The Lawman's Surrender: The Calhoun Sisters, Book 2

Dedication

This book is dedicated to the wonderful and talented Micki Nuding and to Colleen Admirand and Michele Richter for their kind words and support

Prologue

Wyoming Territory

July, 1882

That man
was watching her again.

Susannah Calhoun peered over her dance partner’s shoulder at the figure standing in the shadow of the huge crabapple tree. He stood unmoving near the white picket fence that encircled the yard, isolated from the revelry of the barbecue. She had sensed his eyes on her during the last three hours, and no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t seem to ignore him.

Matt Gomez, her partner in the Virginia reel, probably attributed her flushed cheeks to the vigor of the dance. But she knew her racing pulse had nothing to do with dancing.

And so did
he
—the rogue who stared so boldly at her.

The music stopped. Matt released her and turned to applaud the musicians, and Susannah did the same, smiling automatically. But all her attention was on the shadowy figure who watched her.

“May I fetch you some punch?” Matt’s dark gaze warmed with masculine appreciation as he scanned her face.

“That would be lovely, thank you,” she replied. He walked off the dance floor and headed for the refreshment table, but Susannah barely noticed his departure. After a long moment of hesitation, she started across the wooden floor toward the crabapple tree.

Where U.S. Marshal Jedidiah Brown awaited her.

The whole thing was ridiculous. The man was as stubborn as a mule and had the manners to match. She insulted him; he responded with sharp quips of his own. She thought him rude and impossible; he had called her selfish and vain. Yet the memory of their one and only kiss lingered in her mind. Something had shifted inside her the day he had touched his mouth to hers, and she knew that if she didn’t explore this strange and unsettling bond between them, she would regret it for the rest of her life.

As she stepped beneath the branches of the crabapple tree, the flickering light of the lamps illuminated his features. Tall and lean, he had the coloring of a mountain lion: a mane of sun-streaked, tawny hair, sun-darkened skin and sherry-colored eyes. His long, angular face was a fascinating combination of aristocratic cheekbones, sensual lips beneath a neatly trimmed mustache and peaked eyebrows that gave him a look of perpetual amusement. Lines creased the tanned skin around his eyes and mouth, adding character. Hatless, he wore a plain white shirt and a brown coat and trousers that made him look almost like every other male there—except for the air of danger that he wore like an enticing cologne.

Susannah’s pulse skipped wildly as she stopped in front of him, as if he were indeed a mountain lion and she a mere field mouse that would make a tasty morsel.

“Evening, Miss Calhoun.” His slow Southern drawl reminded her of molasses in summertime; it made her knees weak and her breathing hitch. He affected her as no other man ever had, but she would die before admitting that to him.

“Good evening, Marshal Brown,” she replied with her best company smile. “Are you enjoying yourself?”

“Donovan and your sister surely know how to throw a party,” he replied.

“They do indeed. I haven’t seen you dancing, Marshal. Does your injury still bother you?”

“Not at all. It was just a scratch.” He flexed his shoulder, where he had been shot a few weeks ago, and his white shirt stretched taut over the muscles of his upper body.

Her pulse stumbled, and she had difficulty tearing her gaze away from the smooth ripple of sinew beneath the snowy fabric. “It’s a beautiful night, isn’t it?” she quickly said.

He flashed his teeth in a grin. “Small talk, Miss Calhoun?”

“Most people consider it polite conversation,” she replied with just a hint of tartness. “Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”

“Polite conversation. Let me see.” He rubbed his chin. “That would be where I tell you how beautiful you are and you keep agreeing with me, right?”

“Must you always come back to that?” she snapped. “I’m trying to be civil, and you keep insulting me.”

He arched his eyebrows. “Maybe if you were to have a real conversation with me instead of all this ‘civilized’ beating around the bush, I might be more accommodating.”

“And what have we got to talk about?” she asked. “I think you’re rude. You think I’m conceited. End of conversation.”

“I was raised to be a gentleman under most circumstances,” he said softly. “The thing is, I don’t think you’re the kind of woman who wants a gentleman as a lover.”

Susannah stiffened. “Who said anything about a lover?”

“Why not a lover?” His deep voice rumbled like a lion’s purr. “All your life, you’ve been surrounded by men telling you how beautiful you are. And what good has all that gentlemanly conduct done your admirers? No good at all.” He leaned closer. “You like it that I talk straight. That I treat you differently than the others do.”

She sniffed disdainfully. “You’re crazy.”

“I don’t think so. They treat you like a pretty china doll. I treat you like a real woman.” He eyed her with consideration. “But maybe you’re not ready for that yet.”

A hot-tempered retort rose to her lips, but she bit it back. Why was it that this man could make such a mess of her emotions? Anger at his presumption made her steam with temper. But there was also a surge of pure, unladylike lust at the images his words conjured in her mind. She took refuge in disdain. “Your opinion hardly matters to me, Marshal.”

“I think it does.” He took her hand and brought it to his mouth before she could pull away. As he pressed his lips to her palm, his mustache tickled the sensitive flesh, sending ripples skimming along her nerve endings. Her pulse leaped into double-time as his dark eyes met hers, and he deliberately nipped the heel of her hand.

Her entire body felt as if it were wax, and he the flame. Never before had any man’s touch melted away her protests until she wanted nothing more than to surrender herself to his tender care. She had finally met her match, and part of her rejoiced in the discovery.

She knew he could feel her thundering pulse as he brushed his lips against her wrist. The knowledge of what he could do to her was there in his eyes. For a moment, he seemed to know everything there was to know about men and women, and she wanted desperately for him to teach her. Then he smiled and pressed her hand to his cheek.

“Ah, Susannah,” he murmured. “What a sweet temptation. A ripe fruit waiting to be plucked by an experienced hand.”

The confidence in his tone snapped her back to reality.

“Not by yours,” she retorted, jerking her hand away from his face. He laughed out loud, and she curled her fingers into her palm, her flesh still tingling from the slight roughness of his skin.

“We’ll see about that,” he murmured, his eyes warm with unashamed desire.

Someone called her name. Her mind registered it even as her heart protested the interruption. Oh, he infuriated her, all right, but he also made her feel more alive than she ever had before.

“Your sister wants you,” he pointed out.

“I hear her.” Yet she didn’t move.

“You’d better go on,” he urged. His smile tempted her to ignore the summons. She wished she had the courage to step into his arms and accept that silent invitation, but the knowing gleam in his eyes made her hold her ground.

Without another word, she turned her back on temptation and left the shelter of the crabapple tree to answer her sister’s summons.

They didn’t speak again that night.

The next morning, when Susannah went into town, toying with the idea of goading Jedidiah into kissing her again, she learned that he was gone. He had left town at dawn, without a word to anyone.

She refused to cry. A man like Jedidiah Brown didn’t deserve her tears. And he surely didn’t deserve her heart. Obviously, she had narrowly escaped making a fool of herself. If she ever saw the rotten scoundrel again, she would thank him.

Susannah returned home, eyes dry, firm in her decision to never again let her heart tempt her head.

Chapter One

Silver Flats, Colorado

One year later

She wondered if she’d killed him.

Susannah Calhoun stared down at her employer who lay unconscious on the sumptuous carpet of his dining room, and felt a twinge of remorse for hitting him with the very ugly statuette of the naked woman. But damn his hide, Brick Caldwell had gone too far in his amorous pursuit this time.

Gathering the skirts of her sky blue gown, she pushed back her silver blonde hair and crouched beside his body, placing a hand on his neck. A pulse beat there, and she sighed with relief. But since he owned the opera house where she sang every night, she felt certain that she was now unemployed.

He moaned, and she quickly straightened. Brick was likely to awaken with the temperament of a wounded bull. It would be much healthier all around if she wasn’t present when he opened his eyes.

As a matter of fact, the sooner she got out of Silver Flats—and beyond Brick Caldwell’s reach—the better.

As if he read her thoughts, his eyelids flickered, then opened.

For a moment he stared blankly at her shoes. Susannah took a quick step back. With a groan, he rolled over onto his back and raised a hand to his head. His gaze slid to her face and stayed there for a long, breathless moment. Rage followed recognition.

“You!” he thundered, then winced and rubbed his head.

Brick’s body blocked her escape, but if she timed it right, she might be able to get past him.

He suddenly sat up and grabbed for her, and only her quick maneuver prevented him from snagging her skirt with his fingers.

“Now, Brick,” she cajoled. “I realize you’re probably a bit angry—”

“Angry?” he roared. “I’ll teach you a lesson you’ll never forget.” He staggered to his feet. “No woman is going to get the best of Brick Caldwell! And certainly not some opera house whore.”

“
Whore
!” Incensed, Susannah propped her hands on her hips. “As I recall, you pig of a man, it was my refusal to
be
your whore that got us to this point!”

“You’ll never work in this town again,” Brick warned as if she hadn’t spoken. Then his lascivious gaze came to rest on her generous bosom, and his expression took on a sly cast. “Unless you decide to mend your ways, that is.”

“And I suppose your idea of mending my ways involves spending time in your bed? I don’t think so.” She glanced down his body. “The benefits appear to be very…small.”

Brick’s face flushed with fury. “You’ll do what I tell you, Susannah Calhoun!”

“Get out of my way.” She gave him a shove that upset his unsteady balance and sent him crashing into a mahogany table, and he fell heavily to the floor. The vase of flowers atop it wobbled and then smashed over his head, soaking his expensive pin-striped suit with water. Susannah eyed the daffodil that sat perched atop his balding pate. “By the way, Mr. Caldwell—I quit.”

She skirted around his outstretched legs and hurried out into the hallway, his enraged bellow following her. As Susannah yanked open the front door, the housekeeper, Abigail Hawkins, came scurrying out of the kitchen.

“Better get your rifle, Mrs. Hawkins,” she said. “Seems like there’s a wounded bear in there. You might have to shoot him.”

The housekeeper looked startled at first, then a smile flashed across her face. Susannah gave the woman a cheeky salute and hurried out into the night.

The sooner she saw the last of Silver Flats, the better.

Forty-eight hours later, Susannah watched Sheriff John Benning of Silver Flats turn the key to her jail cell. She had taken the early stage out of Silver Flats and made it halfway to Colorado Springs, before the local lawmen had caught up to the coach in search of her. They had called her a murderess and made a big scene of dragging her off the stage and back to Silver Flats.

And to add insult to injury, the sketch on the wanted poster they had brought with them had been
most
unflattering.

“Sheriff Benning, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!” Susannah exclaimed as the lawman hung the key on a peg on the wall. “I did
not
kill Brick Caldwell!”