The Outlaw's Return
Indulge your fantasies of delicious Regency Rakes, fierce Viking warriors and rugged Highlanders. Be swept away into a world of intense passion, lavish settings and romance that burns brightly through the centuriesVictoria has a confession to make. She was driven to write romance by giant bugs and killer rabbits."I just couldn't take it anymore," she says. "My husband and sons would be camped in front of the television watching a movie about spiders the size of bowling balls, and I'd be wondering when the handsome scientist would get around to kissing the spunky woman with the bug spray. When it didn't happen, I decided to write my own happy endings–without the giant bugs. "Victoria made that decision in January 1999 after a cross-country move from California, where she's ridden out earthquakes, to Virginia, where she and her family enjoy the history of Washington D. C. "That move was difficult because it brought me face-to-face with regret," says Victoria. "My husband and I both wish we had taken the kids to Yosemite or made another trip to Baja, but his career changed quickly and there wasn't time. As we made the long drive, I decided I didn't want any more empty dreams in my life. "For Victoria, that meant writing a book. As soon as she finished unpacking over a hundred cardboard boxes, she sat at her computer and wrote a sentence she considers to be the "worst beginning ever. " That manuscript is in a dusty box under the bed, but her second effort turned into Of Men and Angels, and she hasn't looked back. Writing takes up most of Victoria's free time, but she still enjoys an occasional giant-bug movie with her husband and two teenage sons. She's also "mom" to an elderly Chihuahua-corgi who barks too much.She enjoys hearing from readers. Email her at VictoriaBylin@aol. com.
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“What brings you to Denver?”
“It’s not important.”
She didn’t believe him. Whatever his reason for being at Brick’s, he’d made an effort to find her. She felt cheated by the lie, just as she’d felt cheated in Abilene. “If it wasn’t important, you’d answer the question.”
“I know what I’m doing.”
When he smirked, she saw the man who’d left her pregnant, alone and ruined. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, J.T.?”
His eyes were even bluer than she recalled, and his cheekbones more chiseled. The sun, high and bright, lit up his unshaven jaw and turned his whiskers into gold spikes. The man was untouchable, unreachable.
“That’s right,” he finally said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”
“I have,” she said quietly. “What happened in Abilene is in the past. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my privacy.”
His eyes clouded with something akin to regret. “I understand,” he said quietly. “You won’t see me again.”
His surrender shocked her to the core.
VICTORIA BYLIN
fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both reading the Bible.
Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.
Feel free to drop Victoria an email at [email protected] or visit her website at www.victoriabylin.com.
The cowering prisoners will soon be set free;
they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread.
For I am the Lord your God,
who churns up the sea so that its waves roar— the Lord Almighty is his name.
—Isaiah 51: 14, 15
This book was the most challenging writing experience I’ve ever had. For that reason, it requires three dedications.
The first is to my editor, Emily Rodmell.
I’m beyond grateful for her insights into this story.
The second is to Sara Mitchell.
She’s my dearest friend and a gifted writer. I owe her more than I can say.
The third is to the people of CenterPointe Christian Church in Lexington, Kentucky.
From the day Mike and I first stepped through the doors, you made us feel welcome. A special shout-out goes to the ladies of the Flippin’ Pages Book Club. Let’s hear it for Christian fiction!
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Epilogue
Letter to Reader
Questions for Discussion
Chapter One
Denver, Colorado
July 1876
When J. T. Quinn vowed to find Mary Larue, he never once imagined they’d meet on a perfect Sunday morning in Denver. On those long nights when he’d lain alone in his bedroll, he’d imagined seeing her on a stage in some high-class opera house. He’d pictured himself in a black suit and a white shirt leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed as he listened to her hit the high note only she could hit. Their eyes would meet and she’d recognize him. She’d miss a beat, but she’d pick up the song with even more power than before and he’d know…she still loved him.
That wasn’t going to happen today.
It wasn’t Saturday night, and J.T. wasn’t wearing a suit.
It was Sunday morning, and he had trail dust in every pore. He also smelled like the inside of a saloon. He hadn’t visited such an establishment for six months, but last night he’d walked past a gaming hall with a head full of memories. A drunken cowhand had stumbled out to the boardwalk with an open bottle of whiskey, and the contents had sloshed on J.T.’s trousers. The smell had sickened him in one breath and tempted him in the next. He’d have changed clothes, but the garments in his saddlebag were filthy. They stank, but not with whiskey. He’d resisted that temptation, and he’d done it because of his love for Mary Larue.
Heaving a sigh, he looked down at his dog. “What should we do, Fancy Girl?”
She whapped her tail against the boardwalk and looked up at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. J.T. didn’t know what kind of dog she was, but they’d been best friends since he’d walked out on Griff Lassen at the Dudley place. They’d been running off Ambrose Dudley and his brother, squatters up in Wyoming, when the dog had charged at them and started barking. Griff had ordered J.T. to shoot her dead.
J.T. had done a lot of mean things in his life, but not even he could shoot a dog. On the other hand, he’d come close to shooting Griff. When the man aimed his Sharps at the mutt, J.T. had shoved the barrel downward. The bullet had ricocheted off a rock and creased Fancy Girl’s head. J.T. had mopped her blood with his bandanna and fed her jerky from his pocket. When she’d followed him to his horse, he’d poured water from his canteen into a pot. She’d lapped every drop, and he’d filled it again.
