Bride Gone Bad

Book 3: Gone Bad

by Sabine Starr

Genres: Westerns; Historical Romance; Western Romance

Synopsis

HE'S HUNTING FOR GOLD. . . Not many people can keep a secret from Lucky Devereaux. He's a triple threat of outlaw, treasure hunter, and Native American mystic. But something in Tempest Templeton's beautiful, heartbroken eyes intrigues him, and he's determined to unravel the mystery. . . SHE'S HUNTING FOR A MAN. . . Tempest has to remind herself that handsome men like Lucky bring only pain. She learned that when her groom ran off before the wedding night—taking her family's money with him. Now she's hunting him down. But a lady alone in Indian Territory is asking for trouble, and Lucky promises he's just the man to keep her safe and show her everything she's been missing. . . PRAISE FOR SABINE STARR'S LADY GONE BAD "A fun read—Old West style!" –USAToday.com "An exciting read!"— New York Times bestselling author Bobbi Smith "If you're a fan of sexy cowboys, mysterious outlaws, historical settings, and HAWT romance— definitely grab this one up." —JenRen's Review "Readers will enjoy. . . Lady Gone Bad." — Genre Go Round Reviews "This book is perfect for a romance reader." — Nocturne Romance Reads "One of the best historicals of the year!" — Melissa's Mochas, Mysteries & More Review

Release date: October 1, 2013

Publisher: eOriginals

Print pages: 236

Sample

1884, Delaware Bend, Texas

Lucky leaned against the far end of the bar in the Red River Saloon. He eyed the double swinging doors as he sipped red-eye. And he clicked a silver dollar back and forth, Lady Liberty to winged eagle.

He was bored, a natural product of watching and waiting. He was also fidgety, as if something was about to break. For distraction, he set aside the dollar and stroked the top of the legendary bar. A down-on-his-luck Eastern tenderfoot had traded art for whiskey and carved cavorting naked women into the mahogany. The shapeliest parts were worn smooth and shiny by appreciative patrons. Glasses and bottles sat at angles, but it was a small price to pay for beauty.

As Lucky watched the entrance, tracing face to breasts to thighs while imagining warm flesh responding under his fingertips, the swinging doors slammed open. A woman dressed in black from hat to boots stomped into the saloon. She held a small hatchet as she glared around the interior.

No longer bored, Lucky straightened and set down his glass. Instinctively, he dropped his left hand to the six-shooter riding low in a leather gun-belt strapped around his narrow hips.

“Sinners!” She strode right up to the bar, back straight as an arrow.

Patrons set down cards, drinks, smokes, and fell silent. They watched her with astonished expressions since ladies rarely graced the saloon with their presence.

“Repent your evil ways!”

Lucky doubted if a man in the place had felt he was on the path to perdition up to this point.

“Whiskey. Tobacco. Poker.” She raised her hatchet. “Think of your loved ones at home. Wives toiling alone from dawn to dusk. Little ones crying with hunger. Farms lost on the turn of a card. Have you no shame?”

Lucky looked over the swinging doors, but she appeared to be alone. He expected her to be with like-minded ladies, a flock of determined blackbirds. He couldn’t imagine that she represented anything less wanted in Delaware Bend, one of the three wildest towns in the West. The Bend thrived on the Three W’s. Whiskey, women, and wagers. If Temperance wasn’t this lady’s name, it ought to be.

“Please close this saloon at once.”

Lucky glanced behind the bar at Big Jim McMahon to see how the bartender was taking to the idea of shutting down the Red River Saloon on this woman’s say-so.

“Lady, you got a beef with some man, go find him and give him the rough side of your tongue.” Big Jim crossed muscular arms across his broad chest. “This here is the finest saloon in the Bend and we don’t want trouble.”

“I’m asking you politely in the name of the TSPT.”

“The what?” A puzzled frown crossed Big Jim’s ruddy face. “You got something against saloons?”

“They’re dens of iniquity, destroyers of manhood, and robbers of family finances.” She gripped her hatchet with two hands.

“Look, I wouldn’t be caught dead in a ladies’ tearoom, but that don’t mean I’m going in one and haranguing the patrons.”

“You refuse to close this saloon?”

“That’s the truth. And set down that ax afore you hurt yourself.”

She raised the hatchet up over her head, brought it down with all her might, and sank it deep into the top of the bar.

“Hornswoggle!” Big Jim cried out. “You chopped Lulu in half!”

“And I’ll do it again!” She pulled at the hatchet, but the head was solidly embedded in the wood.

“Don’t let her chop Aurora.” A poker player leaped to his feet and ran toward the bar.

“Or Prudence.” Another man ran after the first.

Lucky watched as the patrons clustered around Temperance, who was desperately trying to pull her hatchet free. She had no idea what she’d unleashed. Men rode from miles around to drink at this bar. They’d named the carved beauties and chosen their favorites. Some probably never got as close to a living, breathing woman. He wondered if the artist had modeled his art on the images of real women. Maybe the man would pass back through the Bend someday and answer that question.

“Ma’am, you’re about to cause a riot in my saloon. You got no respect for private property or the sensibilities of others.” Big Jim put his hands flat on top of the bar and glared at her. “Best you get out of here right now.”

“You won’t serve another drink after I chop this bar to bits.” She jerked harder on the ax and her hat slipped down over her eyes. She shook her head, causing the hat to fall off and hit the bar. A long strand of wheat-colored hair came loose from her tight chignon and dangled across one shoulder, a slight vulnerability at odds with her demeanor.

“We got a lot of respect for women,” Big Jim said, glancing around at the patrons, who were looking wilder by the moment, “but nobody’s—”

“Killing our ladies!” they hollered as one.

At the sound, the woman glanced up and around, as if being roused from a dream. She met Lucky’s gaze for a sliver of a second, but long enough to send a hot spark to his gut. She had eyes the color of delicate wood violets, but darkened with shadows of pain and fear. She was in trouble and knew it, but she was either irate or dumb or stubborn enough to hold her ground.

Once more, he wished he didn’t live life on the outside looking in, seeing what others didn’t see, knowing what others didn’t know, rescuing what others didn’t even know was in danger. He couldn’t let this foolish woman get hurt.

He walked around the crush of men to the other end of the bar, where she still pulled on her hatchet. He caught the feminine scent of violet water. Made his pulse ratchet up a notch.

“You look in need of service.” He tipped his Stetson. “Allow me to assist you.” He picked up her hat and set it on her head.

Large violet eyes set in a heart-shaped face focused on him. Heartbreaker. He didn’t think he’d ever had the fortune to see a more beautiful or innately sensual woman. Yet she was a hell of a lot more than that. He just didn’t know what. Not many people could keep a secret from him. But she was doing it, as if she’d had long practice.

She was a mystery he wanted to solve. First, why was she so determined to conceal her beauty? Right clothes, right smile, right simper, and she could have any man she wanted any which way she wanted him. So what was she doing playing with fire instead of making fire with a doting husband? Second, she didn’t belong in the Bend, so what was she doing with a hatchet in the Red River Saloon? Third, why did he feel as if she was going to change his life?

He didn’t like any of his questions. And he didn’t like her pushing her way into his world as if she had a right to be there. But he knew just as well that his likes or dislikes weren’t going to make a damn bit of difference.

She set her rosy lips in a tight line and tilted up her pointed chin so she looked down her small nose at him. If that action was an attempt to discourage or intimidate him, it had the opposite effect. A challenge brought out the beast in him. He let his gaze wander over her with a blatant lack of courtesy.

She was only a couple of inches shorter than he. Tall and long-legged like a colt. He’d developed an eye for seeing through the subterfuge of women’s clothes. She was corseted within an inch of her life, padded with layers of petticoats, and covered with bombazine. Yet he could tell she was curvy in the right places with plenty to fill a man’s hands. Would her breasts feel like melons or peaches? Would her nipples be large or small, rosy or tawny? Questions like that could keep a man awake at night.

“Are you finished looking?” She spoke in a husky voice with a touch of sexy drawl. Not a deep South accent, but something closer to East Texas.

He smiled, allowing the dimple in his cheek to show. “You can’t blame a man’s admiration.”

“I suppose you mean that scandalous bar.” She looked back down at her ax and jerked hard again.

“I’d never dispute a lady’s word.” He covered her hands with his own and felt her heat through the leather of her black gloves. She felt soft and strong at the same time, as if she were made for bed sport. “Allow me to help.”

“Please let go.”

He pressed, feeling her hands grow hotter. “Do you wish me to remove your hatchet or not?”

She gave him a narrow-eyed look, and then pulled her hands away.

He got a good grip on the handle, put his shoulders into it, and jerked the ax free.

“Thank you.” She reached for the hatchet.

“Outside.” He held her ax high, headed for the swinging doors, and figured she’d follow.

“Wait!” She hurried after him. “I have work to do.”

“Not here you don’t.”

He pushed through the doors and held them open for her. When she joined him on the boardwalk, he glanced back. Big Jim stood behind the doors so she couldn’t get into the Red River Saloon.

“I appreciate your help. Now I’d like my hatchet.”

Lucky was distracted by a racket up the street, tambourines rattling and women singing. He looked twice before he could believe his eyes. A band of black-clad women marched with a wide banner that proclaimed TEXAS SOCIETY FOR THE PROMOTION OF TEMPERANCE. The ladies without tambourines carried hatchets.

He turned to the violet-eyed beauty. “Friends of yours?”

Tempest Templeton blinked in astonishment. She was struck speechless by the man, the situation, and the violence she’d just committed in the Red River Saloon. First time in her twenty-seven years that she’d raised a hand to anyone or anything. Yet her anger had been simmering for over a year, fueled by the sting of fear and rejection. The sight of men happily tossing back liquor had been like setting a lit match to dry kindling. She had blazed up with righteous indignation.

She’d felt divinely inspired to shock the sinners and chop the bar. But she’d felt mortal enough when her hatchet had stuck and the patrons had descended on her, fury in their eyes. She could only imagine that they were desperately lonely men to be so attached to artistic representations of women. Another example of the deleterious effect of saloons on men. The patrons’ time would have been much better spent in churches or cafés where they could meet real women.

And then there was the heartbreaker. He stared at her with unrelenting focus, waiting for her response. She didn’t owe him anything, except maybe thanks for retrieving her hatchet and distracting the patrons. He was probably accustomed to women falling at his feet, but she was made of sterner stuff.

She held his gaze, determined not to fall into the magic of eyes the color of aged whiskey, dark amber that hinted at long nights and languid desires, framed by long, black lashes. A shiver slithered up her spine in response to his unspoken questions. Dare to enter my world? Dare to play erotic games? Dare to replace anger with lust?

She looked away first, breaking their connection, although she hated to give ground in a contest of wills. Yet she had to dispel the cloudiness of her mind and the heat enveloping her body. She focused on his beauty, searching for a fatal flaw. He wore his thick, dark hair a little long under his cowboy hat. He shaved, so the light bronze color of his smooth skin gleamed in the light and revealed the strong features of his face with high cheekbones and aquiline nose. But his mouth told the true tale of his sensuality, for his lips were full, chiseled, rose-tinted, with just the hint of a smile quirking one corner as if he mocked or dared her.

Not one to back down from a challenge, she straightened her spine to her full height of five-six. He was probably accustomed to young ladies who must look way up to him, but he was only a few inches taller than she. Yet he packed a lot into his lithe body. Broad shoulders. Narrow hips. Long legs. Plenty of muscle. He wore a double-breasted blue shirt, blue jeans, and scuffed cowboy boots. A deadly six-gun rode low in a holster on his right hip.

If there was a negative about him, she couldn’t see it in his perfect body. Yet his soul was revealed in the demon drink color of his eyes. Amoral? Immoral? Lascivious? With everything handed to him on a silver platter because of his beauty, how could he be anything else? He embodied the demon lover every mother warned her daughter to resist, not only for her chastity but for her very soul.

Tempest’s chastity was still well intact at a time when it should have been long gone. A handsome man had rejected what she’d always been told was her most precious gift. Now her chastity felt like a burden rather than a gift.

She’d learned the hard way that handsome men brought disillusionment, heartache, and abandonment. If she was ever to give her heart away again, it would be to a plain man. Never to one like the heartbreaker who watched her now.

“Your friends?” he prodded.

“Yes.” She focused on the funeral pace of the TSPT marchers. “Now that I’ve been stymied in my effort to bring enlightenment to the saloon, I’ll rejoin the march and the pursuit of my goals.”

“Good idea. Even better, take your enlightenment to the Red River and drown it.”

She tossed him a narrow-eyed look. “You, sir, are impertinent.”

“Lady, I’ve been called a lot of things, but that’s a word that won’t leave a mark on my hide.”

“Arrogant, too.”

He stepped closer. “You’re getting more interesting. I know some words I’d like to hear from your lips.”

She raised her chin, suspecting that he might be alluding to words unmentionable to a lady.

This near, she could smell him. Leather. Sage. Citrus. His scent conjured up feelings of strength, clarity, and something undefined. Not that she needed definition. He was obviously an uncouth, know-it-all cowboy too long off the range. He belonged nowhere in her world of refinement, dedication, and enlightenment. Most likely, no man did.

As her friends marched in front of the Red River Saloon, she was more than ready to rejoin them.

“Hey, you blasted females,” Big Jim called as he pushed open the saloon doors and stalked outside. “You better pay for the damage to my bar.”

Tempest glanced at him in shock and horror. Damage? Payment? How dare he? She had cast a blow for womenfolk the world over, and he had the audacity to complain because it had happened in his saloon.

The heartbreaker stepped down beside her. “Delaware Bend isn’t like most Texas towns. Folks are proud of their so-called sins and vices.”

“That’s why enlightenment is most needed here.”

“No. That’s why you’re in big trouble.”

“Stop!” Big Jim stomped big feet in high-heeled cowboy boots out to the edge of the boardwalk. “You ornery calicos owe me. Pay up!” He shook his meaty fist at Tempest, and then at the other TSPT members.

“What are you doing?” Tempest reached out to stop the saloon-keeper from interfering in the march.

Big Jim brushed her aside, leaped off the boardwalk, and strode over to the front of the group. He grabbed their satin banner, tossed it to the ground, and ground it into the dirt with his boot.

The ladies bunched up together like sheep before a wolf, but maintained a brave front.

“Which one of you is the leader?” Big Jim demanded.

“I’m Mrs. Bartholomew, President of the TSPT.” A pink-cheeked and pleasingly plump lady stepped forward. She wagged a finger. “You, sir, are in danger of having your mouth washed out with soap. As you can plainly see, you are in the presence of ladies.”

“Then act like it.”

Mrs. Bartholomew put a hand to her impressive bosom and staggered back, appearing shocked by his words.

“If I was you,” Big Jim boomed, “I’d give second thoughts to collapsing on the Bend’s main street. It’s a far cry from a lady’s fainting couch.” He scuffed dirt with the toe of his boot. “Men throw up their guts and horses empty their bladders out here.”

Mrs. Bartholomew steadied on her feet, and then adjusted her hat as if for battle.

Tempest regretted the situation, knowing she was to blame. She wished she’d never heard of the Red River Saloon.

“Better pay him off.”

She felt the heartbreaker’s breath stir tendrils of her hair against the sensitive whorls of her ear. She shivered, caught for a moment in the web of his tantalizing spell as she basked in the scent of him, the power of his presence, the heat of his body. She stepped away, realizing that her heart beat faster from his nearness than from the confrontation in the street.

“That saloon is Big Jim’s pride and joy.”

“It’s scandalous.”

He chuckled, a low, sensual sound.

She glanced up into his eyes and frowned into the amber depths. “It’s not funny.”

“If a man melted the starch off you, I bet he’d get a hot-blooded woman.”

“Maybe he’d get a slug between his eyes.”

“Not unless he was real slow on the draw.” He held out his hand, a smile revealing a dimple in his left check. “Name’s Lucky. I’m pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“I don’t shake hands with strangers.”

“What do you do with strangers?” He lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a gentle kiss to her knuckles, and then placed a longer kiss to her palm.

Fortunately, she was wearing gloves, so she didn’t experience the touch of his bare flesh. She jerked her hand away, feeling flushed and irritated by his existence. He was dangerous in too many ways.

“You didn’t tell me your name.”

“No need. I’m rejoining my friends and never seeing you again.” He shook his head as if to discount her words. “Life is like a river. You’ve hit an eddy and landed on my shore.”

“I sincerely doubt it.”

“Tempest!” Mrs. Bartholomew called. “What have you done to this man’s place of business?”

She felt a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach. How could something so right have gone so wrong?

“How-do, Miss Tempest,” Lucky said. “Need some help?”

“I believe the TSPT can easily handle this situation.” She held out her hand, palm up. “What I need from you is my hatchet.”

“You ever need something else, let me know.” He placed the ax in her hand, but didn’t let go.

“Thank you.” As she gripped the handle, she felt the heat and strength of him radiating to her through nothing more than his fingertips. She shivered, doubting that she’d ever met a more compelling man.

“What’s keeping you?” Mrs. Bartholomew called again.

She pulled the hatchet away, breaking their connection. She took a deep breath and stepped off the bo. . .