The Marshal's Surrender (Holidays in Mountain Home Book 3) Read online

  Contents

  PREVIEW

  Title Page

  Book Description

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  A Note From The Author

  Chicken and Dumplings Recipe

  This Noelle

  Books by Kristin Holt

  About the Author

  PREVIEW

  “This isn’t a good idea,” he whispered.

  “Are you…” She opted for light-hearted banter. It would be so much easier if this came across as teasing, particularly if he turned her away. “Chicken?”

  “Am I chicken?”

  “Hmmm.” She stepped even closer, tucking her boots between his. Her shins made contact with his. Mother definitely wouldn’t approve, but she had a point to prove here, and aimed to do it right quick. “I think you are.”

  A grin twisted the corner of his kissable lips. “Not smart, calling a lawman yellow-bellied.”

  “Prove it. Prove you’re not a coward, not scared of what one little kiss awakened in you.”

  “Think that kiss awoke somethin’?”

  “I do.”

  He leaned down, until mere inches separated his mouth from hers. The weight of his arms about her middle felt so darn good, so right. It would be so easy to close the distance between them, to initiate another kiss. She fairly salivated at the thought of pressing her lips to his.

  “I’m no coward,” he whispered.

  “Prove it.”

  He shook his head. “I think it was an anomaly. A freak thing. Random like a lightning strike. You’d just been through an ordeal, and it was gratitude and relief speaking.”

  But he hadn’t pulled away. His words issued a challenge of their own—daring her to prove that kiss high in the mountain canyon, when she’d been nearly frozen and scared she’d spend a night in the forest in December.

  “I was happy to see you.”

  “In that moment, you would’ve kissed anyone.”

  She raised one brow. “I might’ve kissed my brother on the cheek. But that kiss?” She leaned nearer, wondering if he sensed half the pull toward her that she did toward him. She’d never been so incredibly forward, but found she didn’t, couldn’t, regret it. “That was for you alone.”

  The light faded further, making it even harder to see his expression, the clarity of his eyes. Oh, but she wanted to.

  He shrugged.

  “You doubt me?”

  “Prove it.” His whispered plea was all the prompting she needed.

  She touched her lips to his and found herself swept into a kiss as powerful as the first. Only this one had a sense of longing that was infinitely deeper.

  This kiss promised a beginning.

  A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Rated PG)

  Holidays In Mountain Home, Book 3

  by

  The books in this series are loosely connected and may be read in any order.

  A Sweet Historical Western Holiday Romance Novella (Rated PG)

  Holidays In Mountain Home, Book 3

  The books in this series are loosely connected and may be read in any order.

  Mountain Home, Colorado

  December 1900

  Sheriff August (Gus) Rose is a one-woman man. Too bad the only gal he’s ever loved is married… again. Even if he were ready to court someone new—which he’s not—Noelle Finlay would be his last choice. After all, her brother stole Gus’s bride-to-be last Christmas.

  The holiday season evokes unwelcome memories and he’s almost glad an unruly gang provides a distraction. But petty vandalism rapidly escalates to hanging crimes—and the marauding bandits have targeted Noelle.

  With his reputation as a lawman under fire and his tattered heart tangled up in Noelle, he discovers he’s not only capable of loving her… he’ll willingly die to save her.

  THE MARSHAL’S SURRENDER Copyright © 2014, 2015, 2016 Kristin Holt LC

  www.KristinHolt.com

  Kindle ISBN-10: 1634380177

  Kindle ISBN-13: 978-1-63438-017-1

  Paperback ISBN-10: 1634380169

  Paperback ISBN-13: 978-1-63438-016-4

  Amazon ASIN: B01MSUPYL1

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  eBook and Paperback Cover designs © 2015 by Teresa Allen.

  eBook and Paperback interior design by Kristin Holt.

  Editing by RVP The Man Editing.

  For Teresa Allen. Thank you for helping me bring Gus and Noelle to life. Your talent with photography and cover design is extraordinary.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Mountain Home, Colorado

  December 1900

  A single choice held all the potential necessary to alter one’s life. Forever.

  Noelle Finlay’s parents had learned that lesson the hard way. They’d lived with that knowledge for nineteen years...every day of her life. Everything had changed since the letter had arrived and she’d confronted her parents.

  Her entire life had been a lie.

  Reminders surfaced at least once a week, often daily.

  A single choice.

  Such as craving five more minutes in the warmth of her bed before rising. Like waiting for fresh coffee instead of making do with brew that had been on the stove since early morning milking.

  Like the decision to cut through the Kennedy place, to shave five minutes. Dawn lit the winter sky but had yet to crest the mountain peaks.

  She never rode across the neighbors’ property. She was a good girl, always kept to the roads, always left on time. Always arrived at Pettingill’s Tailor Shop at the appointed hour, often several minutes early. She prided herself on being in the right place at the right time.

  Perhaps it wasn’t a single choice that landed her in the snare of desperate trouble.

  Perhaps a series of choices led to the danger at hand.

  She urged Buttercup a little faster across the field, surprised to see movement in the Kennedys’ yard.

  Ellis and Jennifer Kennedy were supposed to be away, visiting married children and grandchildren for another two days. Had they returned early? Good. Just that morning, Pa had taken note of the impending storm. His creaky bones always forecast weather with surprising accuracy.

  She urged the mount nearer the house. She’d call out to the neighbors, welcome them home, and make sure they knew she was the trespasser. A welcome trespasser, given the Finlays had cared for Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy’s animals while they were away. That quick stop at the house would cost her thirty seconds at the most.

  On approach, fine hairs on her arms rose even as Buttercup raised her head, her ears forward. The mare’s pace slowed.

  “What is it, girl?” Fe
ar tingled through Noelle’s spine.

  Trouble.

  Her whole body flashed from overly warm beneath multiple layers of winter clothing to frigid, as if Buttercup had tossed her into the icy river.

  Men.

  Four of them.

  And Hector Kennedy wasn’t with them.

  The rhythmic pounding of hooves upon frozen ground wasn’t nearly muted enough by the several inches of powder that had fallen overnight.

  They’d seen her, as surely as she’d seen them.

  Worse, her gaze snared with one man’s, suntanned skin pinked by frigid air. Light hair hung lank beneath a dark stocking cap, his beard more red than blond. The slope of his forehead, the curve of his cheek, the exact blend of green and brown in the hazel of his eyes…all permanently seized by her artist’s eye.

  He held her captive with that iron-cold gaze…and a butcher knife to the throat of Kennedys’ milk cow.

  This was the milker—she’d done Mrs. Kennedy’s chores when she’d been laid up last summer.

  This wasn’t a standard winter’s butchering. No block and tackle. No preparation to bleed the animal.

  Wrong, all wrong.

  He didn’t live here—didn’t belong here. Wasn’t a hired hand. Dark eyes tracked her approach, never leaving her face.

  She’d recognize him, this stranger, anywhere.

  Bile burned the back of her throat and her pulse pounded double-time.

  And just like that, she knew—just knew.

  This must be the gang causing trouble on the north side of the valley. Never this close to home.

  No, no!

  She swung Buttercup away from the house, tapped her heels into the mare’s flanks, and urged her faster.

  But not quick enough to miss the man’s rapid draw of knife across bovine neck and an arc of blood splatter the snow.

  Run.

  Panic jumbled her thoughts, collided and frantic.

  Heading straight home, her first instinct, would be a bad idea. Yes, Pa and her brothers were awake. But no one was prepared. Few would be armed.

  Just in case the bandits didn’t know who she was—yet—or where she lived, she would not lead them to her family.

  Town.

  She must alert Gus.

  He’d protect her. He’d protect everyone.

  Bitter-cold wind tore the scarf from her head. Her ears stung with frost as she leaned lower over Buttercup’s neck and urged the mare faster. Hooves slipped on snow and ice.

  Long seconds passed.

  Shouting from behind.

  Buttercup regained her footing and galloped toward town.

  Noelle pushed the horse to run.

  Wind zipped past. Her heart pounded. She risked a glance back, relieved to see the bandits hadn’t followed.

  At last, she drew near town. She navigated Main Street as fast as the treacherous roads allowed. Her pulse roared in her ears and the shakes had taken hold.

  Smoke curled from the stovepipe above the sheriff’s office. Thank God. Already there—she wouldn’t have to push on and rouse Gus at home.

  She swung from the saddle, and slipped on the icy boardwalk, nearly going down hard. She caught her footing and pushed through the doorway.

  Sheriff August Rose met her at the threshold. He caught her by the upper arms.

  An immediate sense of security stole through her, near this man who’d made them all feel safe. But she still couldn’t catch her breath.

  She had his full attention. Gray eyes the color of a winter’s stormy sky searched her face. He waited for her to speak.

  “Kennedys’. Took a shortcut—” she gasped, her gorge rising at the recollection of the ringleader’s hazel gaze, devoid of humanity. “The Ruffian Gang—”

  Gus released her, grabbed his coat and shoved his arms into the sleeves.

  Dual holsters rode low on his hips. Two Colts.

  He buttoned the greatcoat as she disclosed the rest. “Four of ‘em. They killed the milk-cow. Timothy milked that cow not two hours ago.”

  Her younger brother had been alone at Kennedys’ place for morning chores. Fear spiked, taking her pulse along with it.

  “Round up the deputies.” He pulled on protective gloves.

  “Yes.” Her knees wobbled like a newborn foal. “They’re armed. A butcher knife. Rifles.”

  He nodded, grabbed a rifle from the rack behind his desk, and jerked the door open. Snow flurries drifted in, swirling, caught in the current.

  The thought of Gus facing four—at least four—alone…

  Her fateful decision had brought Gus, U.S. Marshal turned Sheriff, into the fray.

  Lawman or not, culpability rested on her.

  What if she lost him? “Be careful.”

  He nodded, grim. He pushed his battered Stetson low upon his ears.

  She followed him out, grabbed Buttercup’s dangling reins and mounted.

  He ran for the shed where he sheltered his horse. Times like these, he apparently left his mount ready to ride. He swung into the saddle, and with the ease of a skilled rider, headed south at a run.

  By the time Gus approached the Kennedy place, the bandits had cleared out.

  He swore under his breath.

  This time, the Ruffian Gang had gone too far.

  Beau side-stepped and tossed his head, offended by the stench of hot blood.

  What a mess.

  A bit of vandalism, a broken window, burning down a long-abandoned homestead on the outskirts of Mountain Home had let him know trouble brewed. But this. This was altogether something else.

  Still, Gus didn’t know who they were dealing with, not even a name. Folks about Mountain Home had taken to referring to the bandits as ‘ruffians’ which lead to Ruffian Gang.

  The violence was escalating, and fast. Gus didn’t like it. Not one bit.

  He’d skirted the house, checked the barn, determined the tracks of at least four horses heading south, further away from town.

  He wanted to give chase but caution urged him to wait for armed deputies.

  Why hadn’t the Kennedys raised the alarm?

  Acid churned in his stomach. With a pistol firm in his grip, he dismounted and crept to the house’s door. He listened. Sensing nothing, he knocked quietly. “Sheriff Rose. Open up.”

  The door was locked. He knocked harder.

  He strained to hear anything inside. If Mr. and Mrs. Kennedy had witnessed the violence in their yard, they’d be right smart to stay locked inside and pray the attack ended with the cow.

  He strained to hear over the whistle of winter wind.

  Nothing.

  Hadn’t he heard something about the Kennedys’ daughter expecting a baby? With a quick scan of the yard, the horizon, and the certainty he was still alone on the homestead, he checked the barn. Chickens clucked. A roan mare kicked at her stall. But the wagon was gone, as were the matched pair of roans.

  The Kennedys were out, probably had been all night.

  Turning his collar up, meager protection against the wind, he snugged his Stetson down tighter and surveyed the bloody scene. Footprints jumbled, mixed, all around the steaming cow.

  This could’ve been Noelle.

  Bile rose and he nearly lost his breakfast. He’d worn a U.S. Marshal’s badge for more than a decade. It’d been ages since he’d lost a meal over the sight of blood.

  But the thought of that young girl, caught by a band of miscreants was enough to—

  Gus halted, listened.

  Mountain wind whistled past, distorting sounds, finally carrying the warning to his frozen ears once more.

  Riders.

  Coming in fast.

  He ran for his horse, on the sheltering side of Kennedys’ house, pulled his rifle from the scabbard, and took up a defensive position.

  Within seconds, it became apparent he had nothing to fear.

  Noelle had acted fast, alerted his pair of deputies.

  Same as always with the Ruffian Gang, the law had arrived. Too late.<
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  CHAPTER TWO

  “Good fellow,” Gus murmured in the horse’s ear as he handed him over to the livery. “You did real good.”

  Beau flicked his ears and eyed Gus with condemnation. The faithful gelding had carried Gus more than twenty miles. First, past the nearest neighbors to ensure they’d not attacked the Finlays and others. No matter how hard they searched, they’d lost the outlaws’ tracks, obliterated by drifting snow.

  The livery boys would dry him off, tend his abused hooves, see him fed and watered properly. Beau deserved the best. “An extra bucket of oats.”

  “That’ll be a dime, Sheriff.”

  Highway robbery. Gus found a slim ten-cent piece among the coins in his purse and paid.

  His pocket watch said what the gloomy, snowy sky couldn’t—half-past twelve. Noelle would be at Pettingill’s Tailor shop or in the house out back.

  Two places he’d successfully avoided.

  But this wasn’t the time for bellyaching and he never shirked his duty. He drew a deep breath, steadied his ragged nerves, and reconciled himself to the task at hand.

  He’d assigned the deputies to send the butcher out to the Kennedys’, with at least one of ‘em as guard. Until they knew the Ruffians had fully retreated, he wouldn’t risk anybody’s health.

  He stomped his ice-crusted boots on the shop’s boardwalk, his frozen feet burning with looming frostbite. The cold and wet had long since cut clear through his Union suit. Bells on the shop door tinkled as he let himself in. The store, much the same as a year ago, was still warm, orderly, welcoming, and well-appointed.

  Noelle wasn’t there.

  Instead, two ladies manned the counter, both waiting on customers. No sense standing around, biding his time ‘til he could speak to one of them. He tipped his hat in silent greeting and hurried back outside.

  He bent into the wind to block the driving snow with the brim of his hat.