With a wry smile he said, “Don’t let the collar fool you. I’m as low-down as ever.”

      “Somehow I doubt that.” As her eyes softened with the caring he remembered from Kansas, she raised her hand as if she wanted to touch him, perhaps to make sure he was real. John avoided her hand with a shrug, but their gazes stayed locked and held tight.

      They were left alone in the crowd. Both dressed in black, Abbie and John seemed cold to each other, but he wasn’t fooled. The coals in his kitchen stove had looked dead this morning, but they were banked and smoldering on the inside. If he poked them, they would flare to life. John couldn’t stop himself from remembering that he and Abbie had started a fire in Kansas. All sorts of things had burned between them, including the bedsheets….

      Praise for Victoria Bylin

      “This is an author who writes with heart, and articulates

       well a clear understanding of human feelings and frailties that readers should totally enjoy.”

      —Historical Romance Writers Review

      Praise for previous titles

      West of Heaven

      “The hero, definitely alpha male and code-of-the-west

       cowboy, provides wonderful appeal, as does the heroine and her orientation to family values. This story proves that love is salvation from death and its worst griefs.”

      —Romantic Times

      Of Men and Angels

      “An uplifting tale of a spiritual woman,

       who’s deeply human, and the flawed man she loves. It’s evident that Ms. Bylin writes from her heart.”

      —Old Book Barn Gazette

      “Deft handling makes the well-tarnished Jake

       a man to admire.”

      —Romantic Times

      “Of Men and Angels is the perfect title for a perfect book.

       The characters are wonderfully human and well rounded, and the story is an exciting, heartwarming and spiritual tale with a magnitude of emotion.”

      —Romance Reviews Today

      DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

       TITLES AVAILABLE NOW:

      #747 THE VISCOUNT

       Lyn Stone

      #748 THE RANGER’S WOMAN

       Carol Finch

      #749 THE BETROTHAL

       Terri Brisbin, Joanne Rock and Miranda Jarrett

      Abbie’s Outlaw

      Victoria Bylin

      To Michael… Beloved husband, you are mine!

      Contents

      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

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Epilogue

      Chapter One

      Midas, New Mexico

       June 1887

      When the Reverend John Leaf saw Abigail Windsor standing at the top of the train steps, dressed in black and shielding her eyes from the noonday sun, he knew that all hell was about to break loose. He’d made a million mistakes in his life and had made amends for all of them—except one. Now that mistake was coming to light in a way he had dreaded for years and deeply feared.

      His eyes stayed on Abbie as she scanned the crowd. Lord, he thought, she looked awful in black. The girl he remembered had insisted on wearing pretty colors in spite of the gloom in her life. He remembered her best in a coppery dress that brought out the highlights in her hair. He also remembered her wearing nothing at all, which was a problem for a man who’d sworn off women entirely.

      He’d never been inclined toward marriage or children of his own. The Leaf family curse ran thick in his blood, and he’d rather die than pass it on to an unsuspecting child. Certainly not to a son who would grow up filled with hate or to a daughter who would go through life lonely and crazed like his own mother had.

      But if the letter he’d received from a girl in Virginia was true, he’d done exactly that. The hairs on John’s neck stood on end as he remembered opening the envelope with Silas’s handwriting on the front. On a single sheet, his friend had written, “This came for you. Godspeed.”

      Along with Silas’s note, John had removed an expensive linen envelope addressed to him in a schoolgirl’s cursive. The address was brief: “Mr. John Leaf, Bitterroot, Wyoming.” Beneath the two lines she had written, “Please forward.” John had peeled off the wax, unfolded a sheet of stationery and started to read.

      Dear Mr. Leaf,

      My name is Susanna Windsor. If you are the same John Leaf who left the Wyoming Territorial Prison in April of 1881, please write to me at my school. I believe I am your daughter.

      Regards.

      John had stared at the words in a fog. The girl had said just enough to scare the daylights out of him without revealing anything about herself. The address she had supplied was for a girls’ academy in Virginia. He’d never been east of the Mississippi and didn’t know a soul who had, at least not someone who could afford a fancy private school. The original postmark was two months old. He figured the envelope had been sitting in the Bitterroot post office for weeks before Silas went to town where the postmaster must have given it to him.

      John had spent a wretched night remembering dozens of women he’d barely known and one he’d almost taken to Oregon. He’d also sat at his desk with his head in his hands, praying that the poor girl had made a mistake. He was obligated to reply to her letter, but who was she?

      He’d gotten his answer the next morning when Justin Norris had delivered a telegram from the girl’s mother.

      We have urgent business. Will arrive in Midas on the California Ltd. on June 3rd. Abigail Windsor nee Moore.

      It had taken him a minute to put the pieces together. The stuffy-sounding Abigail Windsor was Abbie Moore, the girl who had threatened to shoot out his kneecaps, then fed him supper because she’d felt bad about it. They had spent two weeks together, alone on her grandmother’s farm, and nature had taken its course.

      John’s stomach tied itself into a knot. He wanted a drink, but he had consumed his weekly shot of whiskey the previous night in a vain effort to forget about what had happened on their last night together. To his shame, John had ridden off