because the railroad was under construction across West Texas. This community was the jumping-off point to launch her into her new life.