Angel Gone Bad

“An exciting read!”

—
New York Times
bestselling author Bobbi Smith

 

“A fun read—Old West Style!”

—
USA Today
blog

 

“Starr writes a fun, vivid western romance with entertaining characters.”

—
Publishers Weekly

 

“If you're a fan of sexy cowboys, mysterious outlaws, historical settings, and HAWT romance—definitely grab this one up.”

—JenRen Reviews

 

“Readers will enjoy . . .
Lady Gone Bad.
”

—Genre Go Round Reviews

 

“I like the plot, the characters and dialogue, the chemistry.”

—Diah's review (goodreads.com)

 

“This is a good western story with a spicy romance.”

—The Book Faerie

 

“
Lady Gone Bad
is a hot romance with a touch of tenderness at its core.”

—Virginia Campbell (redroom.com)

 

“And I loved the spiritual aspect to it, someone watching over them and aiding in their journey.”

—Lady Godiva (goodreads.com)

 

“This book is perfect for a romance reader.”

—nocturnereads.com

 

“One of the best historicals of the year!”

—Melissa's Mochas, Mysteries and More

ANGEL GONE BAD

As she moved slowly into the saloon, quiet followed in her wake. Voices faltered when surprised patrons stopped to watch her advance. By the time she reached the middle of the room, quiet had descended and she was the complete center of attention.

Startled at the reaction to her appearance, Angel held down her panic by thinking about what Lady Gone Bad, the famous singer, would do with so many male admirers staring at her and judging her attributes.

She raised her chin, let her shawl fall open, put her hands on her hips, and glanced around the room with a smile on her rosy lips. She drew upon all her courage and issued a challenge, “Any of you know how to play poker?”

In response, hootin' and hollerin' filled the place.

She cocked her head. “I take that as a yes.”

A
LSO BY
S
ABINE
S
TARR

S
ABINE
S
TARR

eKENSINGTON

Kensington Publishing Corp.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

 

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Stella for sharing her copies of BISKINIK,
the official publication of the Choctaw Nation of Oklahoma;
Cousins Donna, Darmond, Buckley, Brandon, and Christina
for a wild research trip to Medicine Spring;
Cousins Marilyn, Larry, Brad, Shanie, Shiane, Larime, and Ivy
for horse-riding inspiration;
Cousins Cathy, Sandra, Ginger, Mona, and Gerald
for education inspiration;
Cousin Stan for Choctaw Lighthorseman/Tribal Police inspiration;
Genieva, Jeanie, Nancy, Patsy, Sharlot, and Wanda
for sharing my research at the Runestone Park;
And all the writers in my family for their outstanding work.

—
The Branding Iron,
official paper of the Choctaw Nation

A
ngel paused and glanced up. Were the words she read from
Sweet Rescue in the Indian Territory,
her first dime novel, creating the desired effect?

Fresh-faced ingénues in flowery dresses and stout matrons in Sunday-go-to-meeting hats sat absolutely still in rapt attention, eyes open wide, hands clasped to bosoms, faces pink with excitement.

Yes, she had them. Angel breathed a silent sigh of relief. Short lived, of course. She was in the last place she wanted to be, daring fate to smash her flat. At the Bonham Female Academy, reading, much less writing, dime novels was definitely
not
part of the curriculum and could cause her to lose her position.

To protect her identity, she used a pen name, dressed flamboyantly in rich colors, and wore a blond wig to cover her sorrel tresses. She would never, ever read in Bonham or nearby communities. Angelica and Crystabelle Morgan must always be kept in separate worlds. Even with so much caution, she lived in fear somebody would recognize her.

But the Red River Book Club grew restless, corsets creaked, throats cleared, feet shifted. They weren't in the most comfortable of surroundings. Wolfpath Mercantile provided a location while the ladies squeezed in chairs from home. The store catered to a hardworking population, selling a wide variety of items, plus dime novels. A pickle barrel, bolts of cloth, sacks of flour and sugar, farm implements, jars of candy, and tins of tobacco cast a dizzying array of scents into the air. A checkerboard table had been moved aside to make room for the audience of readers who sat facing the author with their backs to the front door.

Angel couldn't let personal worries intrude. She wanted to do her best and please these ladies who had taken time out of their busy lives to be there and support her. She raised her voice as she returned to Harmony's torrid adventures in the Wild, Wild West.

Wolfpath's front door was flung open. Boot heels rang out against the wood floor. Spurs jingled an angry tune.

Angel stopped in shock, looking up from her book and over the heads of her audience.

A sea of hats swiveled as the ladies turned to see who had the nerve to interrupt the quiet Sunday afternoon. Gasps of surprise filled the store.

“You may call yourself Angelica, but you're sure as hell no angel,” the stranger said in a deep voice with the lilting cadence of a Northman.

Heads turned from the intruder back toward the author. Embarrassed titters filled the room as the ladies pressed white handkerchiefs to their lips as if to hold in their excitement.

Angel felt her breath catch in her throat. Her greatest fear had just stepped through the doorway. She'd never expected to see Rune Wulfsson again, not after what she'd done to him. If he was here, he'd been released from jail and hunted her down for one reason and one reason only.
Revenge.

She felt her blood run cold. He was a formidable opponent. He knew too much. He hated her too much. She must be smart, think fast, and save the explosive situation. From schoolmarm to dance-hall slattern was not her idea of a successful future.

“Right on time.” She pasted on a smile, although her jaw ached with the effort. “Ladies, may I present the Viking.”

Hats whipped back around as the women took a better gander at the tall-as-a-tree man with blue eyes the color of a storm-tossed sky. Mad. Angry. Furious. None was a strong enough word for the blaze in his eyes or his clenched fists.

Angel plunged onward, hoping to avert the next words out of his mouth. “I asked him to join us so you could see an example of how authors draw from real life to write their books.”

The ladies oohed and took the opportunity, maybe a once-in-a-lifetime event, to ogle a surefire, handsome hero.

Belatedly, obviously remembering his manners, the Viking whipped off his white, six-gallon hat, revealing close-cropped sandy hair, and gave a slight bow. Good manners didn't extend to his scowl, straight brows meeting over hooded eyes. One long-fingered hand dropped near the pearl-handled Colt .45 he wore in a fancy tooled gun belt that emphasized his narrow hips and muscular thighs clad in form-fitting Levi's. A blue plaid shirt strained across his broad chest.

Angel sighed. Last time she'd seen him, he'd worn a fringed leather vest, tight leather trousers, and an eagle feather in long hair bleached almost white by the sun. Cowboy gear suited him just as well. Even if he appeared thinner and a little pale, he couldn't have looked more delectable if he'd tried.

And that was exactly what had gotten her into trouble in the first place.

B
last Angel's wicked soul. Rune ground his teeth at her impudence. Spawn of Hel. Castigator of Freya. Lover of Loki. She had no right to look good as a blonde, or any other way.

If he was truly a Viking like his ancestors, he'd toss her to the floor and give her readers a lot more than a dime novel to fill their pretty heads. Reality wouldn't be their cup of tea. He'd bet a full house on that fact.

But he was already fighting snakes aplenty. He didn't need outraged ladies calling for his head, at least not till he got away.

Over nine months had passed since he'd set eyes on his personal bitter pill. He'd changed, but she still left him thunderstruck. Not just by her sassy words. Her looks, too. First time ever he saw her, a gray traveling suit did its best to hide her substantial physical assets, but the wild sorrel hair flying loose around her face as she castigated outlaws told the tale of a feisty spirit. He'd rescued her, more's the pity. After that she wore simple cotton, a red skirt with a white blouse unbuttoned low enough to drive a man witless. She'd looked a hell of a lot more devil than angel.

Now she appeared like an expensive piece of candy wrapped in gold foil, something he'd want to unwrap slowly to get the full benefit of the high price. She wore a deep shade of lavender in a silk bustle dress that covered her from neck to toe, along with black gloves and black boots. A matching hat perched on the upswept blond curls.

She was a sight for sore eyes, especially ones that hadn't feasted on female flesh for what felt like an eternity. He deserved a long look. She owed him that and plenty more. He'd get his fill. This time he wouldn't be a gentleman.

“You're a hard lady to track down,” Rune said, disgust turning his voice flat. “Gallivanting like you are all over North Texas.”

“She is a published author.” Mrs. Gunther, chairwoman of the Red River Book Club, stood up and stared hard. “By request, Angelica is gracing our communities with her presence. We are proud that one of our own has sought to convey our way of life to the world at large.”

Rune blinked, taken by surprise. Angel did seem to collect allies. “She's no Henry Wadsworth Longfellow. She's writing dime romance novels.”

“Longfellow is a romance writer, too,” Mrs. Gunther said, adjusting her hat as if for battle. “You should, no doubt, appreciate the fact that he romanticizes your own Viking heritage in lovely poems.”

“Poetic drivel. As if he ever got off his duff and went a-viking. Northmen were raiders and traders. In summertime, they hunted in their long boats along the coast lines and up the rivers of Europe, or even farther afield. I doubt their surprise attacks would have been pretty.”

Mrs. Gunther inhaled sharply, brown bombazine rising upward like a Valkyrie's metal-plated bosom. “Not everyone can appreciate the written word.”

“Not everybody has time for it.” Rune realized he was arguing over books, of all things. “I sure don't. I'm here for your writer.”

Angel snatched her reticule, a small, purple drawstring bag, from her lap and slipped the strings over her wrist. She stood up. “I know these ladies have enjoyed seeing and bantering with you. Thank you for stopping by. Now I'll continue reading from
Sweet Rescue.
”

“Fine. Bring your book.” He crossed the room in several strides, grabbed her around the waist, and slung her over his shoulder.

She hit him on his shoulder with her dime novel. “Put me down!”

“Unhand her, sir,” Mrs. Gunther ordered as the other readers stood up in alarm to confront him.

“Relax, ladies. You're sure to get another novel out of this adventure.” Rune tipped his hat and headed for the door.

Angel struggled against him, soft curves adding fuel to the fire she'd already stoked in his belly. Damn her sorry hide. His irritation ratcheted up a notch. As he stepped outside, he gripped her harder, enjoying the power, the control, the fury.

“Let me go,” she hissed, “or I'll scream so loud the entire town will be after you.”

“One sound out of you and the whole world will know your true identity.”

“You wouldn't!”

“Try me.”