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Overview
California, 1867. The wilderness of Yosemite Valley is no place to be caught alone. When Scotty MacDowell rescues a wounded stranger from a fierce blizzard, she is thinking only of saving a lost traveler. She never expects she’s nursing a passionate lover back to health.
Seven months later, Alex Golovin returns to Scotty’s tiny cabin in the wilderness, but not to take her back into his arms. Instead of the man she loved, Alex returns as an angry lawyer, determined to run Scotty off of her beloved land. Caught between passion and responsibility, Scotty and Alex endure a daily struggle to stay true to their hearts, no matter the cost.
“Everything a lover of romance could ask for and more.” —Penelope Williamson, author of The Outsider
“Jane Bonander reaches to her readers’ hearts.”—RT Book Reviews
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626811881 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Books |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2019 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 323 |
| Sales rank: | 604,420 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
Beneath the earth's naked skin sculpted muscles of granite flex against the erosive forces of nature's fist. Above the land, the silent snow prepares for invasion, gathering momentum on convex slopes, stressing the massive powdery cover until it breaks free on its downward plunge.
Ian MacDowell's journal
Yosemite Valley, California — October 1867
Scotty MacDowell paused, listening to the thundering sounds of the avalanche in the distance. She'd heard them all morning. Surely now the passes were closed. Warm relief spread through her. She was alone and safe — until spring.
She slogged through the fresh snow, her pet raccoon, Muggin, curled around her neck like a scarf. Tightening her grip on the burlap sack that carried the dead rabbit, she shuddered as she remembered having to release the tawny-colored hare from the trap. Her father had always been the one to set and spring the traps, but now, with him gone ...
Sucking in a ragged breath, she wondered how long it would take for the sharp edges of her grief to soften into something that didn't hurt so much. Caring for her father and watching him die from the wasting disease had taken its toll on her, and now she counted on the long, quiet winter to rejuvenate her.
She looked up as a gathering of jays settled onto the branches of a Jeffrey pine, their harsh shack-shack complaints echoing her own dismal mood. Beautiful as they were, they appeared cheerless and uneasy during the early winter months, always hunched over against the cold, like tramps huddled around a fire.
A sudden breeze embraced the grove of lively silver pines, launching from each needle a carefully tempered note that created a serenade of sun sparkled wind song.
Scotty briefly closed her eyes. Of all the sounds that wafted through the winter air, wind music was her favorite.
She inhaled deeply, loving the fresh, cold fragrance of new snow. As she climbed up over a rise, she saw her cabin in the distance. A thick dollop of smoke chugged from the chimney, painting a gray smudge on the bright blue morning sky. Snuggled low against the tall granite, the small building appeared to butt up against the solid rock wall.
Scotty smiled, her grief lifting slightly as she looked at the scene — one she loved so much. She had always marveled at her father's ingenuity, for there was a door at the back of the cabin that opened into a cave where their precious animals stayed warm throughout the cold, bone-crushing winter.
As they neared home, Muggin grew agitated, changing positions on Scotty's shoulders and trilling out warnings. Scotty turned, noting with alarm that Muggin's white tufts of facial vibrissae stood out stiffly, indicating danger.
She instinctively slowed her steps and touched the knife she had strapped to her waist. Squinting against the sunlight, she scanned the snow near the cabin. She'd seen cougar tracks last week, and was always concerned that predators might find a way into the cave.
She stopped and listened. The only sounds she heard were the pulsing cadence of her own heartbeat and the moaning of the wind as it ruffled the trees.
Stroking Muggin's back to quiet her, Scotty stalked toward the cabin, grateful she hadn't worn her father's heavy boots. Her high, fur-lined deerskin moccasins allowed her to move through the snow with the stealth of an Indian.
As she approached the cabin door, she noted a peculiar pattern in the snow. She crept closer to get a better look at it, then stopped. Pushing back her fear, she stared down at the large footprints that led to her door. Surrounding each print were splashes of blood, emblazoned against the pristine blanket of snow.
Swallowing the terrified lump in her throat, she pulled out her knife. Muggin whined loudly, driving Scotty's heart into her mouth. She stroked the animal again, then briefly put her hand around its muzzle to quiet it. Taking a deep breath, she opened the door a crack and peered into the room. Nothing appeared wrong, yet —
Suddenly a hand snaked around the door and pulled her inside. Her knife clattered to the floor and Muggin tumbled from her shoulders, squealing as she retreated into the far shadows of the cabin. The hand, hard and calloused, clamped over Scotty's mouth and cold steel pressed against her throat. Stark fear prickled her skin, and black spots danced before her eyes.
"Who are you?" The voice was low and husky, rasping like chaff against her ear.
She winced, the blade pressing harder as he took his hand away from her mouth. "I live here," she whispered, her voice strained with fear.
Her breath caught in her throat as his free hand dove beneath her jacket, moving shamelessly over her waist and hips, pausing briefly on her breasts. "Wha —" she gasped, stunned at his blatant familiarity.
"Do you have another knife? Maybe tucked away inside your drawers?"
She shook her head, clamping a lid on her fear. Her father had warned her about criminals and convicts who fled from the law to hide in the valley.
The intruder pressed the knife closer. His broad, hard chest felt as solid as a door against her back, and she knew he could kill her instantly if he wanted to.
"Do you live here alone?"
"N-no," she lied. Her gaze flickered down to the hand that held the knife. Blood rimmed the sleeve of his jacket, and his thumb, which was pressed against her windpipe, was warm, wet and sticky. Scotty shuddered and swallowed against the urge to vomit.
"Who else?" He shoved the flat of the blade harder against her windpipe.
"My ... my father." She choked on the words as they squeezed past her throat.
"His name?"
She closed her eyes briefly. Beneath her heavy jacket and warm clothing she began to perspire. It dampened her armpits and snaked between her breasts. "Ian ... Mac ... Dowell."
"Liar," he hissed, then drew in a ragged breath, dragging the knife closer still as he groaned in pain. "MacDowell ... is dead."
His knife blade glided lightly across the side of her neck as he collapsed to his knees behind her.
She gasped, sucking in great gulps of air as she sprang away from him. She brought her fingers to the stinging sensation at her throat and felt the warm, sticky substance that slid from the cut. Startled, she stared at her bloody fingers, then swung around and looked at the intruder, who was doubled over, gripping his side.
He'd cut her! Terror seeped through her. As she pulled a handkerchief from her pocket and wrapped it around her neck to stop the flow of blood, she wondered if he'd done it on purpose. Not daring to take her eyes off him, she backed away and removed her jacket, dropping it over a chair.
"What do you want here?" The voice that came out of her mouth sounded too high-pitched and frightened to be her own.
"I've been shot," he answered, breathing heavily. "You're going to help me."
Scotty stared down at him. Even kneeling he was huge. His hair, long and wild, was as black as her own and he wore a full untrimmed beard that covered the lower half of his face. His eyebrows, dark as the brows of Satan himself, arched over his slanting eyes.
Her gaze drifted down his torso over his tan, blood-soaked jacket. He was bleeding badly; maybe if she wasted enough time, he'd pass out. She felt a sudden stab of shame at her thoughts. "Why should I help you?" she asked.
"Because," he answered, slowly pulling a revolver from his pocket, "I'll shoot you if you don't."
Fear pooled in her stomach. Bravely, she looked at his face. His eyes weren't the eyes of a madman. They were an icy, hard blue and showed no signs of the pain he had to be feeling from his wound.
She gave him a brief nod. It did no good to deny him. The sooner she tended to him, the sooner he'd be gone. But where would be go? She shoved the thought away. That wasn't her concern.
"Come ... come over by the fire," she said softly.
Making no sound, he slowly pulled himself to his feet. The skin under his eyes was gray.
She took her father's sleeping roll and laid it in front of the fire, then unfolded a large quilt on top of it. She glanced over her shoulder and saw the stranger rub his free hand across his face. He weaved slightly, then shook himself, once again appearing to gain control.
"You'll have to remove your coat."
His breath came in harsh gasps, and he leaned against her father's big chair by the fire. "You'll help me," he ordered.
Biting back a smart remark, she pulled his arm from the sleeve of the jacket, watching as he shifted the revolver to his other hand.
She wasn't prepared for the sight that met her gaze. Swallowing convulsively, she gaped at his shirt. It was so drenched with blood that it stuck to his skin.
Feeling a sudden rush of concern, she pulled him to the bedroll and helped him lie down. As she leaned over him to examine the wound, she felt his gun against her ribs. She jerked away and stared down at him.
"Off," he commanded softly.
She looked at him, hating the anxiety she knew was in her eyes. "What?"
"Your shirt and trousers. Take them off."
She swallowed again, forcing down the panic. "Wh-why?"
He waved the revolver under her nose. "I want to make sure you're not hiding a weapon."
"But I'm not. I'm not," she answered, shaking her head frantically.
"Now." His voice proved he was still in control.
With shaky fingers, she slowly unbuttoned her flannel shirt, shrugging out of it and dropping it to the floor. Her nipples automatically tightened beneath her drab long underwear, and for the first time in her life, she felt foolish wearing her father's clothes. She hesitated, tossing him a plaintive glance.
He waved the revolver at her again. "The trousers."
With mounting apprehension she pulled off her moccasins and unbuttoned the fly of her britches: Thoughts, every one of them bloody and frightening, somersaulted through her brain.
For a moment, she allowed her imagination to run away, then, from somewhere inside her, she dredged up courage. "This is the stupidest thing —"
"Hurry up," he interrupted. "I'm bleeding to death."
Then die and be quick about it! She slid her trousers down to her feet and stepped out of them, wishing she had the nerve to tell him what she thought, but grateful she had a sensible tongue in her head. Then she stood before him, refusing to acknowledge her humiliation.
"Come here."
She obeyed, only because she feared him.
"On your knees," he ordered.
She balked. "Why?"
"On your knees."
Trying to keep from shivering, she got to her knees and glared at him defiantly. Suddenly his free hand came up between her legs, moving swiftly over her thighs.
With the agility of a cat, Scotty rolled onto her buttocks and moved quickly to the side.
"What in the devil was that for?" she demanded, the shame at having been touched so intimately feeding her anger.
He gazed at her through narrowed lids. "You could have had a knife strapped to your thigh."
She stood, regaining her dignity. "Well, I didn't now, did I?"
"No," he answered, a small indecent smile tugging at his lips. "You didn't."
Scotty took a deep breath. "Now what?" Master, she wanted to add.
"Tend my wound."
She hesitated only a moment, crossed to the fireplace and put another log on the grate. Feeling naked in just her underwear, she self-consciously poked at the charred tinder, trying to keep her breasts from moving beneath her undershirt. After the fire was regenerated, she picked up a kettle of hot water, some wrapping flannel and a deep bowl, and returned to the intruder.
She shivered. "Do you mind if I dress now that you've humiliated me?"
His rude gaze raked over her. "Yes," he answered with a smirk. "I mind."
Cursing the devil who brought him to her, she lowered herself to her knees beside him, nimbly unbuttoned his shirt and the top of his long underwear. She dragged his arms from the sleeves.
The sight of the wound made her gasp. He'd been hit low on his torso, the bullet entering far to the right and just above his navel. Her gaze moved slowly to his face. His eyes were focused on her breasts, and she felt heat spread up her neck, into her cheeks. Bloody worthless convict. She was sorry whoever shot him had missed. No gentleman would stare so brazenly.
She quickly washed off the blood and examined the wound, ignoring his sharp intake of breath. The injury was wicked looking, but clean. Glancing up briefly, she saw the mass of curly black hair that grew so thickly across his chest that it hid his nipples. A funny feeling tunneled into the pit of her stomach, and she looked away.
She started to stand, but he seized her arm. His grip was like iron, and she knew it would be useless to fight him.
"Where are you going?"
"You need a poultice," she shot back.
He let her go then, but she could feel his hot, suspicious gaze down the length of her back as she moved away from him.
Crossing to her spice chest, she pulled open the drawer that held the creosote leaves. After grinding them into dust, she added a small amount of badger oil and mixed them together.
She walked back toward him, keenly aware that he watched her. He was getting an eyeful, the mangy cur.
She knelt down beside him, suddenly unafraid. "I certainly hope you're happy," she said as she set down the poultice and wiped off the wound again. "You've stripped me of all my self-respect."
He swore, then sucked in his breath as she shoved him onto his side and pressed the poultice against his wound. "And you're going to make me pay for it, aren't you?"
"Don't tempt me," she answered, pushing one end of the flannel under him so she could pull it out the other side.
He lifted off the floor slightly, allowing her to push the flannel through. "I ... wouldn't dream ... of it." He sucked in his breath again before relaxing against the bedding.
Scotty pulled the flannel across his wide chest, covering the lower half of his ribs, then under, around and back again, to just above his hair-covered navel. His flesh was firm and warm. The hair that covered him wasn't soft, nor was it stiff. Her fingers grazed it often, and she had a wild urge to splay her palms over the area of his breasts and feel the pelt.
Her cheeks flared with heat at such thoughts. Surely he was casting a spell of some sort upon her. When she'd finished wrapping him, she fastened the flap to the side and glanced at his face. She seethed inwardly, for he was staring at her chest, smirking like a lecher.
She leaped to her feet and, with a mutinous glare, stepped into her trousers, pulling them up over her hips. She also slipped back into her shirt and buttoned it to her neck, ignoring him.
As she pulled on her moccasins, the thought struck her that he could be a killer or even a rapist. Slowly, she backed away.
If he were unconscious, she'd be safe. But thoughts of the long night ahead terrified her. She was already exhausted from tending to his needs. While it would be impossible to stay awake all night and keep her eye on him, she would have to try. He'd already proved he was a man who got the upper hand easily.
"Come here," he rasped, waving the gun at her again.
Scotty swallowed bile, but didn't move. "What do you want now?"
"My clothes," he said.
"Your clothes are all bloody."
He nodded. "I know. Take them off."
Her mouth fell open. "Off? Yours?"
"Off. Mine." He twitched the revolver in her direction.
Again, she grew cold. Crossing her arms over her breasts, she crept slowly toward him.
"Hurry up!"
She jumped at the harsh sound, then bent over him again, dragging his bloody shirt out from under him. He made a sound in his throat, but appeared to bite it back before it became a groan.
She studied him, hoping he'd finally lost consciousness. When he didn't open his eyes or even move, she backed away.
"The rest of them," he commanded.
Scotty swallowed a sound of annoyance, then went to the end of the sleeping roll, pulling back the blanket. She cringed. There was blood everywhere. She hastily threw the quilt back over him, then reached up under it and found the waist of his trousers. She noted with dismay that his fly was buttoned.
By the holy, if this didn't get her knickers in a twist, nothing would. She hadn't even had to undo her own father's buttons when he'd been ill.
Taking a deep breath, she gingerly released each button from its hole, trying to ignore the heavy mound that lay behind the underwear. It wasn't possible. The gesture, so painfully intimate, was made more so by the heat discharged from his body. Suddenly, the backs of her fingers accidentally grazed the mass, and it moved. She jerked her hand away and looked at him. There was a half-smile on his lips, and one black eyebrow was arched up over one eye.
"You have a free hand," she sputtered, sitting back on her haunches. "Do it yourself."
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "Fires of Innocence"
by .
Copyright © 1994 Jane Bonander.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
Excerpts are provided by Dial-A-Book Inc. solely for the personal use of visitors to this web site.
