The Inheritance

Nicholas laughed, a harsh, raucous sound.

Daisy hurried on. “It can be a marriage of convenience. Even so, our marriage would be an obvious sign to the tenants that I accept you and approve of what you’re doing.”

He shook his head.

“You won’t marry me?”

“Not on the terms you’ve stated.”

“On what terms, then?”

“I would want to get full value for
my
sacrifice,” Nicholas said. “I would want to have a wife who was a wife.”

“I’m not sure that would be a good idea, Your Grace,” Daisy said hesitantly.

“Then we’re at a stalemate,” Nicholas said. “If I have to take a loss on the sale of Severn, that’s what I’ll do.”

“You’re really going to sell Severn Manor?” Daisy asked, agonized.

“As quickly as I can, for as much as I can get.”

“No. Don’t sell just yet. I’ll … I’ll marry you on any terms you ask.”

OUTLAW’S BRIDE

“
Outlaw’s Bride
is a very amusing and imaginative romp that has the Joan Johnston stamp of excellence all over it. The slow unfurling of the real villain and his motives are a subtle counterpoint to the battle of wills that plays out as Patch chases her man and Ethan does his best to resist her. This novel is a highly recommended treat.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

“Patch … is strong enough to stand by her man, even when he doesn’t know he’s hers. All in all, a ‘helluva good’ western with enough shoot-outs, chuckles, and mystery to draw all sorts of new fans for Ms. Johnston. Keep ’em coming, Joan!”

—Heartland Critiques

“Intrigue and passion, combined with a tender love story, make this one delicious, and the subplots promise us closer looks at her riveting characters in future books.”

—
Rendezvous

“Readers who recall Patch and Ethan will rejoice in their return and savor their sensuous, triumphant, and exciting love story. Joan Johnston has created a charming, appealing romance destined to delight readers.”

—
Romantic Times

KID CALHOUN

“4+ Hearts! Powerful and moving … Joan Johnston has cleverly merged the aura of the American-style romance with the grittier westerns she has written in the past, making
Kid Calhoun
into a feast for all her fans. This irresistible love story once again ensures Ms. Johnston a place in readers’ hearts and on their ‘keeper’ shelves.”

—Romantic Times

“This story has surprises at every turn … and it’s all pulled together with Ms. Johnston’s special blend of humor. Plenty of action and adventure to keep you entertained; this is a top-notch western romance with sparkling characters and dynamite dialogue.”

—Rendezvous

“Not to be missed … Joan Johnston peoples the story with unforgettable subplots and characters who make every fine thread of
Kid Calhoun
weave into a touching tapestry.”

—
Affaire de Coeur

“This most enjoyable western is packed with spunky women, tough men, rotten bad guys, and ornery kids … just the ingredients for a fine read!”

—Heartland Critiques

He could hear her breathing in the next room. It was a painful sound, the air rattling in her chest before it rasped out again between cracked, dry lips. His mother had pneumonia, the doctor had said when he finally arrived, a full day after he had been begged to come. She would most likely die.

It would be a blessing if she did, he thought. She had been sick for a long time from that other disease, the one whores got that gave them sores and turned them blind and finally left them to die as maddened creatures. She hadn’t worked for maybe a year or more. He had done odd jobs that kept them from starving, sweeping up sawdust in the saloon and emptying spittoons. He had found an abandoned line shack that gave them shelter. But without heat in the cold of a Texas blue norther, she had fallen ill.

He had turned thirteen a week ago without a celebration, without any acknowledgment at all from her. She hadn’t remembered. Her mind was already going. He wanted the pain of watching her die to end. She was his mother, and he hated her, and
hated himself for hating her. He prayed the pneumonia would set them both free at last.

“Nicholassss.”

He heard the tortured sound of his name pass her lips. He should go to her. He should answer her. But he lay where he was, huddled beneath a thin blanket on the floor, his shoulders hunched against the cold.

“Pleeeease.”

The whisper of sound carried to where he lay and shuddered over him. She was his mother. He must go to her. But he lay where he was, feeling the anger sweep through him for what she had done.

She had betrayed his father and given herself to another man. He had been the result. Only her secret hadn’t been discovered right away. He had spent eight years as Lord Philip’s son. Long enough to know what it meant to have a father. Long enough to be confused and crushed when that same father drove him and his mother from their home in England to exile in America. Long enough to know what it was to be warm and well fed and secure. The contrast, the small cold shack and his empty belly and his mother dying on a pallet on the floor in the next room, was all the more harsh and horrifying.

He covered his ears to shut out the rattling sound as she choked on the fluid that filled her lungs. He waited for her to call him again. He would go then. He would not be able to lie there and listen to her call and not go to her. Even though he hated her. Even though she deserved to die a terrible death.

“Nicholassss.”

He leapt to his feet but got tangled in the blanket, which clung like a web, threatening to hold him captive
until he could be devoured by some monstrous imaginary spider.

“I’m coming, Mama,” he cried. “I’m coming!”

He fought the blanket and freed himself and ran to her. He dropped onto the hard floor, feeling the pain in his knees, which were bare in his shabby pants.

“I’m here, Mama. I’m here,” he said, his throat swollen with pain and grief and remorse. “Mama?”

He thought she was dead. Her breathing was so shallow her chest barely rose. She was so thin, so very thin, nothing but skin and bone. He had tried to feed her, but she wouldn’t eat. He could see the blue veins in her eyelids in the early-morning light that filtered through the broken-paned window above her.

“Mama?” His voice pleaded with her to answer him. To forgive him for wanting her dead.

“It was a lie,” she rasped. “Someone lied.”

“Who lied, Mama? About what?”

“You are your father’s son,” she said in short, ragged bursts of breath. “I never lay with another man.”

“What? What, Mama? Mama?”

Her breath soughed out like a bellows that is slowly pressed flat. It took him a moment to realize she was no longer breathing. That she was dead.

“Mama? Mama? Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaa!

Nicholas Calloway sat bolt upright, his hands trembling, his throat painfully constricted, his body bathed in sweat. It was pitch black, and it took him a second to realize where he was, camped out under the sky, not far from Abilene, Texas.

It was only a dream. The same dream. Again.

He raised shaky hands and pressed them against
his eyes. He had learned how to suffer the dream silently, but it had all seemed so vivid, so achingly real. As though it had happened yesterday, even though it had been more than twenty years since his mother had died. He was no longer that frightened boy. He had gone on with his life.

So why couldn’t he put his mother’s death behind him? Why had he been plagued all these years with the memory of that awful morning?

Was it because of what she had said on her deathbed? Why had she tried to absolve herself from guilt? She should have told the truth at the end.

Maybe she
was
telling the truth
.

That was the voice that had kept the dream alive, the nagging voice that told him he might not be a bastard. The treacherous voice that offered him hope.

He should have found a way long ago to return to England, to confront his father with his mother’s dying words. But other things—at first, poverty, and later, responsibilities—had conspired to keep him in America. He had a home here now and a son of his own. The past was the past. There was no going back. He just wished there was some way to prevent the dream from recurring, from being so disturbingly real.

The sound of a twig snapping underfoot made him instantly alert. It must have been another, similar sound that had woken him. He reached slowly for the Colt .45 that had never been farther away than the reach of his hand. He pulled it from the holster that lay beside the saddle he had used for a pillow. He moved silently, stealthily away from his camp
and concealed himself in a small hollow to wait and watch.

No one would have recognized, in the merciless gray eyes that searched the landscape, the vulnerable boy Nicholas Calloway had been. His mother’s death, and the few terrible years that followed, had toughened and hardened him. The lonely, frightened boy of the past existed only in his dreams. The man he had become was ruthless. A killer. Of course, that was a necessary quality in his chosen profession.