Wanted! Read online

  “Why are you alone, Lark?”

  She eased away, though his arm still banded her waist. “Because I’ve been afraid.”

  “Of what?”

  He already knew the answer, she suspected. “Of finding love, only to lose it because—because of what I’ve done.”

  “Lark—” he began, but stopped.

  Perhaps he intended to say more. Or perhaps he couldn’t say anything. She only knew he intended to kiss her again. That she wanted him to. The anticipation built in her, and his arms tightened—

  Thwap!

  A jagged hole appeared in the trunk of the nearest cottonwood. Bits of bark flew. Lark cried out, Ross swore, and they both dove to the ground for cover.

  Praise for Pam Crooks

  The Mercenary’s Kiss

  Romantic Times BOOKclub Nomination

  Best Historical K.I.S.S. Hero

  “With its nonstop action and a hold-your-breath climax, Crooks’ story is unforgettable. She speaks to every woman’s heart with a powerful tale that reflects the depth of a woman’s love for her child and her man. The power that comes from the pages of this book enthralls.”

  —Romantic Times BOOKclub

  “…a perfect mix of sensual and entertaining.”

  —Round Table Reviews

  “Twists and turns, actions and adventure and vivid characters come to life on the pages…a non-stop read that will leave you breathless…a top notch historical and one you won’t want to miss.”

  —Escape to Romance

  WANTED!

  PAM CROOKS

  Available from Harlequin® Historical and

  PAM CROOKS

  The Mercenary’s Kiss #718

  Spring Brides #755

  “McCord’s Destiny”

  Wanted! #813

  DON’T MISS THESE OTHER

  NOVELS AVAILABLE NOW:

  #811 THE RUNAWAY HEIRESS

  Anne O’Brien

  #812 THE KNIGHT’S COURTSHIP

  Joanne Rock

  #814 THE BRIDEGROOM’S BARGAIN

  Sylvia Andrew

  To the Tuesday night sisterhood—

  Marie Huggins, Marge Knudsen and Renee Spencer.

  And to my editor across the Pond—Joanne Carr.

  You’re the best!

  Contents

  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Prologue

  Windsor, Canada, 1868

  No one paid much attention to the old, nondescript buggy ambling down the road. But then again, no one dared. They might’ve been shot for their trouble.

  Jack Friday drove the rig. His passengers knew him as “Catfish Jack” for his strange-looking eyes and reputation for being as ruthless as the cold-blooded, river-bottom dwellers of the same name. His crimes had chased him north across the border to hide out for a spell, leastways unless the law found him first.

  Just like his passengers had.

  They were all that were left of the Reno gang these days. With their leader, John Reno, incarcerated in the Missouri State Penitentiary, and brothers William and Simeon jailed in Indiana, only Frank was left to lead the others in crime—and keep them all alive.

  “I’m telling you, I can feel ’em breathing down my neck, Frank,” Charlie Anderson muttered. His uneasy gaze clawed the Canadian countryside. He kept his hand close to the Colt slung to his hip.

  “Who?” Frank slouched in the seat across from him. The outlaw, known for his merciless train and stagecoach robberies, took a leisurely pull on his rolled cigarette.

  “The Pinkertons. Conniving bastards. I can smell ’em coming.”

  “They can’t touch us. They’d have to extradite us to the States first,” Frank said with a cool smile. “And that ain’t easy to do. Canada’s the safest place to be right now.”

  “Them agents will find a way. Or maybe some crazy vigilantes will beat ’em to it.”

  “Or a damned bounty hunter.”

  The men’s gazes swung to the youngest of their gang, a fiery-haired, pants-clad hellion known as “Wild Red.”

  Charlie scowled. “What’re you worried about, Red?” he demanded. “You ain’t got no one’s blood on your hands.”

  “Don’t need to kill a man to be wanted by the law,” she said. Smoke curled from the cheroot between her fingers—slender and smooth and quick as lightning on a trigger. Her expression hardened. “Bounty hunters don’t care what crime you did. Just the price on your head for it.”

  Frank grunted in agreement. “Red ain’t no killer, Charlie. Just one of the best damn robbers there is. Ain’t that right, Red?”

  “Yep.” What pride she might have felt from the rare compliment dissolved on a troubling thought. She studied the burning end of the cheroot. “I’ve been thinking a lot about the Muscatine loot, Frank.”

  “Reckon we all think of it now and again. None of us got our shares yet.”

  “Loot?” From the glint in Charlie’s eyes, it was obvious his unease over Pinkerton agents and bounty hunters had slipped in importance. “What loot?”

  “From the county treasury,” she said, impatience giving a snap to the words. “Muscatine, Iowa. Last winter.”

  “You hadn’t met up with us yet,” Frank added. “You was still locked up in Missouri.”

  Charlie gave a quick nod now that he knew which heist they spoke of. “If you didn’t split up the money, where the hell is it?”

  Wild Red took her time replying. He expected her to spill more information, but she was cousin to the Reno brothers, and blood ran thick. She trusted no one but them.

  “The money’s just waiting for us, Frank,” she said as if Charlie hadn’t spoken. “All we got to do is get it.”

  “And how in blazes are we supposed to do that, bein’s we ain’t even in the same country anymore?”

  “Borders can be crossed.”

  “Hell, Red, you got nerve,” Frank said and shook his head in amusement. “Things are too hot right now. You know that.”

  She took a last drag on the cheroot, then flicked the stub into a scrap of weeds. “It’s a waste, that’s all. We can use the money to get your brothers out of jail, then hightail it to South America.”

  Over and over again, she’d thought of how they could live a normal life there. Without lawmen. Without the constant threat of a noose around their neck.

  “In due time, cousin. In due time.”

  It’d been hard leaving thousands of dollars in gold, bank notes and sweet, green cash behind that night. Real hard. But John Reno had been emphatic in hiding the loot after they broke into the pretty new Muscatine Treasury office. He’d been unusually desperate, too. Wild Red suspected his growing list of robberies made him nervous. John figured the money would be their insurance to get them to South America. All they had to do was lay low for a while, then come back for it.

  At the time, his plan made sense. Shortly after, though, he was arrested and thrown behind bars where he remained today. And there all that money sat. Waiting for them. Untouched.

  Still, she made no further argument. Frank was right. In due time. She’d chosen the perfect hiding place for the loot. No one knew its location except for herself, John and Frank, and they’d sworn each other to secrecy.


  “Turf Club just ahead,” Catfish Jack said, twisting in the driver’s seat and pointing to the cluster of wooden houses that loomed before them. “There’s smoke comin’ from Queenie’s chimney. Looks like she’s cookin’ up one of her stews again.”

  There were few places fugitives could run to without retaliation, but the Turf Club was one of them. Men from all walks of life, guilty of crimes ranging from forgery to theft to murder, fled to Windsor and its Turf Club to hide out. Women came, too, if they were running from the law. Red had formed a friendship with Queenie, a sharp-tongued beauty from Mexico.

  As the rig slowed, Charlie’s hand found his Colt. The unease seemed to crawl up his spine again, even here at the Club, the one place he should’ve felt safe enough.

  Odd that he didn’t. His unease was catching, though Wild Red’s slow, assessing gaze of the area revealed nothing out of the ordinary. Even so, she was glad for the weapons she kept strapped to her hips.

  The rig stopped, and Frank and Charlie stepped out. Catfish Jack jumped down from the box, and when Wild Red climbed from her seat, too, none of them offered their assistance. Not that she expected them to. Outlaws rarely afforded women like her the chivalry women in polite society enjoyed—and received.

  They trailed into the house ahead of her. With the door closed and four walls to surround them, she allowed herself to relax. Sure enough. Queenie had a pot of stew simmering, and Wild Red’s belly gurgled in hungry anticipation.

  Frank strode to the kitchen. Dick Barry, a desperado who rumor claimed would coolly plug a man for two dollars—one, if he was drunk—sat at the table with a glass of whiskey in front of him. At their arrival, he rose and relinquished his seat to Frank, whose reputation and ability to elude arrest time and time again had earned him a high place in the hideout’s outlaw hierarchy. Without greeting, Frank took it.

  Something was on his mind. Wild Red could taste it. Charlie, too, seeing how he was watching Frank real close.

  “Been thinking about what you said about the Pinks, Charlie,” Frank said finally, reaching into his pocket for another rolled cigarette. “Maybe we ought to do something about ’em.”

  “Yeah?” Charlie leaned back in his chair. “Like what?”

  “Knock off the old man. Allan Pinkerton. That should keep ’em off our tails for awhile.”

  Alarm filtered through Wild Red, but she took care not to show it. She’d never developed a liking for killing. “Damned crazy idea if you ask me.”

  Frank shot her a cold glance. “I’m not asking.”

  “Best thing I’ve heard all day,” Charlie said and grinned.

  “You got anyone in mind for the job?” Dick asked.

  “As a matter of fact, I do.”

  Their gazes met, and an unspoken agreement filtered between the two men. Wild Red turned away in disgust. She caught Queenie’s eye, and her friend gave her a quick warning shake of her head.

  Wild Red kept her mouth shut. They lived in a man’s world. Lawless men, at that. Nothing Wild Red could say or do would make Frank change his mind.

  “What’s the matter, Red?” Catfish Jack cooed. “You scared?”

  He sat at her end of the table and didn’t take part in the plans the other men made. He leered at her with those peculiar eyes of his, eyes that were shifty and cold. One had the unnerving way of looking in a slightly different direction than its mate.

  “Leave me alone.”

  She needed a stiff drink. She rose to fetch herself a glass and partake in that bottle of whiskey the men were sharing.

  From the window next to the shelf holding their dishes, a wagon moseyed into view. A wagon so oddly-built that the sight of it distracted her for a moment.

  Catfish gripped her elbow and pulled her back down into the chair.

  “Ol’ Catfish’ll take real good care of you, y’know that, don’t you, Red?” he drawled. A grimy hand reached to smooth the wild wisps of hair that always escaped her hat.

  Repulsed, she shoved against him with both fists and nearly sent him toppling from his seat, forcing him to scramble for balance.

  “Don’t touch me, you lousy son-of-a-bitch,” she snarled.

  Catfish spat an oath but Wild Red evaded his reach. Her gaze shot back to the window. The wagon was still out there, moving too slow to make much progress. It was built like a—a Trojan horse. All enclosed, strange-like, as if it was hiding something.

  Or someone.

  Wild Red leapt to her feet, both Colts in her hands.

  “We got trouble, Frank!” she yelled and bolted toward Queenie, stirring the stew unaware at the stove. Red knocked her from view. “The law!”

  Frank jumped up and swore viciously, his revolver swinging. “The law? Where?”

  “Outside! They’re right outside!”

  Dick lunged for his Winchester rifle and took up position at the window. He smashed the barrel through the glass.

  “Not yet!” Frank said, joining him. “Wait ’til you can get a good shot at ’em!”

  But the whiskey Dick had imbibed all afternoon numbed all reason. “I’ll get the driver first.”

  Just then, as if he’d heard every word of the plan, the driver dived over the side of the rig, out of view. The top of the wagon burst open.

  “We’ll shoot ’em crawling out, the bastards!” Charlie yelled. “Cover me, Catfish!”

  Charlie ran toward the door. Catfish swung it open, his shotgun leveled. To Red’s horror, the wagon bed belched out a horde of Pinkerton agents right along with a fusillade of deafening gunfire.

  “The back door!” Queenie yelled over the roar, giving her a shove in that direction. Thwap! Thwap! Bullets pinged around them. Thwap! “Let’s go!”

  Red flew toward the only escape they had left, but before she could reach it, before either of them could, the door crashed open, and a tall, bloodthirsty bounty hunter stood waiting for them, his rifle cocked and ready.

  Queenie swore. Wild Red aimed her revolver. Her finger moved over the trigger—

  But the bounty hunter was faster. His bullet sliced through her, and Wild Red went down in a pool of blood.

  Chapter One

  Five Years Later

  Lark Renault pushed the Total key on her shiny new Victor adding machine, pulled the crank and compared the number which printed on the paper tape to the sum on her ledger page. She smiled and sat back in satisfaction.

  Balanced to the penny.

  She closed the ledger. The last of the quarterly reports Mr. Templeton, the Ida Grove Bank’s president, had asked her to compile was finished. She took great pride in that he trusted her with the responsibility, especially since she’d only arrived in this western Iowa town barely six months ago and was his newest employee.

  Not that the institution had a large number of people on the payroll. Still, he’d expanded her duties beyond that of a teller, even trusting her with managing the place by herself every day while the rest of the employees went to lunch.

  Lark supposed it was her gift with numbers. She was amazingly accurate with them. Sums came quickly to her, even without the aid of the latest Victor Mr. Templeton ordered just for her. Addition, subtraction, multiplication and division—numbers fascinated her, any which way she could figure them.

  “Miss Renault. Come in here, please.”

  Mr. Templeton called her from his office at the rear of the small bank and sent her thoughts scattering. She rose quickly from her desk to obey.

  Glass enclosed the crisp, efficient room where he conducted the most important financial transactions. Here, he could see each customer as they walked in and the tellers who assisted them. Here, too, was where the vault had been placed and, under Mr. Templeton’s watchful eye, no one could enter the steel-enclosed chamber without his notice.

  “My wife and son will be arriving soon,” he said. Silver streaked the hair at his temples, though he was only a decade or so older than Lark’s twenty-two years. His well-tailored suit showed not a speck of lint or unneces
sary wrinkle. He was always fastidious about his appearance, from his meticulously trimmed fingernails to the shine on his leather shoes. “Show them in when they get here, won’t you?”

  “Certainly, Mr. Templeton.”

  “We’ll be going to Omaha for the weekend, so I’ll be leaving the bank early this afternoon. I’d like you to close up for me in my absence.”

  Pride swelled through her at this new responsibility. “I can do that, Mr. Templeton. Of course.”

  He smiled, gave her a brisk nod of dismissal and immersed himself in his work again. Upon leaving his office to return to her desk, she nearly collided with Mrs. Pankonin, the head cashier.

  “So you’ll be locking the doors today,” she sniffed in a voice their employer couldn’t hear. She held a stack of bank notes in each hand and was on her way into the vault to store them.

  “Yes, I will.” Lark refused to let the older woman’s antagonism deflate her pride. Perhaps if she wasn’t so crotchety all the time, Mr. Templeton would be more inclined to depend on her more. As it was, most days he tended to avoid her. “Excuse me, won’t you?”

  Lark sashayed past her. From Mrs. Pankonin’s perspective, she guessed, it wasn’t fair that Mr. Templeton depended on Lark so much, not when Mrs. Pankonin had been employed longer than any of them, including Mr. Templeton himself. The woman knew the workings of the bank, inside and out. She was certainly capable of any task given to her.

  Lark closed her mind to the woman’s jealousy. She loved her job too much to let the pinch-nosed, whiny-voiced widow bother her unduly.

  She had just finished figuring the interest due upon a draft and recording a customer’s payment when Amelia Templeton arrived with her six-year-old son, Phillip. A cloud of expensive perfume alerted Lark to her presence, and before she could direct the pair into the president’s office, Phillip pulled his hand from his mother’s and darted toward Lark.

  “I sit here, Mama,” he said and crawled onto the chair closest to Lark’s desk.