Read Online His Most Wanted by Sandra Jones - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Sandra Jones
Ads: Link
her.
If Cora was Velvet, a suspected killer and the woman heâd been hired to catch, she couldâve already struck down a sheriff and shot at the deputy. He prayed to God she wouldnât kill anyone else. If she did, he would be responsible for allowing it.
To think, only minutes ago heâd held her in his arms, and she couldâve killed him too. Hell, last night heâd even given her his own weapon.
Glancing at the satchel holding Uncle Bartâs ashes, he could almost hear the old man grumbling in his ear again about the company he kept. Cora might be guilty, or she might not, but either way, he respected her cleverness. If he was going to make the old man proud of him from beyond the grave, heâd have to apprehend her and get to the truth.
No matter how much he might hate the answers.
Cora had always taken the best care of her motherâs roses, brought with love from their garden in Jackson when theyâd moved to the Arkansas frontier town. Her mother had spent more hours coaxing the rosebuds to bloom than on her own daughterâs care, though Cora never minded much.
Try as she might, no matter how much she groomed the briars, she never could seem to tame the shrubs into creating the glorious blooms of her childhood memory. For that reason, she adored her few resilient blossoms. The massive hedgerow towered outside her bedroom, an imposing force after dark, keeping cowboys from sneaking looks at her through her bedroom window when they didnât have enough money to pay for her ladies. Sheâd ordered the hidden door installed shortly after her mother passed away, realizing sheâd get little help from the law if there was ever trouble.
Presently, returning through the thorny branches using her velvet cloak as a shield, she found the hidden break in the landscaping, the only place to slip through unhindered to re-enter her bedroom.
Dark now, the roomâs light had perhaps been extinguished by the draft from her secret door. Sheâd only planned on being gone long enough to put the fear of God in Andreaâs attacker and return before the oil in her lantern ran out. Not finding the man in town, sheâd failed on both accounts, and now weariness settled on her shoulders. Her bed would feel wonderful, providing the only solace for her defeated spirit.
In the darkness, she ran her hands along the wall of the building until her fingertips found the joint in the wooden paneling. She pried the loose panel back and grasped the metal handle within. With a hard tug, the door gave way, its hinges slightly squeaking. Once inside, she pulled the door shut and slipped around the wardrobe concealing the entrance. Sighing, she slung her cloak in the direction of her dresser, where it made a satisfying thump on the floor.
She crossed the room without any problems, stopping when her knees bumped the edge of the bed. She paused to unbutton her bodice and had four of the tiny shell buttons undone when she noted the foreign smell in the air.
Leather. Most likely saddle leather, though she couldnât imagine where it came from. She owned nothing of the sort.
Her stomach dipped with alarm. Someone had been in her room, and thatâs why the lantern was out. What if that someone was still in the room?
Wary of every sound she made, she pulled her petticoats up and up until she found her pistol. She closed her fingers over the hilt, but it was too late. The intruderâs hand covered hers on the gun as he came up behind her, his other hand flat against her stomach, drawing her against him. His body was like an iron wall behind her.
âDoesnât that chafe?â Kit Wainwright murmured, his mouth right beside her ear.
âYou! Of all the audacity.â Her heart raced as she felt his fingers examine the leather and lace holster of her tiny pistol before coming back to caress her hand. She touched the trigger. Not in her wildest imagination could she draw fast enough to
If Cora was Velvet, a suspected killer and the woman heâd been hired to catch, she couldâve already struck down a sheriff and shot at the deputy. He prayed to God she wouldnât kill anyone else. If she did, he would be responsible for allowing it.
To think, only minutes ago heâd held her in his arms, and she couldâve killed him too. Hell, last night heâd even given her his own weapon.
Glancing at the satchel holding Uncle Bartâs ashes, he could almost hear the old man grumbling in his ear again about the company he kept. Cora might be guilty, or she might not, but either way, he respected her cleverness. If he was going to make the old man proud of him from beyond the grave, heâd have to apprehend her and get to the truth.
No matter how much he might hate the answers.
Cora had always taken the best care of her motherâs roses, brought with love from their garden in Jackson when theyâd moved to the Arkansas frontier town. Her mother had spent more hours coaxing the rosebuds to bloom than on her own daughterâs care, though Cora never minded much.
Try as she might, no matter how much she groomed the briars, she never could seem to tame the shrubs into creating the glorious blooms of her childhood memory. For that reason, she adored her few resilient blossoms. The massive hedgerow towered outside her bedroom, an imposing force after dark, keeping cowboys from sneaking looks at her through her bedroom window when they didnât have enough money to pay for her ladies. Sheâd ordered the hidden door installed shortly after her mother passed away, realizing sheâd get little help from the law if there was ever trouble.
Presently, returning through the thorny branches using her velvet cloak as a shield, she found the hidden break in the landscaping, the only place to slip through unhindered to re-enter her bedroom.
Dark now, the roomâs light had perhaps been extinguished by the draft from her secret door. Sheâd only planned on being gone long enough to put the fear of God in Andreaâs attacker and return before the oil in her lantern ran out. Not finding the man in town, sheâd failed on both accounts, and now weariness settled on her shoulders. Her bed would feel wonderful, providing the only solace for her defeated spirit.
In the darkness, she ran her hands along the wall of the building until her fingertips found the joint in the wooden paneling. She pried the loose panel back and grasped the metal handle within. With a hard tug, the door gave way, its hinges slightly squeaking. Once inside, she pulled the door shut and slipped around the wardrobe concealing the entrance. Sighing, she slung her cloak in the direction of her dresser, where it made a satisfying thump on the floor.
She crossed the room without any problems, stopping when her knees bumped the edge of the bed. She paused to unbutton her bodice and had four of the tiny shell buttons undone when she noted the foreign smell in the air.
Leather. Most likely saddle leather, though she couldnât imagine where it came from. She owned nothing of the sort.
Her stomach dipped with alarm. Someone had been in her room, and thatâs why the lantern was out. What if that someone was still in the room?
Wary of every sound she made, she pulled her petticoats up and up until she found her pistol. She closed her fingers over the hilt, but it was too late. The intruderâs hand covered hers on the gun as he came up behind her, his other hand flat against her stomach, drawing her against him. His body was like an iron wall behind her.
âDoesnât that chafe?â Kit Wainwright murmured, his mouth right beside her ear.
âYou! Of all the audacity.â Her heart raced as she felt his fingers examine the leather and lace holster of her tiny pistol before coming back to caress her hand. She touched the trigger. Not in her wildest imagination could she draw fast enough to
Similar Books
