“Of course I do.” Lila blushed. “Now that I know I am...not immune to inspiring a man.”
“My love, my Lila, you’ve inspired me right back. I never thought I’d give my heart, much less my hand.” He stole a quick kiss. “And it don’t have to be tonight, but I don’t want to wait too long. Now that I found you. Found my heart, here at the top of the world.”
“Three days time, then. Absalom should be on his way by then, so he can’t ruin things. And I...I’d like a nice dress.” She ran her hands over her orange thing. “Most of all, I’d like Malina to be strong enough to stand up with me.”
“And me, I’ve made my choice, too. Nobody else better to stand up with me.” He winked at her.
“John Henry Holliday,” they said the name at the same time, and laughed in each other’s arms.
The kiss was longer and better this time.
About the Author—Tanya Hanson
California beach girl Tanya Hanson lives on the central coast with her firefighter husband, her favorite travel companion. Recent trips to the Athabasca Glacier and Leadville, Colorado helped inspire Outlaw Heart, as well as characters in her novel Claiming His Heart. Little brother Bronx Sanderson demanded his own story! Grandkids and volunteering at the local horse rescue make sure she isn't chained to her computer.
Tanya found it impossible in a Leadville-set story not to make a little room for John Henry "Doc" Holliday. She apologizes to loyal readers and Coloradans for any unintended errors in history and details and claims literary license. She did her best!
You can find her at
www.tanyahanson.com and www.petticoatsandpistols.com
THE DUMONT WAY
Kathleen Rice Adams
PART ONE
THE BIG UNEASY
Chapter One
June 1860, the Texas Crescent
Josephine LaPierre nearly tumbled from the seat when the buggy’s wheel struck yet another hole in the muddy road. She gripped the padded armrest with one hand and steadied the tiny dog in her lap with the other. Vibration beneath her gloved fingers warned of an impending explosion of temper.
“Hush, Napoleon.” She scratched behind his bat-like ears until he quieted. “All is well, mon petit.”
Napoleon sneezed. After turning three circles in her lap, he nestled into Jo’s skirt. She bestowed a fond smile upon her fearsome bodyguard, running a hand across the top of his head and down his smooth back. Her tiny knight in soft, fawn-colored armor.
The man beside her took the horse in hand with a flick of his wrist, passing an amused glance over Jo and the dog. “Feisty little critter, ain’t he?”
The suppressed laughter in startling blue eyes sent a flicker of heat dancing across Jo’s cheekbones. She looked away. “He can be. I warn you, his bark is not worse than his bite.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Chuckling, the driver scratched the top of the little dog’s head.
Jo tensed, prepared to intervene, but Napoleon stretched toward his admirer and licked the man’s glove.
The driver withdrew his hand to run a finger between his stand-up collar and his neck. Then he swatted at his dark broadcloth trousers and frockcoat as if they inconvenienced him, as well. “I imagine this trip’s been a mite rough on you and that little fella.”
Not in the least disposed to admit her posterior might never be the same, Jo pulled on the most gracious smile she could find. “Monsieur—”
“Amon.” Though gentle, the correction was much firmer than she was accustomed to hearing from servants. “No monsieur about it. Just Amon.” The French word rolled from his lips with practiced ease. How odd.
“Amon. How much farther must we travel?”
“Won’t be long now. House is just up the road a piece.”
Her gaze followed his nod. How could anyone judge distance in such a place? Texas was nothing at all like New Orleans. Although the land here lay as flat as at home, Texas remained wild and unpopulated. Even on the docks where she disembarked hours ago, no laughing patois chatter brightened her ears, nor did young women of color in vivid tignons compete for attention with azaleas and bougainvillea. No aroma of magnolia and honeysuckle, of strong coffee and fresh beignets, greeted her arrival.
The afternoon sun, brighter here somehow, chased the last of the morning’s rain from the landscape. The scent of wet earth rose with the steam, intertwining with damp wood and a vague fishiness from the nearby bayou. Strange cattle with wicked, curling horns as long as their bodies dotted miles and miles of green, overgrown in patches with thorny brush and vines. Here and there, brief flashes of yellow peeked from tall, waving grass.
What did Texans eat and drink and admire in this odd, monochromatic country? What did they do for entertainment? With no other humans around to practice the art of conversation, did they forget how to speak?