The Scarred Beauty’s Lost Hunter (Preview)

Chapter One

Oregon Trail, Wyoming, 1872

“Watch out for those ruts, Kyle,” Jonah said, tugging the reins slightly as they moved down the narrow trail.

Behind him, Gord scoffed. “Who on Earth would name their horse Kyle?”

Jonah sighed. “My sister.”

“She must hate you, then,” Gord mumbled.

Jonah chuckled. In truth, his older sister Winnie adored him. She had named the horse Kyle after the vet who delivered him. His sire was one of the best stallions the family had ever had. And it had been a difficult birth. Kyle Franks, the vet, managed to save both Kyle and the mare, Flora.

Jonah hadn’t argued. What Winnie wanted, he usually gave her. Kyle was no exception.

“I need to stop and water the grass,” Gord complained.

Jonah shook his head. “I don’t see no grass around here.”

“Well, then, I need to water the rocks,” Gord groused. “Come on, Cullen. We ain’t stopped since we left Fort Laramie.”

That much was true. They hadn’t.

Jonah scanned their surroundings. The Oregon Trail stretched out as far as the eye could see in front of them. They navigated the worn, rutted corridor of wagon tracks that were now frozen solid.

The trail was long and treacherous, especially in the winter months. Jonah worried that one of the horses might slip and break a leg. From the ruts and the frozen mud, it looked as though this stretch of the trail was heavily used.

Jonah kept his eyes forward, searching for trouble. Gord followed behind, quiet for a change, with his hands tied and his horse tethered to Jonah’s.

Jonah slowed his horse and swung down, walking back to help Gord.

“You got two minutes,” Jonah said, drawing his gun. “And I’m watching.”

“I knew you were sick,” Gord said, giving him a wink. “Watch all you want. I ain’t shy.”

Jonah sighed and rolled his eyes. He didn’t like having to do this. But he’d been hired by Marshal Dennis Pettigrew to bring Gord in. And that’s what he was going to do.

The job had taken him across states, chasing Gord through countless towns and several rail lines. Gord was a notorious criminal wanted for bank robberies, train heists, and now murder.

His most recent train job had been a fiasco. The train was derailed, leaving ten passengers dead. The wanted posters for Gord were changed from Robbery to Murder, with the highest reward Jonah had ever gone after.

Jonah had tracked him for months, finally catching him in Missouri. Now he was headed north, bound for the Wyoming Territories. It had been a long journey, but he’d be paid for the extra time and trouble, one way or another.

Jonah looked the other way, trying to give Gord some semblance of privacy. But Gord was chatty. He had a habit of filling silence with stories, half-bragging, half-mocking his exploits.

“You know,” Gord said, “I once robbed a bank in Cheyenne with nothing but a stick of dynamite and a smile. The women all batted their eyes and swooned. The men didn’t know what hit ’em.”

Jonah didn’t answer. He kept his eyes on the trail.

“You don’t talk much,” Gord said. “What’s your story, Cullen? You married? Got kids? Or just a lonely man chasing bounties?”

Jonah stayed quiet. He had learned long ago that silence was better than giving men like Gord anything to work with.

Gord laughed. “Fine. Keep your secrets. I’ll just keep talking.”

“You done yet?” Jonah asked.

“Yeah, yeah,” Gord said, doing up his breeches. “I’m done.”

Jonah helped him back onto his horse before he mounted his own. They started off again, back down the lonely trail. Gord was jabbering about some girl in Westport who bragged that she could outdrink any man.

He said a big, burly drifter stepped forward and put a bottle of whiskey in front of her, telling her to put her money where her mouth was. They each laid down five dollars, and the contest began. The drifter ended up on his behind under the table, while the little lady left, sober as a judge and counting her cash.

Jonah was only half-listening. His mind was elsewhere. He thought about what he would do once Gord was handed over. He had been hunting men for years, living on the road, sleeping under the stars or in cheap hotel rooms. It wore on him.

His sisters had been on him to visit for the past two years now. He’d put it off. Visits meant memories, and memories meant pain. It had been six years since the tragedy, and Jonah had chosen solitude ever since. But maybe it was time. Winnie and Dorothy understood. But it still wasn’t right.

The trail suddenly opened into a clearing. Jonah slowed Kyle, scanning the horizon. The air was chilly, and the sun had begun to set. Gord was still talking. He’d moved on to a tale about a man with a blind dog that loved burritos.

“Do you ever shut up?” Jonah sighed.

“You know what I think?” Gord said. “I think you’re scared. Scared of staying in one place too long. Scared of what happens when you ain’t chasing men like me.”

Jonah ignored him. He thought of Winnie, instead. She’d sent him several letters asking him to come home. He thought of his other sister, Dorothy, who had written too, saying the family missed him. He’d folded those letters and tucked them away. They were precious to him.

The horses moved steadily along. Jonah kept his hand near his gun, though Gord was tied and helpless. He had learned never to underestimate a man like Gord, no matter how bound he seemed.

“Marshal Dennis Pettigrew,” Gord muttered. “I hear the man hates me.”

Jonah said nothing.

“You think they’ll hang me?” Gord asked.

Jonah’s jaw tightened. “That’s not my concern.”

Gord laughed again. “Fair enough.”

The trail wound on. Jonah’s thoughts continued to drift. He imagined stepping off the trail, walking into his sisters’ homes, seeing their faces after so long apart. He imagined the questions they would ask, the memories they would stir. He wasn’t sure he was ready, but he reckoned it was time.

Evening fell, and Jonah set up camp, tying Gord to a tree and keeping him close and secure. He built a small fire, cooked some beans, and ate with Gord in silence. Unfortunately, the silence was limited to him.

Gord talked through the whole meal, telling stories about past robberies, women he’d known, and towns he’d passed through. Jonah listened without reply. Eating his beans.

When the fire burned low, Jonah lay back and stared up at the stars. Like every night when he closed his eyes, his mind recalled the tragedy six years ago that had driven him to solitude. He didn’t speak of it, not to anyone. But it lingered inside him, shaping every decision he made.

When morning came, Jonah stamped out the fire and saddled Kyle and Ghost, Gord’s horse. He checked Gord’s ties, gave him some honey hoe cakes, and they set off again.

The trail looked longer than ever, the temperature changing the further north they went. Gord kept talking, but Jonah’s mind stayed on the road.

By midday, they crossed a half-frozen stream. Jonah guided Kyle carefully as he led the horse through. Gord cursed as his horse stumbled, but Jonah managed to keep them moving.

“You’re not too bad for a lawman,” Gord said later. “Guess Kyle’s not as bad as I thought, either.”

Jonah didn’t answer.

The days passed. Jonah stayed on the trail, stopping only when needed. Gord talked, Jonah stayed quiet. His thoughts stayed on the future. He imagined laying down his gun for a while, resting, seeing his family and sleeping in a soft bed.

One evening, as the sun set red over the horizon, Gord spoke softly. “You ever think about what happens after this? After you drop me off? You’ll get paid, sure. But then what?”

Jonah looked at him. “Yeah, I’ve thought about it.”

“And?” Gord pressed.

Jonah didn’t answer. He turned back to the trail.

The silence stretched. Gord finally chuckled. “You’re a hard man to crack.”

Jonah kept riding.

Everything seemed fine, but for some reason, Jonah felt unsettled. He called it a gut-feeling. And over the years, he’d learned to trust that feeling.

He turned in the saddle, checking on Gord. The chatty outlaw was slumped forward, still tied to his horse, which was still tethered to Jonah’s. He looked like he was sleeping, his head bent low and his chin resting on his chest.

Jonah studied the ropes, making sure they were tight. He tugged once, satisfied, then faced forward again.

The trail looked the same, but the sky was changing fast. Dark clouds gathered overhead. He smelled snow in the air, and it was charged with electricity. The temperature was dropping fast. Jonah pulled his hat lower, trying not to worry. But he stayed alert, just in case.

Jonah drew his coat tighter around him. He had seen his share of storms like this. They came on fast, violent and unforgiving. He didn’t want to get caught out here in the middle of a Wyoming blizzard.

The snowflakes fell, mixed with sleet and rain. The pellets were cold against Jonah’s face. Then, the sky opened up, and the rain came down hard. Sheets of frozen rain pounded the ground. Lightning split the sky, bright and crackling. Thunder rolled, shaking the earth beneath them.

Jonah steadied Kyle, guiding him through the mess. Gord woke up, cursing, but the ropes held him firm. Jonah kept his eyes forward, scanning the trail.

Before he could blink, riders appeared on either side of him. A group, riding in fast and sudden, swarming him on both sides. Hooves thundered louder than the storm. Jonah’s hand went to his gun, but the rain blurred his vision.

In the distance, through the chaos, Jonah saw a coach headed their way. It lurched on the muddy road, wheels slipping, horses panicked. Lightning struck nearby, the flash blinding. The coach tilted, nearly overturning. The driver shouted to regain control.

Jonah tried to focus, but the riders closed in. One slammed into him, knocking him sideways. Kyle reared, fighting the press of bodies. Jonah gripped the saddle, but another blow came. He flew off his horse and hit the ground hard. Pain shot through him, his breath knocked out.

The rain and sleet hammered down, soaking him. He blinked, trying to see. Through the blur, he made out hands working to untie Gord’s ropes. It was a rescue. But how’d they find him?

Jonah pushed up, but a shadow loomed over him. A man stepped on his chest, a gun in hand. Jonah thought his number was up. But instead of a bullet, the man brought down the butt of his gun right across Jonah’s head.

Jonah felt the crack reverberate through his skull.

Then, everything went black.

When Jonah’s eyes blinked open, time had lost all meaning. He wasn’t sure if minutes or hours had passed. His body felt heavy, his head pounding.

When he stirred, the storm was still raging, and rain was still beating against him, cold and relentless. He tried to move, but his legs felt weak. His vision blurred, shapes shifting in the distance.

“Are you alright?” he heard someone say.

A gray-haired man with a long, bushy beard and unkempt hair stood over him. Jonah blinked at him.

“That was quite a knock you took to your noggin. Can you stand up?”

“I don’t know,” he replied through gritted teeth.

He lay a bit longer in the mud, rain soaking through his clothes. Then, he forced himself up.

“Come on,” the old man said. “We’ll give you a ride into town.”

“Did you see which way those men went?” Jonah asked, his thoughts focused on recovering his prisoner.

“Well,” the old man said as he scratched his head and looked around. “They kinda scattered. But looked like they was heading west.”

Jonah nodded, then grimaced. He could swear his brain was sloshing around in his head.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet, looking down the trail at the coach. “You say you’ll give me a ride back to town?”

The old man nodded. “Sure will. If we can get that wheel fixed. Come on. You can sit in the dry coach while you wait.”

Jonah made his way toward the coach, already counting on a couple of days of bed rest before he could go after Gord again. But that was okay.

He had a fairly good idea where he was headed.

Chapter Two

Silver Hollow, Wyoming Territory, 1872

“Don’t forget to board up the windows in the barn,” Agatha shouted from the bar.

“I’m going there now to do just that,” Evelyn replied, rolling her eyes.

Agatha was a might bossy, but Evelyn supposed she was entitled. She was, after all, her aunt. With only ten years separating them, though, most people thought they were sisters. They certainly felt like it sometimes.

Evelyn’s father, Clive, had pretty much raised them both after her grandparents died, so it wasn’t unimaginable. And Evelyn was only been thirteen when her parents passed away. Agatha had stepped in without hesitation, filling the role of mother as best she could.

Evelyn was grateful for her aunt, especially now.

The town of Silver Hollow was scrambling to prepare for the approaching storm. Farmers with years of experience said it was winding up to be terrible—thundersnow, and maybe even tornadoes.

At the Silver Lantern Inn, Evelyn and Agatha worked quickly, boarding up windows, securing outbuildings, and fortifying doors. The inn was full, not only with travelers passing through, but also with townsfolk who feared their homes wouldn’t be able to withstand the coming weather.

The whole inn buzzed with activity. Evelyn moved through the rooms, checking on guests, offering calm and soothing words. She had always been cheerful by nature, even when things looked grim. She loved the inn, loved the way it brought people together.

And tonight, it was more than just a business—it was a refuge. A safe harbor in the storm.

Emma was in the kitchen, stirring a massive pot of stew. It smelled delicious. Evelyn told everyone she met that Emma was the best cook in the county. Maybe even the whole state. They were just lucky to have her there at the inn, cooking for their guests. A lot of folks came just to eat Emma’s cooking.

“How’s it going, Emma? Need any help?” she asked.

Emma smiled. “No. I reckon I have enough stew here to feed the whole blooming town,” she said, wiping her brow. “At your expense, of course.”

Evelyn smiled. “We’ll manage. Folks need it.”

Agatha walked by, muttering something about how to run a business, but Evelyn just smiled. She knew her aunt agreed. They had decided together to feed and shelter their neighbors. Money could be earned again. Trust and goodwill mattered more.

In the dining room, several townspeople gathered. Mr. Harlan, the blacksmith, sat near the fire, his hands rough and scarred. He spoke in a low voice about the storm, saying he hadn’t seen clouds like these in years. His wife, Martha, sat beside him, knitting calmly, though her eyes betrayed worry.

Near the window, young Clara Jennings bounced her baby on her knee. Her husband was out with the militia, helping secure the town. Clara’s face was pale and pinched with worry. But she smiled at Evelyn when she passed. “Thank you for letting us stay here with you,” she said.

“Of course,” Evelyn replied. “You’re safe here, Clara.” Evelyn smiled and reached out to stroke the baby’s cheek. “How about a bowl of stew? That might knock the chill right out of you.”

Clara smiled. “Thanks, Evelyn. If Emma made it, I’m sure it’s delicious.”

At another table, old Mr. Whitaker sat, telling stories to a group of children. His voice was raspy, but the children listened, wide-eyed and hanging on every word. Evelyn paused, watching them. She loved seeing the inn so alive like this, even in a storm.

Suddenly, the door flung open, letting in a blast of cold air. Sheriff Tomlin stepped inside, shaking snow from his coat. Several of his deputies followed. “It’s coming fast, folks,” he said, turning to look at Agatha. “Best everyone stays put.”

Agatha nodded. “That’s fine. We’re ready.”

Evelyn hurried to help him hang his coat. “Have a seat, Sheriff, and I’ll bring you and the men some stew,” she said.

Tomlin gave her a tired smile. “That sounds really good.”

“It is,” Agatha said. “But I’ll be bringing it instead. This one here has a barn to see to.”

Evelyn grinned. “Yeah, yeah. I’m going now.”

Outside, the storm pressed closer. The wind howled and rattled shutters. Evelyn slogged her way to the barn and ducked inside, tugging her braid forward over her shoulder as if to hide the small burn scar near her left ear. It was a habit born of self-consciousness.

“My goodness,” she said to the horses. “You best be glad you’re not out there.”

She paused long enough to pet and stroke a few of the horses, making sure they had enough hay. Then, she gave them each some grain and oats to hold them through the night.

When she finished, she hurried through, checking all the boards again, making sure they were still holding. She felt calm, but her stomach was a bit unsettled.

She had the unpleasant feeling that something bad was going to happen. And she had learned long ago not to ignore those kinds of feelings. She’d have to keep up her guard tonight and be prepared for anything.

Once she’d finished battening down the barn, she returned to the kitchen, where Emma had ladled hot stew into several bowls. The smell filled the inn, making Evelyn’s stomach growl.

“Don’t forget to save some of that for me,” she told Emma.

Emma looked at her and pursed her lips. “And how many times have I ever let you or Agatha go hungry?”

Evelyn paused, pretending to think. “Well, there was that one time when the captain and his sailors came in and you—”

“One time!” Emma said, placing her hand on her hip. “Just one time and you’ll never let me forget it.”

Evelyn laughed, placing the bowls on a tray and carrying them out to the tables. She served the guests with a cheerful smile and a few friendly words. “Eat up,” she told them. “Best stew in the country.”

The townsfolk ate gratefully. Conversation rose, steady and comforting. Evelyn listened as she worked.

Mr. Harlan, the owner of the blacksmith shop and livery, spoke of the forge, saying he hoped it would stand through the storm. Martha reminded him that, unlike her produce stand, his iron would probably stand up to the elements. He chuckled, admitting she was right.

Mr. Whitaker, the town’s undertaker, told another tale about a storm from his youth. As usual, it was a bit too maudlin for her taste. But she smiled anyway, setting a bowl of stew in front of him.

“Agatha will come around with some bread in a minute,” she told him.

“You’re a saint, young lady,” he replied. “You and Agatha both.”

Once Evelyn had served all the stew, she turned to see Agatha bustling around the dining room with Emma’s fresh-baked bread. She could hear Agatha speaking to the guests, her voice brisk, and her manner firm. But she made sure every family received a loaf of bread.

That was just how Agatha was, not much for idle chit-chat. She reminded people to stay away from the windows tonight and to keep any children close. Evelyn smiled at her aunt’s ways. Bossy and abrupt, yes, but caring too.

Evelyn set the empty tray on the bar. “Emma, can you refill this?” she asked.

“Sure.” Emma nodded, already reaching for the tray.

Before Evelyn could turn back to the dining room, a thundering knock rattled the front door. The sound echoed through the inn, sharp and sudden.

The guests gasped, voices rising in concern. Chairs scraped, children clutched their mothers. Evelyn froze for a moment, her heart quickening. Agatha shifted first. She strode to the door, her face set, and pulled it open.

A rush of cold air swept inside, followed by a large group of men and women. They crowded the doorway, soaked clean through, and their clothes clinging to them. Some were bleeding, streaks of red mixing with rainwater.

Two of the men carried an unconscious fella between them. His head hung low, and his body lay limp.

Agatha stepped aside quickly. “Come in, all of you,” she said.

The group stumbled inside, dripping snow and water onto the floor. The men carrying the unconscious one laid him gently on a bench. One spoke, his voice rough. “Our coach got stuck in the storm. One of the wheels gave out, and we had a bit of a crash. We found this man lying in the road. Looks like he had a run-in with some riders.”

An old man nodded, his face pale. “Poor fella was alone. Those bandits attacked him. We couldn’t leave him there.”

Evelyn stepped closer, scanning the injured man. He was tall and broad-shouldered, and dressed nice enough, if you didn’t count the torn shirt. Or the fact that he was covered in blood, dirt, and grime. And drenched to the bone.

His long, dark hair was soaked and stuck to his face. His stubbled cheeks were bleeding from several small cuts, and his face was bruised. He had a deep gash above his right temple that would definitely need stitches.

Someone had clobbered him good. But even dirty, beaten, and unconscious, his rugged handsomeness drew her to him.

She scolded herself for even considering the man’s looks at a time like this. Her focus should be on the man’s injuries. On tending to him and helping him heal. And besides, he’d never be interested in a girl like her, not with her scars.

Evelyn pushed back a pang of worry and kept her voice calm. “You did right bringing him here.”

Agatha took charge at once. “Alan,” she called. The burly man rose from his seat near the fire and walked over to them. Alan had worked for them as a ranch hand, dining room busser, and all-around handyman. His duties stretched to security, when needed, keeping order and peace at the inn.

“Take him upstairs,” Agatha ordered. “Lay him in the spare room and stay with him. We’ll send Emma up with hot water and bandages.”

Alan nodded, lifting the man with ease. He carried him toward the stairs, the two travelers following to help.

Agatha turned to the rest of the group. “You’re welcome to stay here until the storm breaks. We have food and drink and warm beds to sleep in.”

“Bless you, ma’am,” one of the men told her.

Agatha turned to look at her. “Evelyn, run and get them blankets. Those who aren’t injured could probably use some stew.”

“I’ll handle it,” Evelyn said, hurrying to the storage chest in the maintenance room and pulling out several wool blankets. She returned to the dining room and handed them to the soaked travelers, smiling and speaking kindly to everyone. “There you go. Wrap up. You’ll warm faster.”

Once she’d passed out all the blankets, she hurried to the kitchen and spooned out several more bowls of Emma’s stew. Then, Evelyn carried them to the newcomers, placing each bowl carefully on the table in front of them and promising to return soon with bread.

Once the new group had been fed and given refreshments, Evelyn leaned against the bar and looked out over the dining room. Thank goodness Agatha’s friend, Dr. Shepherd, had been among the guests when the storm-struck travelers arrived. Though that wasn’t unusual. He was usually there when he wasn’t treating patients.

Without waiting to be asked, he moved quickly through the room, examining cuts and bruises, checking pulses, and giving instructions. His manner was kind and gentle, and people seemed reassured by his presence.

When he finished tending to those in the common room, he turned to Agatha. “Their wounds are all superficial. I’ll head upstairs now and see to the unconscious man. He needs looking after.”

Agatha nodded. “Evelyn, go with him. He may need some help.”

Evelyn agreed, though a nervous feeling stirred in her stomach. She wasn’t sure why. She’d seen injured men before. Still, something about this one unsettled her.

She followed Dr. Shepherd toward the stairs with her eyes trained on the cracked leather bag that swung at his side.

“You seem nervous,” he said as they climbed. “You’ve helped me before. You make a mighty fine nurse if memory serves.”

“Thank you.” Evelyn gave a small smile. “I’ll do what I can to help.”

He glanced at her. “You and your aunt make such a difference to this town. I don’t know what we’d do without y’all.”

Evelyn reached out and touched his arm. “I appreciate you saying that. Hopefully, we aren’t going anywhere.”

Dr. Shepherd chuckled. “See that you don’t. I need you right where you are.”

“I think I can manage that,” Evelyn said with a grin.

“Good,” he replied. “That’s all I ask. And Emma’s cooking.”

Evelyn laughed. “You don’t ask for much.”

They reached the landing. The storm rattled the shutters, wind whistling through the cracks. Evelyn’s hand brushed the railing, preparing herself for what came next.

Dr. Shepherd pushed open the door to the spare room. Alan had laid the man on the bed and covered him with a blanket. The stranger’s face was pale, his hair still damp from rain. Evelyn’s eyes lingered on him.

His features were strong, handsome even in his moment of weakness. She felt her stomach tighten, and she quickly looked away.

Dr. Shepherd set his bag on the table and opened it. “Maybe you could fetch a towel?”

“Of course,” she said, leaving the room.

She hurried down the hall to the linen closet, pulled out an armful of towels, and then rushed back to the spare room.

Dr. Shepherd was still rummaging in his bag, pulling out bottles, cloths and instruments, and arranging them in neat rows on the bed. Sarah blinked, swallowing a knot in her throat. Was he planning to do surgery? Here?

Dr. Shepherd’s voice was calm and full of authority when he said, “We need to know who he is. Check his pockets for identification.”

Evelyn’s eyes widened. “Me?”

“Yes, you,” he snapped, already busy with his tools, examining the gash in the man’s head. “See if he carries any papers or a wallet. Anything that might tell us who he is.”

Evelyn drew in a deep breath, then stepped closer to the bed. Her fingers trembled slightly as she reached into the man’s coat pocket. She found nothing but damp fabric. Then, she moved to the other coat pocket.

She pulled out a handful of items: a few dollar bills, some change, a jar of chewing tobacco, and a couple of photos. She looked closer at the photos. Two women, both very beautiful. As she suspected, the man was too handsome to settle for one woman. He probably had a box of these at home.

She dropped the photos on the bed with the other things, then switched to the man’s trousers. She swallowed hard, sliding her hand carefully inside his front left pocket.

Her breath caught. She felt the outline of something—perhaps a folded paper. She was just pulling it free when the man’s eyes flew open.

Evelyn gasped, her hand freezing in his pocket. His gaze held her in place. His icy blue eyes cut right through her. He raised his brows and sucked in a deep breath.

“What are you doing?” he said, his voice deep and rumbly.

Dr. Shepherd turned at once, stepping closer to the bedside. “Easy now,” he said firmly. “You’re safe. You’re at the Silver Lantern Inn.”

Evelyn stood with her hand in his pocket, the paper still between her fingers. Her heart pounded. She had no words, only the shock of seeing those eyes open when she least expected it.

She couldn’t decide if she should pull out the paper or leave it where it was.

Chapter Three

“You going to stand there all night with your hand in my pants?” Jonah asked Evelyn. His voice sounded gruff, even to him.

“I’m so sorry,” she squeaked, pulling her hand from his pocket. With it, she pulled out Gord’s latest wanted poster.

The man beside her straightened, his tone protective. “I’m Dr. Shepherd,” he said. “This is Evelyn. I asked her to check you for identification. I’d like to know who it is I’m treating.”

Jonah frowned but said nothing. His head throbbed, the pain sharp and unrelenting. That did nothing to improve his mood. He’d lost his prisoner and any reward that went along with him, got conked on the head, and awakened from the best dream he’d had in years.

Just moments before, he’d been dreaming that he was back in the fields of his childhood, running wild with his sisters. Their laughter carried through the tall grass.

He saw his father up ahead on horseback, calling him to ride. He saw his mother spreading a blanket for a picnic, her smile warm and loving. “Jonah,” she called, and he wanted to run to her desperately.

He’d missed her ever since the awful day she was taken from him. But in the dream, she was there with his father, both reaching out, both calling him home.

He’d been running to them when a pain in his head stabbed him hard and jolted him awake.

Through unfocused eyes, Jonah saw a man towering over him, fussing with his head. On the other side, he saw what looked an awful lot like an angel digging around in his pocket. The sight was confusing, to say the least.

He blinked, trying to clear his vision. It wasn’t an angel, after all. It was a young woman. Her chestnut-colored hair swung free in a long braid beside her face as she bent over him, her hand squirming in his pocket.

Her hazel eyes caught the lamplight, bright and beautiful. Her skin was tanned and healthy, and she looked like someone who was used to hard work. She was trim and fit, and Jonah felt a pull toward her that he hadn’t expected.

For a moment, he thought he must still be dreaming. Angels weren’t supposed to smell like anything, as far as he knew. But she did. Wildflowers. She smelled like wildflowers.

Jonah shifted slightly, groaning at the pain in his skull. The doctor leaned closer, checking his wound. “You’ve taken a hard hit on your head,” he said. “I’m just about done stitching you up. Best you stay still.”

Jonah’s eyes stayed on the woman. She looked nervous, clutching the poster in her hand. He wanted to ask her name again, but it hurt to speak. What was it? Edith? Ellie? Evelyn? That was it. Evelyn.

The doctor turned to her. “He’ll need rest. Keep the lamp low. I’ll send up more water and bandages.”

She nodded quickly, her braid swinging as she moved to set the paper on the table. Jonah watched her, his mind clouded but his focus clear. He had seen many faces in his years on the trail, but none had struck him like hers.

The doctor left, and Jonah’s gaze lingered on Evelyn. She seemed to sense it and quickly turned her head, letting her braid fall across the left side of her face.

He wondered at her sudden change, catching a glimpse of pale, uneven skin near her ear—a patch of burn scars she was trying to hide. Understanding flickered in his mind, and he looked away, not wanting to make her uncomfortable, but the image stayed with him, making him sad.

He closed his eyes briefly, breathing in the faint scent of wildflowers. Pain pressed at his temples, but beneath it was something else—an awareness he hadn’t felt for years.

Jonah opened his eyes again and saw that Evelyn had moved to the other side of his bed now. She was wetting a cloth and dabbing it near his wound. He could feel her breath on his face, and he studied her quietly, saying nothing. But inside, he knew this moment would stay with him.

“Here,” Evelyn said softly as she held a spoon to his lips. “Doc said I should give you this.”

Jonah opened his mouth, swallowing the bitter liquid. He made a face at the taste but said nothing.

Evelyn bit back a smile. “Sorry,” she said. “I’ll get you some water to wash it down.

His eyes followed her as she hustled about the room, washing her hands, pouring him a cup of water, and washing and dressing his cuts. She didn’t speak much. He liked that.

“Jonah,” he said suddenly. “My name. Jonah Taylor.”

Evelyn looked at him and blinked. “Well, Jonah Taylor. Relax, and I’ll take care of you.”

Her words settled over him like a balm. His eyes closed, and he drifted back to sleep.

The next day passed in fragments. Jonah slipped in and out of consciousness, never fully awake, never fully gone. But each time he opened his eyes, Evelyn was there.

She fed him broth, wiped his brow, and changed his bandages. Her presence comforted him. He felt vulnerable, more than he liked, but he felt better with her near.

When he woke again on the second day, the light in the room told him it was morning. Snow fell heavily outside, falling in sheets outside the window. The storm had not let up.

He turned his head and saw Evelyn in a chair beside him. She was asleep. Her braid had come loose and fell in soft waves across her shoulders. Her face was soft and peaceful in rest. She must have been exhausted, tending to him all night.

Jonah studied her quietly. He was taken by her beauty all over again, grateful for the chance to look without fear of offending her.

He thought again about how he’d mistaken her for an angel. He didn’t think he’d been far off. She might always be an angel to him.

Moments later, she stirred. Her eyes opened, sleepy and warm, and when she saw him awake, she smiled.

“What happened?” Jonah asked, his voice rough.

Evelyn leaned forward and stretched. “Well, you were injured pretty bad. They said some riders attacked you. The coachmen found you on the road and brought you here. You’ve been out for two days.”

Jonah frowned, trying to piece together the memory. He recalled the storm, the riders, and the blow to his head. But he didn’t remember much about coming here.

“Where am I?” he asked.

“You’re at the Silver Lantern Inn in Wyoming,” she said, leaning up to check his bandage.

“I need to get up,” he said.

“No, you need to rest,” Evelyn said firmly. “Doc says it’s going to take time for your head to heal.”

Jonah sighed. He had to go. He needed to find Gord. Again. Pettigrew was waiting for Jonah to deliver the outlaw after he’d telegraphed ahead that they were almost there.

“What happened to my prisoner?”

Evelyn frowned. “Your prisoner?”

“Yeah,” Jonah said, glancing around for the paper she’d pulled out of his pocket. He found it on the table beside him. He unfolded it and handed it to Evelyn. “This fella.”

Evelyn looked at the poster. Jonah had memorized it. Wanted for Robbery and Murder, Gord Thorne. The poster reflected that the reward for Gord was listed as one thousand dollars. His likeness on the poster was uncanny. His tousled hair and scraggly beard, right down to the scar that ran through his brow and down his cheek, were all captured perfectly.

Evelyn gasped and put her hand over her mouth. “No one said anything about him,” she explained. “The coach driver only told us that you were beaten by a group of riders.”

“A group of riders who were set out to rescue my prisoner,” he scoffed. “I’m a bounty hunter. I was bringing him in all the way from Missouri.”

“I’m so sorry.” Evelyn shook her head. “If we’d known, we could have told the sheriff. He was here when you arrived.”

“It’s fine. Gord’s slippery. And his gang won’t hesitate to kill. I’d hate to see your sheriff come to harm. I’ll catch him myself. I just need to get out of here.”

“Again, I’m sorry,” Evelyn told him. “But you’re not going anywhere for a while. Doc asked me to keep an eye on you till he gets back. And I’m not to let you leave the inn.”

Jonah narrowed his eyes. She was a right feisty little thing. He could tell from her posture that she had no intention of letting him get out of this bed.

Jonah paused, lifting the sheet and looking down at himself. He was nearly naked. He lowered the blankets and looked at her accusingly. “Where are my clothes?”

Evelyn blushed bright red. “Doc took them off you yesterday, so you’d rest easier. Agatha, my aunt, washed them for you. I’ll make sure you get them back.”

Jonah tried not to grin at her discomfort. “Please see that you do,” he replied.

“I will. But you don’t need them right now. You need at least a couple more days in bed,” she said firmly. “But I’ll bring them as soon as they’re dry.”

The situation was aggravating, but he knew Evelyn was right. His body ached, his head throbbed, and he was weak as a kitten.

“I’ll go fetch you fresh water and some breakfast,” she said, standing up from the chair. “I’ll be right back.”

Jonah watched her pick up the water pitcher and walk to the door. Her steps were quiet and graceful, despite her exhaustion. He closed his eyes again, listening to the sound of her leaving.

Alone in the room, Jonah thought of how close he’d come to death. Again. His sisters would be so mad at him if he died. But he’d chosen this life and the long road that had led him here. To Evelyn.

He barely knew her. But he knew in his gut that, somehow, this woman was important. He just didn’t know why yet.

He breathed out slowly, letting the thought settle. Whatever came next, he knew that he owed her.