The Devil You Know

P
RAISE
FOR
THE
BESTSELLING
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OVELS
OF
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O
G
OODMAN

“One of the premier Western romance writers, Goodman delivers a solid plot with engaging characters. There's plenty of sexual tension, and from its rousing beginning to the powerful climax, there's enough adventure to satisfy fans.”

—
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“This first-rate tale easily measures up to its predecessors and will make readers eager for their next visit to Bitter Springs.”

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Publishers Weekly
(starred review)

“A tender, engaging romance and a dash of risk in a totally compelling read . . . Gritty, realistic, and laced with humor.”

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Library Journal
(starred review)

“Jo Goodman is a master storyteller and one of the reasons I love historical romance so much.”

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“Fans of Western romance will be thrilled with this delightful addition to Goodman's strong list.”

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Booklist

“A wonderfully intense romance . . . A captivating read.”

—Romance Junkies

“An exciting American romance starring two likable protagonists and an overall wonderful cast.”

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“Exquisitely written. Rich in detail, the characters are passionately drawn . . . An excellent read.”

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The Oakland Press

“For the pure joy of reading a romance, this book comes close to being some kind of perfection.”

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Author

Berkley Sensation titles by Jo Goodman

KISSING COMFORT

THE LAST RENEGADE

TRUE TO THE LAW

IN WANT OF A WIFE

THIS GUN FOR HIRE

THE DEVIL YOU
KNOW

An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC

375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014

THE DEVIL YOU KNOW

A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

Copyright © 2016 by Joanne Dobrzanski.

Excerpt from
This Gun for Hire
by Jo Goodman copyright © 2015 by Joanne Dobrzanski.

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eBook ISBN: 9780698180857

PUBLISHING HISTORY

Berkley Sensation mass-market edition / May 2016

Cover photo credit Claudio Marinesco.

Cover design by Rita Frangie.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

For the Logan Road growing up gang.
You are the devils I know, especially you,
Davy.

Pancake Valley, Colorado

October 1891

“You reckon he's dead, John Henry?”

When Annalea Pancake received no reply to this inquiry, she did two things simultaneously: She poked at the inert body with a forked stick that she was certain would be her finest divining rod ever (if touching it to the pale gray flesh at the man's temple did not relieve it of its fantastical powers), and she looked over her shoulder at John Henry.

John Henry, for all that he was her boon companion, gave no sign that he was interested in her latest discovery. Indeed, he found the stick far worthier of contemplation, especially when she waved it in front of him as if she might finally throw it.

“You think this is for fetching, don't you?” Annalea lightly dragged the stick through the grass and watched John Henry follow the movement. His dark brown eyes shifted from one prong to the other as she wiggled the stick, but he did not pounce. He raised one eyebrow, which had the effect of wrinkling his entire forehead, and regarded her solemnly. Apparently there was no dignity in pouncing, and John Henry, with his short legs, improbably long ears, and doleful expression, had reason to embrace dignity where he could find it.

“I'm not tossing it, so put that out of your mind. Could be I'll find an underground spring. Wouldn't that be something?” She used the stick to point to the supine stranger. “Come here and have a look. C'mon. Better yet, have a sniff.” To demonstrate, Annalea made a show of sniffing the air. She breathed in the familiar fresh scent of the tall grass, had a hint of cool,
clean snow from the mountaintops, and caught the faint, sweet smell of pine sap that always lingered on the back of the wind.

The man, though, had no particular odor save for a certain earthiness, but then he looked to have been dragged a ways over the hard ground, through the grass, and probably through Potrock Run, judging by the condition of his clothes, torn, green-stained,
and
wet.

He was not wearing a coat, which was neither here nor there, except for the fact that cold weather had been settling in Pancake Valley and this man was not dressed for it, even when he had been in one piece. In fact, his clothes, once fine enough for a Saturday night dance in Old Man McKenney's barn or even a Sunday service if it was Christmas or Easter, were now tattered in so many places that it was easier to see what he
wasn't
wearing. Small bits of gravel dust were embedded in his black woolen jacket. The sleeve was torn and the seam at the shoulder was split so she could glimpse a deep gray vest embroidered with silver threads. One of his legs was cocked sideways, not broken, she didn't think, but wrenched at an unfortunate angle that was going to trouble him if he came to his senses. His trousers were torn beyond any seamstress's ability to properly mend, and the knee she could see was scraped raw and dotted mostly with drying blood. The punishing trail that had been forced upon him had cost him a shoe. And the one he had left was by no account a shoe for a man working the land. This shoe, a black and short-heeled, low-cut boot, belonged to someone who made his living from town business. A merchant, she thought. Maybe a government man or a lawyer. Either of those occupations would go a long way to explain what happened.

Annalea was not encouraged that during her assessment and contemplation, the man never stirred.

“I don't suppose you're of a temperament to help me turn him over,” she said to John Henry. The hound kept his distance. Annalea sighed. “That's what I thought. You are a disappointment to your kind.” She pitched the divining rod and shook her head when John Henry barked his approval and hurried after it. “Surely a disappointment,” she said under her breath.

Annalea dropped to her knees from her hunkered position and placed one hand on the unconscious fellow's shoulder and the other at his hip. She steeled herself, counted down from three, and gave him a mighty push. For all the effort she put into it, she only managed to move him sideways a few inches, not turn him over. She studied the problem, tried to think what her sister would do (because Willa said there were no problems, only situations), and came to the conclusion that this situation could be managed with a bit of leverage and momentum.

“Bring that stick back here, John Henry!” The words were no sooner out than she felt the dog nuzzling her skirt. “Oh. So you have.”

After a short, playful skirmish, Annalea had the stick in her possession. She shoved the forked end under the man's belly and started to rise. Her intention was to rock him back and forth with her foot and use the stick to lever him up and over, and in principle, it should have worked,
would
have worked, if the man had only continued to lie there, but it seemed he objected to being gutted by a divining rod with prongs nearly as sharp as the very devil's horns.

With a mighty groan, he pulled out the stick, tossed it sideways, and flopped hard onto his back.

John Henry followed the arc of the stick and trotted off.

Annalea fell on her backside, legs splayed in front, arms braced slightly behind. She stared openmouthed for a full five count before she said, “Well, I figure this means you ain't dead.”

The man not only did not open his eyes, but slowly raised one forearm to cover them. For a long time, he merely sipped the air, and Annalea supposed the act of drawing a breath pained him. It surprised her when he spoke.

“I might be dead,” he said. “It feels like I might be dead.”

“Probably feels like you
want
to be dead. You're in a bad way, mister.”

He said nothing.

“What happened?” asked Annalea. When he remained silent, she drew her legs together, folded them tailor fashion, and then leaned forward and rested her elbows on her
knees. She stared at the man's profile, wished he would remove his forearm so she could judge the shape of his face better, and said, “It'd be proper for you to tell me on account of you needing help and me needing to decide if I'm going to fetch it. Can't really help you on my own now, can I? Too scrawny. Ain't grown into my proper size yet, Willa says. And you can't count on John Henry to fetch anything save a stick.”

As if on cue, John Henry arrived to drop the stick in Annalea's lap. She picked it up, poked the man in the ribs with it, and although he grunted softly, he made no move to snatch it from her. Shrugging, she sent it flying.

“Most people reckon me to be a good girl. Leastways them that don't know I once stepped over my pa when he was passed out drunk and blocking the doorway instead of helping Willa get him into bed. I mention this because you should know that it can go either way, depending on you. I like to think I'm predisposed to helping a stranger. The Good Samaritan comes to mind, you see, and that's a powerful story in favor of offering you suckle. On the other—”

“Succor,” he said.

“How's that?”

“Succor, not suckle.”

“Mister, there's a bigger calf to rope here. As I was saying, judging by the rope burns on your wrists and the marked trail your sorry self left across this hillside, I am concluding you were dragged to Kingdom Come and then left for carrion. That's the kind of evidence that makes me wonder if you are a bad man, and maybe you deserved what you got. You have to admit it appears that someone thought you deserved it. After I hear from you, I'll make up my own mind.”

Following this speech, Annalea clamped her mouth closed and waited. Now that he knew what she was capable of, she thought she might be rewarded. She was, at least partially. He raised his forearm a fraction, looked at her askance, groaned softly, and then covered his eyes again.

“How
old
are you?”

“Ten. Nearly ten. That is to say that in eight days I will be ten. I am to have a new dress if Willa finishes it by then.
Willa's my sister. It is supposed to be a surprise, but I spied her sewing late one evening, and the fabric was the very one I pointed out as a favorite of mine at the mercantile. I didn't mean to catch her out. I wasn't trying. I was thirsty is all, and when I got up to get a glass of water, I saw her, and I went right back to bed so she wouldn't know. It no longer mattered that I was thirsty.” She drew a deep breath and let it out slowly. She frowned, puzzled. “I don't really see that my age accounts for anything.”

“I wondered if I might be in expectation of you expiring anytime soon,” he said dryly. “Apparently not.”

Now it was she who remained silent, this time to good effect.

“I am a bad man,” he said. “A villain, if you must know. Unworthy of your concern or your assistance. There. Go away.”

Annalea did not move but regarded him more curiously than before. “What sort of villain? Thief? Murderer? Defiler of womenfolk?”

“Jesus,” he said softly.

“Ah, blasphemer.” Quickly, before he could ask where she came by every other notion, she added, “I read. All sorts of things, if you must know.”

“Seems like you should stop.”

She ignored the suggestion. “Well?”

“Well what?”

“You have not yet informed me as to the precise nature of your villainy.”

“Ah. That.” He gingerly lowered his forearm and opened his eyes enough to squint at a patchwork of bright blue sky and thick cloud castles. Twin creases appeared between his dark eyebrows as the corners of his mouth slowly turned down. “I don't know,” he said finally. “But as you said, there is evidence to suggest someone thought I deserved this treatment, so you should proceed cautiously. Better to believe I am a bad man because that seems the most likely truth.”

“Do you really not know, or are you perhaps trying to protect me from learning of your heinous crime?”

His frown deepened and he turned his head a few degrees in her direction. “I really don't know.”

Annalea watched with interest as he tentatively flexed his hands. His thumbs and fingers all worked, but when he dug the heels of his hands into the ground and tried to push upright, it seemed that something as hot and jagged as a lightning strike shot through his left arm and shoulder. A spasm stiffened the muscles in his neck, and he strained to catch his breath.

“Maybe you don't remember me telling you that you're in a bad way, mister. The way your left shoulder's all droopy, I'd say something's out of joint. Hard to tell for sure until we get you out of your jacket, but I figure that shoulder's the least of what's ailing you. You're a bloody mess, but I don't think you've been shot. You'd know if you'd been shot, wouldn't you?”

Annalea fell quiet while he took inventory. She fingered one of the long, cocoa-colored braids that had fallen over her shoulder and raised the feathered tip to brush it back and forth under her jaw.

“If you live, you're going to need some new clothes. God's truth, though, if you die, we'd be a sorry lot to let you meet your maker in what you got on. Either way, you're going to get a new suit out of this.”

“That's a comfort.”

She smiled and nodded guilelessly, as if she had no comprehension of the sarcasm in his tone.

“You gotta name, mister? Or you forgot that, too, along with the heinous nature of your crime?”

He turned away, stared directly at the sky, and made no attempt to shield his eyes from the sun glancing off distant, snow-covered peaks. After several long moments, he said, “It'll come to me.”

While Annalea was considering that, John Henry sidled up to the stranger and sniffed. “
Now
you do what I asked,” she said, shaking her head as the hound kept his nose to the ground and walked the perimeter of the wounded man. “I already figured him for alive so you sniffing around is of no account. Go find a rabbit.”

Annalea was still trying to sort out what to do. This was not a situation, no matter what Willa said about such things. This was a problem. Could be that helping this man would
bring down trouble on their heads. Could be that letting him die was a sin so grievous that she would never atone for it. It did not ease her conscience that the villain was not asking for her help. His stoic acceptance of his circumstances struck her as rather noble, and that spoke to a more virtuous nature than a criminal one.

She was not one for sitting on a fence and found the position uncomfortable in the extreme. At some point she knew her indecision would become intolerable, and she would have to choose with no sense of whether she was being reckless or wise.

It did not come to that, however, because John Henry did a surprising thing after he stopped sniffing and lowered himself beside the stranger's awkwardly angled shoulder. Without giving the slightest indication of what he meant to do, John Henry tipped his head toward the man's roughly abraded cheek and licked.

As a sign, it was good enough for Annalea. Satisfied that John Henry had knowledge of truths that she could not yet fully appreciate, she trusted his judgment. Willa might see it differently, but telling Willa would relieve Annalea of her burden.

“John Henry likes you, so I am going to be a Good Samaritan and do what I can for you.” She uncrossed her legs, rose to her knees, and unfastened her woolen coat. He made a weak protest, which she ignored, and placed the coat across his chest. She raised the collar so it protected his neck and the lower half of his face from the cold and gently tucked it in around his shoulders and upper arms. “You probably should try to stay awake. I don't know why exactly, but Willa always says that when a ranch hand takes a spill and knocks himself senseless. If Willa says it, it's probably important. She doesn't much waste her breath.”

“Unlike you.”

Annalea grinned toothily, revealing a space where the cusp of an incisor was starting to push through. “I take after Pa.”

The stranger had nothing to say to that.

Annalea looked him over, wondering what else she could do for him before she made her way back home. “It's two miles or so that I have to cover to reach the house, and there's
no telling if Willa will be there, but I'll do my best to hurry and find her. John Henry will stay with you.” She pointed a finger at John Henry and gave him a stern look and a sterner order. He flattened himself beside the stranger and offered up his most sorrowful expression. “Pitiful dog,” she whispered, bending to knuckle him between his ears.