The Reluctant Outlaw. Karen Kirst
Читать онлайн книгу.
on>
“What’s wrong? Aren’t you hungry?”
“What’s wrong?” Julianna tossed the remainder aside and jumped up to face him squarely. He was tall, but then so was she. Tilting her head back a fraction, she glared at him. “Oh, let me see … I’d intended to go shopping but instead interrupted a robbery. I had a gun held to my head. I was forced to ride for hours with a stranger to an undisclosed destination. To put it in simpler terms—you kidnapped me. Tackled me. Threatened me. Tore my favorite dress.” She indicated the hem with a sweep of her hand. “And worst of all,” she added, her voice wobbling, “you made me miss my mother’s birthday.”
One rogue tear slipped down her cheek, and she blinked fast to dry her eyes.
Before she could comprehend what he intended, he lifted his hand to her face and ever so gently wiped the tear away with the pad of his thumb. His touch was as delicate as a butterfly’s wing.
It confused her. There was more to this outlaw than she had anticipated.
Dear Reader,
Thank you for choosing The Reluctant Outlaw. I hope you enjoyed reading about Evan and Juliana’s journey to love. My favorite heroes are like Evan—tough, determined and loyal—with a measure of tenderness thrown in. Like Evan, many of us struggle with fear in different seasons of our lives. We can find comfort in the fact that God is in control. Nothing surprises Him. I admire Juliana’s ability to cling to God’s promises even in the midst of her ordeal. As His children, we must learn to do the same when trials come our way.
East Tennessee is near and dear to my heart. Born and raised about an hour from Gatlinburg and Cades Cove, I visited the mountains quite often and worked in Gatlinburg for a time. The majestic beauty of the Great Smoky Mountains, as well as the abundance of animal and plant life, draws millions of visitors each year. It was a pleasure to write about such a special place and envision what it must’ve been like over a hundred years ago.
I would love to hear from you! You can write to me at Love Inspired Books, 233 Broadway, Suite 1001, New York, NY 10279, email me at [email protected], or visit my website at: www.karenkirst.com.
Best wishes,
Karen Kirst
The Reluctant Outlaw
Karen Kirst
To my husband, Marek—
thank you for your endless support and
encouragement. You are my voice of reason.
Without you, there would be no laughter in my life.
To my parents, Richard and Dorothy Kirst—
thanks, Mom, for all those trips to the library.
I wouldn’t be living this dream today had it not been
for you. And Dad, your generosity
is what I love most about you.
To my critique partners—
my sister Shelly Benson, niece Jessica Price,
and best friend, Danielle Mattson—thank you
for your insights and encouragement
on this journey to publication!
A big thanks to my editor Emily Rodmell!
You took a chance on me and I’m so thankful you did!
My ultimate thank-you goes to my Heavenly Father
God and His Son Jesus Christ!
Apart from Him, I can do nothing.
For God has not given us a spirit of fear,
but of power and of love and of a sound mind.
—2 Timothy 1:7
Chapter One
Gatlinburg, Tennessee June 1880
Blocking the entrance to Clawson’s Mercantile, Evan Harrison tried to blend in with the overhang’s shadows. He’d dressed in head-to-toe black, his hat pulled low to shade his eyes. Leaning against the glass-paned door, arms crossed and one ankle slung carelessly over the other, he could’ve been waiting for someone or simply watching the morning rush of people. What passersby couldn’t see was his heart’s sharp tattoo against his rib cage and the sweat sliding between his shoulder blades to trickle down his spine.
His narrowed gaze flicked to and fro, his muscles bunched and ready to spring should anyone head his way. Hurry up, Fitz. He wondered how Art was doing in the back alley.
This wasn’t his first holdup, so why the unease? He scanned the crowd again, and the burning in his gut grew worse. He was worried about Fitz. The outlaw inside the mercantile was a wild card. Lenny Fitzgerald had proven time and again that he wasn’t afraid to spill innocent blood. And he wasn’t particular about his victims.
Evan had done his best to prevent the violence, but he could only do so much without arousing suspicion. He couldn’t take a chance of blowing his cover. He’d worked too hard and waited too long to have that happen now.
He closed his eyes, wishing he could put off the inevitable. Then he remembered the reason he was there and his resolve hardened. He was on a quest for justice, and he would get it. No matter what.
He snapped his eyes open at the sound of someone approaching. Shifting his head to the right, he caught sight of a young woman striding down the boardwalk in his direction, her boots clipping the weathered planks with determination. She was on a mission, it seemed.
Please let her be headed anywhere else but here, he thought.
As she neared, he couldn’t help but notice her bold beauty. Sleek red hair peeked out from beneath a navy-and-cream floral-print bonnet framing an oval-shaped face. He admired her ivory complexion, so rare in redheads, and the pert nose, regal cheekbones and generous mouth. Her sturdy navy dress outlined a pleasing female form, tall yet graceful.
She must’ve noticed him staring, for she quirked a cinnamon eyebrow, her lips firming in disapproval. Her eyes raked him before meeting his gaze head-on. One jerk of her chin hinted of a stubborn streak.
“Excuse me.” She speared him with her gaze. “You’re blocking the entrance.”
Her eyes were green, not the expected blue. Deep green, the color of spruce trees streaked with sunset gold.
Straightening, Evan plucked the hay from his mouth and tossed it to the ground.
“You can’t go in there.”
A line of confusion formed between her fine eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Mr. Clawson had to step out for a few minutes. He asked me to tell any customers who happened by that he’d be right back.”
Annoyance flickered in those gorgeous eyes. “That’s impossible. Mr. Clawson is dead. His son-in-law, Larry Moore, is the owner now.”
Swallowing his frustration, he struggled to maintain an air of indifference. Could she see the vein throbbing at his temple? “My mistake. Guess I mixed up the names.”
A loud shout, followed by a heavy thump, sounded through the door. Evan cringed, resisting the urge to turn and look. She craned her neck to peer beyond his shoulder, and he sidestepped to block her line of sight.
“Someone is in there,” she snapped, her eyes narrowing. “What kind of game are you playing?”
“Trust