After a decade of tracing her ancestors to their roots in Georgian-era Britain, Golden Heart winner Deborah Hale turned to historical romance writing as a way to blend her love of the past with her desire to spin a good love story. Deborah lives in Nova Scotia, Canada, between the historic British garrison town of Halifax and the romantic Annapolis Valley of Longfellow’s Evangeline. With four children (including twins), Deborah calls writing her “sanity retention mechanism.” On good days, she likes to think it’s working.
Deborah invites you to visit her personal website at www.deborahhale.com, or find out more about her at www.eHarlequin.com.
May 1897, Whitehorn, Montana
A frontier saloon was just about the last place on earth Jane Harris had ever expected, or wanted, to find herself. Why, Mrs. Endicott and her Ladies’ Temperance Society back in Boston would have been properly horrified. They’d have been more horrified still by the knowledge that Jane had stolen and sold a brooch of Mrs. Endicott’s to get here.
The jarring notes of a tinny piano pummeled Jane’s throbbing head, and the reek of raw spirits and tobacco smoke made the flesh at the back of her throat constrict. If she’d had anything to eat in the past twenty-four hours, the stink, the noise and her own overwrought nerves might have conspired to make her violently ill.
Perhaps it had been a harsh blessing that she’d run out of money for food back in Omaha.
“Kin I pour ya a drink, little lady?” bellowed the man behind the bar, his voiced laced with genial mockery.
Jane gasped, her heart hammering against her corset like the pistons of a runaway steam engine.
“N-no thank you, sir.” She raised her voice louder than she’d ever spoken in her life, to make herself heard above the “music” and the babble of voices. “I’d be most obliged if you’d point out the foreman of the Kincaid ranch to me. The gentleman at the telegraph office told me I might find him here.”
As she turned to speak to him, the bartender flinched. At the sight of her face, most likely. She’d hoped the bruises and cuts would have healed by the end of her long trip West. They must still have a ways to go if her appearance distressed a man who worked in such a rough establishment.
“Yep, ma’am. I seen him come in a while back and he ain’t left that I know of.” The bartender squinted through the haze of smoke around the cavernous room, with its sinister shadows and a huge, lowering buffalo head mounted behind the bar.
Raising a gnarled finger, he pointed to one particularly murky corner. “That’s John Whitefeather, over there. He don’t come in here much as a rule, but when he does it’s always off by hisself.”
Jane heard nothing after the bartender spoke the name. Whitefeather? An Indian! Her knees commenced to tremble beneath her skirts and petticoats.
Back in Boston, Jane’s sole dissipation had been reading Western dime novels from Beadle’s Library. Along with stories of legendary gunslingers like Jack Spade, they often featured lurid accounts of Apache atrocities. Were there any of that fierce tribe this far north? Perhaps she was about to find out.
“Thank you…sir. I—I appreciate your assistance.” As much as a condemned prisoner appreciated a deputy’s “assistance” to climb the scaffold.
Jane tried to smile at the man, but between her mounting agitation and the still-healing gash on one side of her mouth, she didn’t make a very good job of it.
Step by halting step, she crossed the saloon floor, painfully conscious of curious, predatory eyes following her movements. Had young Daniel felt this way walking through the lions’ den? Probably not, for Daniel had been a man and he’d had the Lord on his side. With the sin of her desperate theft weighing on her conscience, Jane was certain she’d left any slight protection of the Almighty far behind her in New England.