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  With a wry smile he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.

  They were left alone in the crowd. Both dressed in black, Abbie and John seemed cold to each other, but he wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bedsheets….

  Praise for Victoria Bylin

  “This is an author who writes with heart, and articulates

  well a clear understanding of human feelings and frailties

  that readers should totally enjoy.”

  —Historical Romance Writers Review

  Praise for previous titles

  West of Heaven

  “The hero, definitely alpha male and code-of-the-west

  cowboy, provides wonderful appeal, as does the heroine

  and her orientation to family values. This story proves that

  love is salvation from death and its worst griefs.”

  —Romantic Times

  Of Men and Angels

  “An uplifting tale of a spiritual woman,

  who’s deeply human, and the flawed man she loves.

  It’s evident that Ms. Bylin writes from her heart.”

  —Old Book Barn Gazette

  “Deft handling makes the well-tarnished Jake

  a man to admire.”

  —Romantic Times

  “Of Men and Angels is the perfect title for a perfect book.

  The characters are wonderfully human and well rounded,

  and the story is an exciting, heartwarming and spiritual

  tale with a magnitude of emotion.”

  —Romance Reviews Today

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

  #747 THE VISCOUNT

  Lyn Stone

  #748 THE RANGER’S WOMAN

  Carol Finch

  #749 THE BETROTHAL

  Terri Brisbin, Joanne Rock and Miranda Jarrett

  VICTORIA BYLIN

  ABBIE’S OUTLAW

  Available from Harlequin Historicals and

  VICTORIA BYLIN

  Of Men and Angels #664

  West of Heaven #714

  Abbie’s Outlaw #750

  To Michael… Beloved husband, you are mine!

  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 Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Epilogue

  Chapter One

  Midas, New Mexico

  June 1887

  When the Reverend John Leaf saw Abigail Windsor standing at the top of the train steps, dressed in black and shielding her eyes from the noonday sun, he knew that all hell was about to break loose. He’d made a million mistakes in his life and had made amends for all of them—except one. Now that mistake was coming to light in a way he had dreaded for years and deeply feared.

  His eyes stayed on Abbie as she scanned the crowd. Lord, he thought, she looked awful in black. The girl he remembered had insisted on wearing pretty colors in spite of the gloom in her life. He remembered her best in a coppery dress that brought out the highlights in her hair. He also remembered her wearing nothing at all, which was a problem for a man who’d sworn off women entirely.

  He’d never been inclined toward marriage or children of his own. The Leaf family curse ran thick in his blood, and he’d rather die than pass it on to an unsuspecting child. Certainly not to a son who would grow up filled with hate or to a daughter who would go through life lonely and crazed like his own mother had.

  But if the letter he’d received from a girl in Virginia was true, he’d done exactly that. The hairs on John’s neck stood on end as he remembered opening the envelope with Silas’s handwriting on the front. On a single sheet, his friend had written, “This came for you. Godspeed.”

  Along with Silas’s note, John had removed an expensive linen envelope addressed to him in a schoolgirl’s cursive. The address was brief: “Mr. John Leaf, Bitterroot, Wyoming.” Beneath the two lines she had written, “Please forward.” John had peeled off the wax, unfolded a sheet of stationery and started to read.

  Dear Mr. Leaf,

  My name is Susanna Windsor. If you are the same John Leaf who left the Wyoming Territorial Prison in April of 1881, please write to me at my school. I believe I am your daughter.

  Regards.

  John had stared at the words in a fog. The girl had said just enough to scare the daylights out of him without revealing anything about herself. The address she had supplied was for a girls’ academy in Virginia. He’d never been east of the Mississippi and didn’t know a soul who had, at least not someone who could afford a fancy private school. The original postmark was two months old. He figured the envelope had been sitting in the Bitterroot post office for weeks before Silas went to town where the postmaster must have given it to him.

  John had spent a wretched night remembering dozens of women he’d barely known and one he’d almost taken to Oregon. He’d also sat at his desk with his head in his hands, praying that the poor girl had made a mistake. He was obligated to reply to her letter, but who was she?

  He’d gotten his answer the next morning when Justin Norris had delivered a telegram from the girl’s mother.

  We have urgent business. Will arrive in Midas on the California Ltd. on June 3rd. Abigail Windsor nee Moore.

  It had taken him a minute to put the pieces together. The stuffy-sounding Abigail Windsor was Abbie Moore, the girl who had threatened to shoot out his kneecaps, then fed him supper because she’d felt bad about it. They had spent two weeks together, alone on her grandmother’s farm, and nature had taken its course.

  John’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He wanted a drink, but he had consumed his weekly shot of whiskey the previous night in a vain effort to forget about what had happened on their last night together. To his shame, John had ridden off and left Abbie alone to clean up the mess.

  Now that girl was a woman and standing in the doorway of the train, scanning the crowd from beneath the brim of her black bonnet. Needing to greet her but not ready to face the needs of the day, John watched as she pressed her lips into a tight line and scoured the crowd with her eyes. Her chest swelled as she took a breath and then blew it out in irritation. That gesture gave him comfort. She was probably upset with him for not meeting the train. They’d both be better off if she stayed that way, so he rocked back on one heel and waited.

  To his surprise, her eyes locked on someone in the crowd and turned murderous. Following her line of sight, he saw a boy with the gangly posture of adolescence pushing through the throng. The kid had a bigger head of steam than the train and was barreling straight at Emma Dray, the mayor’s daughter and a member of John’s congregation. The matrons in his church had picked this young and pretty woman to be his wife, much to John’s irritation and Emma’s ill
-concealed delight.

  Emma was waving at someone across the platform when the human cannon ball clipped her elbow and knocked her off balance. John had no desire to catch Emma, but what choice did he have? With two quick strides, he came up behind her and clasped her arms until she was steady on her feet.

  When the boy glanced back, John gripped his thin shoulder and hauled him up short. Keeping his voice neutral, he said, “What’s your name, son?”

  “I’m not your son.” When the kid’s voice cracked from bass to soprano, John held in a grin. He remembered those painful days between boyhood and being a man, and this young fellow had a face full of pimples to go with his resistant vocal cords.

  John took the boy’s attitude in stride. He liked bratty kids. Some of them spelled real trouble, but most were either neglected or mad at the world, feelings he understood. Knowing that too much kindness made angry boys even more rebellious, he made his voice as grim as charred wood. “It’s most definitely my business, son. You owe Miss Dray an apology.”

  Emma looked down her nose. “He certainly does. He wrinkled my dress.”

  Leave it to Emma to carp about nonsense. The boy’s conduct needed to be addressed, but any fool could see he’d been cooped up on the train and needed to blow off steam. Ignoring Emma, John said, “So what do you have to say?”

  The boy managed an arrogant scowl. “She’s fat and slow. She should have gotten out of my way.”

  “Well, I never!” huffed Emma.

  “Trust me,” John said pointedly. “In about five years, you won’t think Miss Dray is fat.”

  When a blush stained Emma’s cheeks, John wished he’d been more careful in his choice of words. He’d meant to remind the kid that he was still a boy. Instead John had reminded Emma that he was a man. If he knew her mother, he’d be paying for the slip with unwanted invitations for the next six months.

  Before the boy could reply, the crowd shifted, revealing Abbie hurrying in their direction. She was lugging a satchel with one hand and using the other to hold her skirt above her ankles to allow for her angry stride.

  At the sight of her high-button shoes, John felt his heart kick into double time. If it hadn’t been for another pair of boots, they might never have met. His gaze rose to her face where he saw her high cheekbones and small nose. Her hair was pinned in a stylish coiffure but slightly disheveled, as if it were rebelling against the black hat holding it in place. Her cheeks had flushed to a soft pink, and her eyes were glued to the boy in John’s grip.

  “Robert Alfred Windsor! Don’t you dare take another step!”

  Because of the feathers poking up from Emma’s hat, Abbie hadn’t seen John’s face. She focused on Emma as she dipped her head in apology. “I’m so sorry. We’ve been on the train for twelve days and he’s—”

  John stepped into her line of sight. “Hello, Abbie.”

  “Johnny?”

  “I go by John now,” he said. “Or Reverend.”

  “Reverend?” Her gaze dipped from his face to his clerical collar.

  The only thing John liked better than fighting was shocking people, and Abbie’s gaping mouth said he’d done just that. But her expression also made him aware that time had marked him. His nose had been broken twice, and he had a scar below his right ear. He also had a lump on his jaw from the saloon brawl he’d broken up last night.

  Young Robbie wasn’t the only male who liked to fight. Right or wrong, John enjoyed knocking sense into men who deserved it. Last night that man had been Ed Davies. The fool had lost his pay in a poker game and then gone after the winner with his fists. John had given him a “do unto others” lesson and then stuffed a sawbuck into his pocket so he could take care of his new wife until payday.

  When Abbie realized she was staring, she jerked her gaze away from his. “It really has been a long time.”

  All those years ago, he had heard her voice before he’d seen her face. It had been whiskey-warm and it still was, but her eyes had changed. Instead of a girlish curiosity, her gaze had an edge. Maybe it was worry for her daughter that made her irises flash, or perhaps she, too, was reliving the afternoon they’d met.

  He’d found her sitting in the dirt with a twisted ankle, leaning against a broken wagon wheel and aiming a pistol at his kneecaps from beneath the buckboard.

  “Put your hands over your head and stand where I can see you,” she had ordered.

  With a devilish grin, John had complied, then he’d raked her body with his eyes one glorious inch at a time.

  As the memory of that day hit hard and fast, Judas-down-there began to stir, demanding to know if Abbie’s lips were still as soft as the rest of her. A trickle of sweat ran down John’s back, soaking the white shirt he wore beneath his preacher’s coat. A man couldn’t help his bodily reactions, but he had a choice about what came out of his mouth. Trying to lighten the mood, he fell back on the words he often used when old friends discovered that Johnny Leaf, hot-shot shootist and ladies’ man, had turned into the good Reverend John Leaf.

  With a wry smile, he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”

  “Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.

  Before he could figure out what to say, a delicate cough called his attention to Emma. He had hoped to keep his meeting with Abbie private, but Emma’s presence ensured the entire town would know the details by nightfall.

  Nodding in Abbie’s direction, he made the introductions. “Emma, this is Abigail Windsor. She’s visiting from Washington. You’ve already met her son.”

  Emma’s eyebrows arched. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Windsor.”

  “The pleasure is mine,” Abbie replied with a warm smile. “Please, call me Abigail.”

  Emma had an annoying habit of fluttering her eyelashes and she did it now, looking straight at John. “Mother and I would love to have you all for supper.” Turning to Abbie, she asked, “How long will you be here?”

  John was curious as well.

  “Just a few weeks.” With a dip of her chin, Abbie indicated her mourning clothes. “The Reverend and I have an issue to settle concerning my husband’s estate, and then my son and I will be going home.”

  “Maybe we could plan for Sunday?” Emma said.

  Or maybe next year, John thought, after Emma had found a husband. Shaking his head, he said, “Thanks, but I doubt Abbie is ready to socialize.”

  When Abbie gave a demure smile, Emma excused herself, leaving John and Abbie alone in the crowd. They were both dressed in black and seemed cold to each other, but John wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bed sheets.

  Damn, he needed a smoke. But first he had to get Abbie and her son settled at the Midas Hotel. He was about to suggest they retrieve her baggage when she glanced at Robbie who was watching steam billow from the locomotive. It rose in clouds that dissipated to nothing, a reminder that fires burned themselves out.

  Seeing that her son was distracted, she turned to John. “Do you know why I’m here?”

  “Not exactly.” Keeping his voice level, he stuck to the facts. “Your daughter wrote to me at an old address in Wyoming. A friend forwarded the letter.”

  Abbie blinked to hold back tears. At the same time, she squared her shoulders. “Susanna ran away from home. I know from her best friend that she’s looking for you, but the train ticket she bought went only as far as St. Louis. The detective I hired said you lived in Midas, but he didn’t tell me anything else. I was hoping she’d already arrived.”

  John’s blood turned to ice. “Judging
by the letter, she thinks I’m in Bitterroot. It’s a hellhole.”

  “Dear God,” Abbie gasped. “That must be where she went.”

  The terror in her eyes sent a knife through his gut. Needing to offer comfort but afraid to touch her, he jammed his hands into his pockets and looked for a shred of hope. “Who’s she traveling with?”

  “No one,” Abbie said in a shaking voice. “I’m scared to death for her.”

  John knew how she felt, not because he’d ever been a parent, but because he’d been on the wrong side of the law. Not all men were honorable and neither were all women. “I’ll do everything I can to help,” he said.

  Surprised by the depth of his worry, John sucked in a lungful of air and ended up with train exhaust coating his throat. Abbie’s gaze locked on his face. She had a way of willing people to feel things and John had that sensation now. Was she hoping he’d want to be a father to the girl? God, he hoped not.

  Or maybe she’d assume he’d want to hide his sinful past. Given his calling, that guess was reasonable but miles from the truth. The whole town knew he’d lived on the wrong side of the law. He’d done time in the Wyoming Territorial Prison in Laramie for his part in the Bitterroot range war, and he was still roundly hated, especially by Ben Gantry. As for thieving, whoring, gambling, drinking and other manly what-not, well, what could he say? A long time ago he’d done it all—to the best of his ability and as often as possible.

  Those days were long past, but they had left habits he couldn’t change. He still had an edgy need to see around corners and through walls. It was as much a part of him as a hungry stomach, and he had that need now. Keeping his voice low, he said, “I have to know, Abbie. Is she mine?”