Hoping to Fill her Heart’s Void (Preview)


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Chapter One

“Gee up, there, Jack! No slackin’ off now. We’re almost there!” Although Christina Bridges carried a leather whip in its attached sheath next to her knee, her expert handling of the reins usually convinced both leader and wheeler horses that she knew what she was doing, and no crack of a lash overhead was necessary.

“Never will understand how’s come you had to go and name some dang hawse after me,” grumbled the man beside her on the high driver’s seat, where he had been half-dozing along an easy stretch of road. “It ain’t hardly fitten.”

Christina flung her shotgun companion a fond, amused glance. “Why, I see that as a compliment, Jack. He even kinda looks like you, don’t he? One eye half-closed and always sneerin’ at the world, and a face fulla whiskers, to boot. Fact is, that half-broke Appaloosa mustang was already named before I added him to the team, so I can’t do nothin’ about it.”

“Sure you can. Change the cayuse’s moniker.”

“Now, Jack. We don’t have to deal with him that often, just a few hours a week. Somethin’ tells me you’ll manage to survive. Plus, I like havin’ at least one team all matchin’—Jack, Barney, Chico, and Max. I worked real hard keepin’ these four together. But Jack will always be my favorite.” She gave him a gamine grin.

His only response to this was a snort. Jack Abrams, a bewhiskered, scruffy man who proudly wore the battered Stetson that was marked by a bullet hole in its brim, had worked for her father for donkey’s years in the freight-hauling, mail-carrying, passenger-transporting business via stage. After the death of Sherman Bridges four years ago, Christina had inherited not only the big shiny red Overland coach but also the guardianship of its fiercely protective only employee and second-in-command.

Her routes comprised a good deal of the Hill Country in Texas, beginning at the way station in

Austin and orbiting a huge circle, which included the towns and villages of Heywood, Casper, Arroyo, Coyote Wells, Levington, Benton, Kettlehook, Zephyr Knoll, Rio Verde, Two Passes (in which she claimed residence), and others of assorted populations.

It was the route her father had followed, providing a lifeline to settlers for supplies and mail, conveying travelers from one destination to another, shuttling goods and services to those who needed them, linking settlement to settlement in a day when the construction of railways could not keep up with the movement of sugar-footed, restless pioneers to all parts of the West.

Why break with tradition?

The itinerary had been established some years ago, with enough variety of stops, sights, and mankind—and even, occasionally, the whiff of danger—to keep the work interesting.

“You shore got a light hand on them reins, missy,” the human Jack offered, in what was, for him, a rare compliment.

Between them, in his accustomed place, sat a medium-sized pooch of no determinate breed, watching the scenery with alert brown eyes. Several years ago, Christina had investigated the source of a dog fight in a back alley near her house, only to discover a small, shivering, ragtag puppy being bullied and beaten by a vicious pack of strays.

Wading into the fray with a hoe in hand, she had rescued the pup and whisked him away to safety.

Since then, he had been her steady traveling companion, just as ready as Jack to champion her every move. Fiercely loyal and loving, Red, named for the mahogany color of his coat, literally dogged her footsteps, provided the sort of soulful support many despaired of ever finding, bared his fangs at any chance interloper, and warmed her toes on frosty nights.

The unlikely trio had racked up countless miles during their years of travel. Long might it continue!

“Huh.” Jouncing comfortably along, swaying with the movement of the coach, he eyed her curiously. “You ever feel any regrets about not havin’ a normal life, Kit?”

She shot him a frown in return. “What makes you think my life ain’t normal?”

“Aw, c’mon, girl. For one thing, lookit the way you’re dressed.”

The frown deepened as she considered her costume—one which deviated little, day to day, from what she was wearing right now.

Nice floppy-brimmed straw sombrero, pulled down over her ears and hair and tied by a cord running under her chin. Loose and practical checked flannel shirt. Plain bandanna—today’s choice: blue—draped around her collarbones. Leather vest comprised mostly of pockets and more pockets. Heavy work gloves. Boy-sized dungarees made of durable denim and rivets. Cowhide boots, once upon a time embossed with some intricate design now partially scuffed away.

“Yeah?” she challenged, after taking her inventory. “What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”

With a sigh, Jack pulled out a small bag of tobacco and the paper for makin’s, built his own cigarette, and lit the tip with one strike of a match. “Didn’t you ever wanna put on a pretty dress,” he said in his whiny, sing-songy drawl, “do up your hair, and go trottin’ off to a dance somewheres with some likely young buck?”

Blushing, Christina turned her attention back to the team of four as they rounded one of the sandstone cliffs so prevalent in this area. Was old Jack somehow reading her mind?

The flash of memory can come and go in an instant, even while the memory itself might encompass weeks or months of real duration. This one still burned three years after the actual event.

Ray Golden, that was his name. A charming, mature twenty-five to her mere eighteen, and happy to take advantage of a smitten teenager with no experience at all in the arena of romance. For a long, painful moment, she returned to that brief interval, shivering a little now at the realization of what a naïve, besotted fool she had been.

From that, she had learned a valuable lesson: Love hurts; so never trust the opposite sex when it came to romance.

“You know goldarn well why I dress the way I do,” she finally retorted. “What’m I s’posed to do, hitch and unhitch the team in my fancy high heels? Hike myself up into the driver’s box sashayin’ hoop skirts around?”

“Oh, tarnation, Kit, o’ course not. Natcherly you can’t drive the coach all gussied up. But what about when you ain’t drivin’? Couldn’tcha look a little more girly then?”

“Ain’t got no call to,” Christina said shortly. Taking her frustrations out with a snap of the whip would hardly be fair; she merely set her teeth instead and tried to ignore the unusual comments being spewed forth by her companion. “Dunno what’s the point. So stop jawin’ at me.”

“Jawin’!” repeated Jack, seemingly indignant. “Why I ain’t never but had your welfare at heart, young lady. And you’re gettin’ far too old to be traipsin’ around all the time like you are. Why, your papa would just roll over in his grave, could he but see you now.”

Christina’s mouth, framed by full soft lips the color of a ripe peach, tightened. “Papa was the one who brought me up this way, Jack. Now, you leave him oughta this.”

The shotgun guard wilted, as he always did when confronted by his employer’s irritated determination. “Aw, honey, you know dadgum well I only worry about you. Pretty as a picture, you are, and you oughta have better things ahead of you than dressin’ up like some raggle-taggle boy and hangin’ round smelly old hawses and raunchy saloons.”

The girl gave a snort of her own. Horses and saloons, indeed! Now, though, a few tendrils of hair tucked under her hat earlier had come tumbling down, annoying and in her way.

“Here, take the reins a minute, if you would.”

Handing over control, she yanked off the sombrero to untie and re-bundle a cascade of hair. Hair to be admired, it was, of thick and curly disposition and the warm streaky color of a butterscotch candy left out in the sun. As long as the strands were clean and behaving, Christina had little thought as to any kind of flattering coiffure. Most often, as now, she simply fastened everything together to fit once more into the crown of her hat.

“There. Thanks, Jack. What got you goin’ on that subject, anyway?”

“Oh, I dunno. Just mullin’ over the fact that you ain’t gettin’ any younger, and the bloom is soon gonna be off the rose. And thinkin’ about there’s plenty’a good-lookin’ fellers in every town we pass through that don’t know what they’re missin’.”

Christina laughed. “Why, you sweet-talkin’ ole thing, you. I’m surprised you never got hitched your own self, Jack Abrams. Must be lotsa females would fall right into your arms, hearin’ you go on the way you do.”

Shifting his square shoulders, as he always did when he was feeling uncomfortable, Jack shrugged. “Don’t think I ain’t had my chances, missy. Anyways, here’s you. You’re pert, and you’re purty—”

“Oh, I know. With my big china-blue eyes and my golden complexion and my heart-shaped face,” she scoffed, attention directed to her rambunctious team and the road ahead. Chuckling, she reached over to pat the dog’s head, as if he had been feeling neglected. “What man in his right mind could resist me?”

“Now, there you go again. May’s well never say a serious word to you.” Disgruntled, Jack hunched down and forward until he appeared to be the relative of some giant tortoise, stubble and all.

Leaving Christina to ponder parts of this amazing conversation, none of which she had ever thought would be initiated by her partner in crime. Mentally, she listed and ticked off the pros and cons of her current lifestyle.

Pro: she loved it. Although every run involved a schedule, a certain departure and arrival time, she could be independent, outdoors, working with horses and humans—most of whom she appreciated. Her base of operations, in Two Passes, was centrally located, and, thanks to her father’s foresight, she owned not only the red Overland with its bright yellow wheels but also the spacious stable in which to store it. Another plus was that Jack lived in the same town, conveniently close to the establishment.

Pro: masculine garments were a fact of life. For one thing, as she had already explained to Jack, practical mode in dealing with the tools of her trade was an absolute necessity. Also—although she had not explained this and was uncertain whether he had taken it into consideration—the togs could sometimes act like armor. She had gotten into, and out of, a few scrapes simply by her assumption of male demeanor. Rough rowdies with whom she often came into contact left her alone, whereas them being aware of her true sex would have caused foreseeable problems.

Pro: she had been trained by the best—her father—since the tender age of fourteen. If he had voiced no criticism of her boy’s apparel and mannerisms, why should anyone else? Sherman had given her all the love in his heart and all the material goods he could afford. He had provided her with the best education possible in these parts, other than sending her away to some boarding school. What more could there have been?

Con: no real chance to settle down in one place. Currently, that was fine; the house in Two Passes, which she had inherited, provided a bedroom and a kitchen, and she and Red had little use for more. There was no exact plan for the future, no particular direction which she wanted to take. However, she was usually too busy to consider what options might be open to her.

Con: Jack’s method of speaking certainly couldn’t be considered elegant, but he got his point across. Infrequently, but growing more frequent as time wore on, she was struck by wistfulness, by a sense of longing for what might have been. For a different sort of life. For a chance to dress up in frilly ruffles and satin and lace and attend some local dance on the arm of her escort—who was, for now, faceless and nameless.

Was that what Ray Golden had meant when he had broken her heart?

Christina stole a sideways glance at her companion, who was gazing off into the distance as if he had not a care in the world.



“Were you really bein’ honest a couple minutes ago?”

Sinking into the jounces, as the stage went rattlety-bump over a particularly rutted part of the road, Jack yawned. “You ever known me not to be honest?”

“Well…that part about me…pert and pretty.”

He bestowed upon her a sweet and whimsical smile. “Honey child, did you but fix yourself up, you’d stand head and shoulders over any other gal in any of these towns. Take my word for it. Well, now, lookit that—comin’ up on Rio Verde. Good. Be mighty glad to get my backside off this hard seat for a while, and I reckon our two passengers can’t wait to get oughta this wagon.”

A return smile crinkled the girl’s blue eyes. “You’re just feelin’ your age, Jack. All them healed bullet holes you got from the war must be callin’ out for some rest. Me, I’m hunky-dory.”

“Don’t rub it in, not when you’re talkin’ age and experience over a snub-nosed little whippersnapper. Ain’t that Stub’s cafe that’s got such good beef stew? How’s about I treat you to supper once we roll into town?”

Chapter Two

It was a fair-to-middlin’ kind of day, Sheriff Tyler Young reflected, as he sauntered along the streets of Levington, Texas. Temperature mild for a March mid-morning, without any moisture in the air to make things sticky, clear sky overhead, and just enough of a breeze to stir up some freshness without stirring up the dust.

Perfect weather, in his opinion, for the usual patrol taken three times, on average, by himself or one of his deputies. Now, as in this mid-morning, later, in mid-afternoon, and again in early evening. Best way to keep the peace, as far as he was concerned, was to find the problem before it developed and nip it in the bud. Fewer heads to crack, fewer miscreants languishing in the jail.

“Top o’ the mornin’ to ye, Sheriff.” Glendon O’Rourke, emerging from inside his Lucky Shamrock bar to begin sweeping off the sidewalk, gave him a friendly greeting and a wave. “Everything shakin’ down as it should be?”

“Just gallopin’ right along, Glen. And how’s yourself?”

“Fine, sir, simply fine. What’s your pa doin’ with himself these days?”

Oliver Young, a fine upstanding man in his middle fifties, had recently retired from his position as Levington’s sheriff to return to his first love, that of running a ranch. His son had, with the approval of the mayor and the town council, stepped easily from his position as deputy into that of the highest law enforcement officer and was doing, according to businessmen and citizens alike, a bang-up job.

“Out checkin’ the herd, last time I had occasion to visit the ORY. However, I suspect he was doin’ more checkin’ of the number of trout in his fishin’ hole than anything.”

The two men shared a comfortable laugh. Oliver had enjoyed just such a relationship with most of the town during his time in office as he now enjoyed with his wife, Ruth, and children.

Tyler, at twenty-six, was the bachelor eldest son of half-a-dozen thriving Youngs. Next was Helen, twenty years of age and married to Joshua Brady, with two small ankle-biters of her own. Then, down the line came nineteen-year-old Veronica, being courted by bank teller Colin Sparks; Marcus and Leroy, the fourteen-year-old set of twins; and little Evie, only five and the last of the bunch.

“Say, any more news about that big robbery yesterday?”

Just before closing time, a gang of masked hoodlums had burst into the brick-fronted First Levington Bank and Trust, stripped the place (and a few customers) of every last penny, and shot-gunned their way out of town and beyond. By the time law enforcement reached the scene of the crime and got the story of what had just taken place, the dust had settled, and darkness was edging in. A consultation between Tyler and his deputies had reached the conclusion that they’d best wait until the next day for a tracking party, when more arrangements could be made.

“About all I can tell you, Glen, is that we’re workin’ on it.”

“Huh. Dang lucky them polecats only shot up the buildin’, and not some of the people roundabout. That’s a busy time of the day, y’ know.”

Certainly, for the town’s saloons, Tyler reflected rather sardonically. After businesses began to shut down, between six and seven on a weeknight, quite a few employees began to drift toward brighter lights, with an eye to partaking of liquid entertainment to relieve the stresses of the day.

“For sure. We’ll do our best to bring ’em to justice.”

“And get our money back. Cain’t none of us afford to lose much.”

As a matter of fact, Tyler had spent part of this morning’s routine casting about around the bank for any signs or clues of anything out of the ordinary. A flashy blue pearl button, which might or might not have popped off a raider’s shirt; several shell casings; a soiled paisley bandanna, beaten into the earth and most likely used during the holdup; a sadly crushed and broken eagle feather, possibly one which had decorated a gang member’s hatband.

Tyler had taken his time, scouting carefully, gathering information and impressions. By striding slowly but purposefully out of town for a short distance (appearing, to any spectator, like a papa rooster carefully hunting and pecking for tidbits), he had picked up the trail of probably some five robbers galloping away. So, north then and into the distant hills.

“Well, reckon I’d better get back to work, Sheriff,” said the saloon owner, reaching for the broom. “And you, too. Stay safe, now.”

A touch of two fingers to the brim of his gray Stetson, and Tyler was on his amiable way again.

The Lucky Shamrock had been established at the north end of town, in a grove of live oak and cedar elm. At the extreme south end stood a small lumber yard and sawmill and, next door, the livery stable and feed and grain store. In between, in this thriving metropolis of Levington, with its population of some twenty-five hundred hardy souls, were positioned buildings of various shapes and sizes to cater to the business clientele.

An attractive boarding house, surrounded by blooming native plants; two banks, one brick-fronted (as if to establish age and solid reputation), one shingled; an office building which provided space for three lawyers, a doctor, and a clinic; Annie Leving’s (daughter of the man for whom the town was named) Fine Dresses and Millinery; a combined post and telegraph office; the Levington Bugle Bureau; a haberdashery and tailor shop; the largest and busiest facility, Quinn Curran’s Anything-and-Everything Mercantile; Mitchell’s Hardware; a quaint little place dedicated strictly to specialty candies and small gifts; a library, which was just slightly wider than an arm’s length; the Bluebonnet Hall and Touring Company; and a host of others.

The town was ideally situated for growth. Main thoroughfares in every direction intersected at its heart, the courthouse. Levington was considered the crossroads for this part of Hill Country. It was a scenic area, with plenty of rolling green hills to balance out the flatland, lots of mature native trees, shrubs, and colorful wildflowers for those who wanted the grace of Mother Nature to soothe restless souls. Anyone seeking a desert milieu, with Joshua trees and cacti galore, need travel only a day’s distance to partake.

It was the best of several worlds.

Some of those residents were veterans of the War Between the States, which had ended a mere five years ago. Slowly, the men, desperately tired, wounded in body and spirit, had dragged their way back home. Some, finding no home to which they might return, drifted on. Some of those had settled in Levington, thus adding to the population rolls.

With sustained growth, however, comes leadership which may or may not be prepared to handle any crisis, reacting after the fact and sometimes causing more harm than good. New laws might be hurriedly put into place, new rules and regulations added to the town’s charter.

Which meant that law officials were called upon by duty and by the council to enforce the amended legal code—some of which, rightly, addressed major concerns, but some of which were penny-ante stuff. Such as expectorating chewed tobacco on the sidewalk instead of using provided spittoons. Unauthorized. Or walking single file rather than two abreast, if ladies were present. Unauthorized.

“Seems like that dadburned council has just about tied our hands,” grumbled Shane Brook that afternoon, perusing the most recent set of restrictions sent to the staff.

Deputy and friend for more than half-a-dozen years, his boyish charm, sturdy physique, and tumbled red hair had endeared him to several interested young ladies around town, and his free nights were never free but spent in the company of one of those southern belles. He was kind enough to rotate engagements amongst his admirers, so that no one got any ideas about exclusivity. Because he was certainly nowhere near being ready to settle down.

“Yeah?” Tyler turned from the office stove, where he was pouring a cup of coffee, to ask, “What’s got your knickers in a knot?”

“Huh. Well, lookahere. The city fathers wanna cut back on the hours our saloons stay open on Sundays.”

“But not closed down entirely for the day?” Alert to nuance, the sheriff stirred some sugar into his coffee, added cream whose quality might be questionable, and pulled out his desk chair.

“Naw. Givin’ ’em noon till six. Reckon that’s so’s all them good church-going folks can get their duty to the Lord oughta the way b’fore headin’ out to play cards and goin’ drinkin’ and such.”

“Well, that’s generous. Fellers should be able to get all sorts of rampagin’ oughta the way b’fore goin’ home to their wives and young’uns.”

“Wait, here’s another’n: wire cutters can’t be carried in a feller’s pocket. What in Sam Hill are they gettin’ at, Ty? We’re gonna have our jail cells full and a circuit judge on call just to handle these pissant charges.” Aggrieved, the usually easy-going Shane was shifting about as if he were ready to erupt on the spot.

“Sounds like they’re scrapin’ the bottom of the barrel,” Tyler agreed. “Or lookin’ to add some coinage to the city’s coffers.”

Shane’s voice had just heightened an octave or so with incredulity. “Oh, man, you gotta read this stuff. Now a rule makes it illegal for anybody to milk another man’s cow. Where are they comin’ up with such horse dung? Time to have a talk with that weak-chinned mayor of ours, Sheriff, and get these things straightened out now!”

Grinning, Tyler took a sip from his cup, then grimaced. “Yeah, reckon I’ll just march right on over and do that. Did you make this coffee, Shane?”

As a distraction, to force his deputy onto some other, less controversial subject, the ploy worked.

“Guilty as charged.” Tossing aside the pamphlet, he turned defensive. “What’s the problem?”

“Tar, my friend, tar. Tastes like that last little scoop from a pail somebody used to grease wagon wheels. No offense, but maybe you should lem’me fill the pot next time. Where’s Vern got himself to?”

Vernon Hample was serving the department as its youngest, most junior member, having been employed for only six months or so. As low man on the totem pole, so to speak, he naturally drew the least-wanted shifts and the most-disliked duties—although Tyler tried not to burden the boy overmuch, lest he give up on law enforcement work entirely.

“I traded with him—he’s doin’ the rounds now, and I’ll take his night shift.”

Dubiously, Tyler eyed his friend. “Ahuh. Since when did you get to be so goldarned generous with your time?”

“Hey, the kid needed to stop over to the post office. Somethin’ to mail, he said, needed to go out on the next stage.”

“Huh.” Leaning forward onto his desk, Tyler pulled a few papers from a stack to begin sorting. Wanted posters, no less. “Another steamy letter to that gal of his over in Austin, sounds like. All right. Well, once he gets back, you go get your early supper. I need to take a ride out to the ranch.”

“Social? Or business?”

Another grin, not quite so broad and not quite so affable, this time. “Both. Gotta go twist my pa’s arm.”

Shane slumped more comfortably into a hard wooden chair not built at all for comfort. “Well, give ’em my regards, won’tcha? And, if your ma happens to have an extra slice of peach pie layin’ around that nobody has claimed….”

“Sure, ole son. I’ll make sure it’s got your name on it.”

An hour later, when the sheriff was trotting his buckskin, Tanner, on the shady road toward his old home, he considered just how he would approach dealing with the problem he now faced. He needed his father’s help. But Oliver seemed perfectly happy with his slower, more routine days on the ORY, plodding along with his wife and younger children and the humdrum chores which must be done. Would he be interested in coming out of retirement for just a short time?

His mother, as usual in the kitchen, greeted her eldest with an embrace that nearly squeezed the life from him.

“Easy, Ma, easy,” he protested, finally managing to work himself free. “I hope to breathe with those lungs for a while yet.”

“Your own fault,” she briskly returned. “if you’d come visit more often—”

“C’mon, Ma. I get out here every week. Well, most every week. If not to see your smilin’ face, then to get a good meal in my belly.” His smile was placating, but most mothers could bore right through the subterfuge, and Ruth Young was no exception.

“Of course, of course. Are you hungry? You want something to eat before supper?”

After wiping her hands on her apron, she had gone back to rolling out pastry on the big scarred wooden table. For one of her famous chicken pot pies, he hoped, eyeing her work. An active woman in her early fifties, her dark brown hair (threaded now with gray), green eyes, and smooth complexion the color and texture of a pistachio shell, had been duplicated most vividly in her firstborn. Blessed with ability and talent, alongside a generous personality that saw much and forgave even more, she had managed a houseful of children, a husband frequently absent at his job, and numerous worrisome issues over time. Her mantra might have been written, in shining letters, about the importance of taking everything in stride.

“Naw, I can wait.” Though Tyler was already salivating at the pungent aroma of sliced onion and chunks of beef beginning to brown in the skillet. “What’s goin’ on around here?”

“Well, let me see. Ronnie is out taking down the rest of the laundry from the line—you ought to say hello to her. Evie felt called upon to give the dog a bath—no matter he didn’t want or need one. And the twins are off on some tomfoolery with their father. What about you?” Ruth, involved in stirring to keep dinner from sticking and burning, cast an appraising glance over her shoulder. “You look thin. Are you getting enough to eat?”

Tyler hid a grin. Leave it to a mother to continue scolding about her children’s welfare, no matter at what age. It was her standard question, and he answered as he always did: “I’m fine, Ma. Just busy. So, you dunno where Pa has got himself off to?”

“The last I knew, he decided to work on building some planters I’ve been wanting. You want to go look him up, Ty, you’ll likely find him in the barn.”

“Gotcha. No cows, just woodworkin’ tools. Thanks, Ma.” Bending to give her a quick peck on the cheek, he chuckled and ambled away in his deceptive easy stride that nonetheless ate up the distance.

He loved this ranch, with its clusters of towering live oaks and clumps here and there of Mexican buckeye, bursting forth now with their fragrant pink flowers. From the spacious farmhouse, deliberately built for shade and coolness, to the land stretching away to the gentle hills beyond, he had explored every inch in his childhood, infrequently accompanied by Helen, before her own childhood gave way to girlhood and the more important details such as hairstyles and dresses.

His father had inherited the place from Tyler’s grandfather. Here the family had lived and thrived all during Oliver’s sheriffin’ career. This was Tyler’s occasional retreat from the real and infrequently chancy life as a lawman, and he always left after a visit feeling refreshed and restored. Like that mythical Greek fellow he had learned about in school—the wrestler who remained invincible to his opponents as long as he maintained contact with Mother Earth. Anta—something. Antaeus?

“Well, h’lo, there, Son.”

His father was plainly as pleased to see his son as Ruth was, both despite being their usual busy selves. Oliver, a tall, trim man with a full head of silvery hair, had been working at a four-foot section of board with plane and file—with the grain of the wood, of course—and wore a liberal helping of sawdust and little curls of oak shavings.

“Hiya, Pop. I see you’re finally gettin’ round to them flower boxes Ma has been after you for years to build.”

“Oh, well, all in good time. I just had ta be in the mood.”

“And today you are?”




“Hoping to Fill her Heart’s Void” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Despite being a rough-and-tumble tomboy, Christina Bridges’ life has not been a smooth ride. In the wake of the tragic death of her father and while on a solo trip, she is attacked by an infamous gang, which leaves her for dead and steals her belongings. After being rescued by a charming man, her thirst for revenge grows stronger with each passing day. How can she convince him she is not just a damsel in distress, but a woman seeking justice?

It’s too late to ignore this flicker of emotion she feels when seeing the handsome stranger…

Tyler Young is the conscientious sheriff of Levington, Texas who wants nothing more than to end the evil gang that is preying on small towns. When they strike his town, he hands over the office so he can track them and put an end to their terror. As he pursues the bandits, he comes across an injured Christina, whom he intends to send away for safety, but she refuses when she discovers he is after them. Could this feisty lady be the one to capture his heart?

Amidst the chase, is there still time for romance to blossom?

The quest to bring a criminal gang to justice brings Christina and Tyler closer than ever before. When a shadow from the past comes to haunt Christina though will she count on the man she recently met but already means the world to her? Or will their growing romance be doomed to failure before it even begins?

“Hoping to Fill her Heart’s Void” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

Get your copy from Amazon!


Grab my new series, "Brides of the Untamed Frontier", and get 2 FREE novels as a gift! Have a look here!

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