The Bounty Hunter’s Redemption
Staking his claimRecently widowed Carly Richards is shocked when a bounty hunter declares her seamstress shop belongs to his sister. But Nate Sergeant has proof—the deed her lawless husband gambled away without her knowledge. Now Carly must fight for her home and her son’s future. And until a judge arrives to settle ownership, she’s not budging. Despite Nate’s surprisingly kind demeanor—and dashing good looks.Nate’s faced the meanest outlaws in the land—but this petite, strong-willed seamstress may be his greatest challenge. He owes his sister his life, so he’s determined she’ll have the property that’s legally hers. But as Nate and Carly battle for ownership, Nate realizes there’s something he’s overlooked—the hope of building a family with Carly and her adorable son.
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Staking His Claim
Recently widowed Carly Richards is shocked when a bounty hunter declares her seamstress shop belongs to his sister. But Nate Sergeant has proofâthe deed her lawless husband gambled away without her knowledge. Now Carly must fight for her home and her sonâs future. And until a judge arrives to settle ownership, sheâs not budgingâ¦despite Nateâs surprisingly kind demeanorâand dashing good looks.
Nateâs faced the meanest outlaws in the landâbut this petite, strong-willed seamstress may be his greatest challenge. He owes his sister his life, so heâs determined sheâll have the property thatâs legally hers. But as Nate and Carly battle for ownership, Nate realizes thereâs something heâs overlookedâthe hope of building a family with Carly and her adorable son.
âIâll be back.â He flashed a smile. âDonât let the anticipation overwhelm you.â
That towering hulk of a man threatened the harmony Carly prized. Yet as she stared into those eyes, an unwelcome thrill of attraction slid through her, shooting heat up her neck and into her cheeks. She groped for a rebuke that would conceal the turmoil churning inside her. âOne thing I can say for certain, Mr. Sergeant. Nothing about you overwhelms me.â
He arched a brow, and then had the audacity to wink. As if he had read her mind and found her claim amusing.
Carly shut the door behind him, then leaned against it and took a deep breath. No matter what sheâd said, Carly had never felt more overwhelmed. And of all things, by a bounty hunter.
A handsome bounty hunter, her heart whispered.
She pulled away from the door and steeled her spine. A handsome strong-minded bounty hunter who would stop at nothing to see that his sister owned this shop.
JANET DEAN grew up in a family with a strong creative streak. Her father and grandfather recounted fascinating stories, instilling in Janet an appreciation of history and the desire to write. Today she enjoys traveling into our nationâs past as she spins stories for Love Inspired Historical. Janet and her husband are proud parents and grandparents who love to spend time with their family.
As far as the east is from the west, so far hath He removed our transgressions from us.
âPsalms 103:12
For Heather: precious daughter, loving mother, loyal friend, a strong woman of faith. Youâre a real-life heroine.
To my critique partners, Shirley Jump and Missy Tippens, a simple âthank youâ canât express my appreciation for your savvy input and steadfast support.
To assistant editor Emily Krupin and executive editor Tina James, thank you for all you do to make my books the best they can be. Iâm privileged to work with you.
To my friend Mary Overmeyer, thank you for sharing the childhood memory of your mother, Jennie Smith, standing at the bottom of the stairs singing the first stanza of âFather, We Thank Thee for the Night,â and of you and your six siblings singing the second stanza back to her. I love how this song connected your family to each other and to God and couldnât resist using it in my book. The author of âFather, We Thank Thee for the Nightâ was Rebecca J. Weston (1818â1890), a teacher in the Boston schools.
Contents
Gnaw Bone, Indiana, March 1898
A woman should mourn the loss of her husband. Or so Carly Richards once believed.
No doubt she looked the part of the grieving widow as she stood alongside Maxâs grave clothed in black, her gloved palm resting on her young son, unnaturally quiet and still beside her. Yet the eyes Carly bowed shed no tears. In her chest, her thudding heart beat to a steady tempo of relief.
A fearsome man to live with when he chose to make an appearance, Max had destroyed her love for him years ago.
She pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and pressed the square of linen to her nose. Though the air carried the scent of mowed grass, spring flowers and fresh-turned dirt, the vile odors that had clung to Max filled her nostrils still, as if he stood at her side, not laid out at her feet. Stale tobacco, fresh moonshine, foul breath, permeated with the odor of sweat.
Sweat of a hardworking man, Carly admired. Sweat of a man coming off a three-day drunk roiled her stomach.
Sheâd never again endure the manâs stench or his unpredictable temper. That knowledge purged her, freed her, promised her better days ahead.
Carly bent, cuddling her seven-year-old son close. Henry smelled of soap, innocence, the hope of new beginnings.
Across the way neighbors and members of her church had gathered to see Max into the ground. The tension that had been tangible whenever Max had been around was gone, buried with him. Now no one need keep an eye peeled for an unreasonable man itching for a fight.
