In the Arms of a Cowboy Read online

  IN THE ARMS OF A COWBOY

  A Four-Novel Boxed Set

  Pam Crooks

  Copyright 2013 by Pam Crooks

  Cover image © Frank Seifert/Fotolia. Image used for illustrative purposes only.

  All rights reserved. No portion of this ebook boxed set may be reproduced, re-sold, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the copyright holder.

  Each novel included in this collection (Hannah’s Vow, Wyoming Wildflower, Lady Gypsy, and Broken Blossom) are works of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in these works of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Abou

  t Pam

  Having grown up in the ranch country of western Nebraska, it was a natural evolution for Pam to write about the Old West, and she published fourteen historical western romances (four with Dorchester Publishing and ten with Harlequin Historicals). She’s recently released her first romantic suspense, Her Mother’s Killer. Even more exciting, she’s taken her first step in the historical suspense genre with The Spyglass Project, book one in the Secret Six series, written as Frankie Astuto, her new pseudonym, followed soon after by a short story, In the Enemy’s Shadow.

  She’s a long-time member of Romance Writers of America, PASIC and RAH, her local chapter, having served in almost every capacity for her chapter-mates. She’s one of the founding fillies of Petticoats and Pistols, a popular blogsite for western romance.

  Pam is married to her high school sweetheart, Doug, and they have four daughters. She’s looking forward to an early retirement when she can spend her days with her children and grandchildren and doing what she’s most passionate about. Writing books.

  www.pamcrooks.com

  www.facebook.com/pamcrooks

  www.pinterest.com/pamcrooks

  Twitter @pamcrooks

  www.frankieastuto.com

  To Buy More of Pam’s Books:

  Romantic Suspense

  Her Mother’s Killer

  Historical Suspense

  w/a Frankie Astuto

  The Spyglass Project

  In the Enemy’s Shadow

  (a short story)

  Table of Contents

  Hannah’s Vow

  Wyoming Wildflower

  Lady Gypsy

  Broken Blossoms

  HANNAH’S VOW

  Pam Crooks

  Copyright 2013 by Pam Crooks

  All rights reserved. No portion of this ebook boxed set may be reproduced, re-sold, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without the prior written consent of the copyright holder.

  Hannah’s Vow is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in these works of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  A Heated Charade

  “Hannah is mine.” Quinn’s voice rasped from the depths of his rage. “Look at her. All of you.”

  He lifted her arm high above her head and twirled her. Presented them her back, her side, her front. So there would be no question.

  She was his. Untouchable. By any of them.

  Hannah’s eyes closed tight.

  He stopped turning her. Her eyes opened again.

  His gaze smoldered, stroked her with its growing heat. Her mind emptied. She thought only of the role they played. Of the deal they’d made. She thought nothing of brown habits and a convent that seemed forever unreachable.

  She thought of Quinn, the man.

  He filled her senses. She knew his intent even before his head lowered and his jaw nuzzled her temple.

  “You mustn’t do this,” she whispered.

  “Convince them, Hannah,” he murmured. “Make them believe.”

  His chin brushed her cheek, then lowered to her jaw. She waited for what would come next, the anticipation building within her with every frenzied beat of her heart. At last, warm and firm, his mouth slid over hers.

  To my mother, who gave me The Flame and the Flower to read all those years ago.

  What readers are saying about Hannah’s Vow!

  “It was a great book! Definitely a different plot which is so refreshing.”

  “Great read. Full of drama from beginning to the end!”

  “This was a book that captivated me immediately. The characters hold your interest, make you laugh and are so true to life. I definitely recommend this book!”

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Write a Review

  Newsletter Sign-up

  Author’s Note

  Chapter 1

  New Mexico Territory

  The rage burned within him. From betrayal. From abuse. From being locked up in prison for a lifetime.

  He fed on the rage, clung to it until rage was his one desperate link to sanity.

  He sat on the cold floor of his underground cell with his knees drawn up and his back pressed against the wall, darkened from the blood of nameless inmates before him. He listened.

  It was happening again.

  Voices in the middle of the night. Heavy footsteps. The creak of the iron grate opening over one more cell.

  Missing prisoners. Never seen again.

  The rage pulsed inside him.

  His brain sifted through the muffled sounds, the moans and grunts, the chink of the ankle chains from one more victim dragged away.

  Foreboding settled over him, black and ominous.

  He could be next.

  A grate whined on his hinges, then clanged shut. Silence fell. A grim, gruesome silence.

  The cell closed in on him. Lack of ventilation, his own sweat and filth, choked the air in his lungs. He stared up at the grate, nine feet above.

  Unreachable.

  He fought the claws of despair, refused to give into its mastery. Instead, he nurtured the rage, stoked it, kept it pulsating inside him.

  He’d find a way to escape.

  Or die trying.

  Christmas Eve

  One Week Later

  Their song filled the monastery chapel with a reverence that rivaled the seraphim, and for each of the eighteen good Sisters kneeling in the pews, the words came from deep within their hearts, pure and fervent.

  But none more so than Hannah Benning’s. She had much to thank God for and even more to ask of Him, and thus she sang the Latin hymn with all the piety she could muster.

  She was trying very hard. It hadn’t been in her at first to pray like this, almost all day every day, to sing and
be meek and silent to those around her, but it suited her now. She would live this life forever. She had to, for Pa’s sake.

  “Te Deum Laudamus,” the ancient hymn of praise and thanksgiving ended. The chapel plunged into complete darkness. Hannah closed her eyes and savored the silence.

  The midnight Office was her favorite of the vespers. The most dramatic. A fitting welcome to the new day when once she’d been afraid of the dawn. She wasn’t afraid anymore. She was safe here, a newly-vowed novitiate, loved and protected.

  But safe, most of all.

  Sister Evangeline nudged her gently, and Hannah’s eyes opened. Mother Superior emerged from the vestibule carrying the Paschal candle. She held its flame high, and guided by the flickering light, strode solemnly down the length of the chapel to the altar. She enshrined the candle and lit a smaller one, then turned toward the front pew, passing the flame to each Sister holding candles of their own. Soon, the chapel glowed with golden candlelight, with the joy of prayer and peace, and the air filled with their lyrical voices, praising and rejoicing the glorious season of Advent, the birth of the Christ Child.

  Too soon, the ritual ended. Hannah tried not to think of Christmas, her first without Pa, but instead blew out her candle and left the pew. Her knee touched the cold stone floor in a deep genuflect. She crossed herself and stood to leave.

  Mother Superior led the Sisters in silent formation from the chapel, their single line practiced and perfect. The block walls, bare from adornment except for a simple crucifix, cast a chill into the dim hall, and Hannah shivered beneath her brown wool habit.

  The corridor angled past the main door to the monastery and wound toward the Sisters’ sleeping quarters. Over the hushed shuffle of sandal soles, the outside bell tolled unexpectedly, sending a startled ripple through the women.

  The toll announced someone at the gate; an oddity, for the clock had not yet chimed the first hour of the new morning. Hannah exchanged a puzzled glance with Sister Evangeline.

  The tolling grew more forceful. The iron gate rattled. The bell clanged again and again.

  Mother Superior pushed aside the muslin curtain covering the window. “It’s Father Donovan.” She made the Sign of the Cross. “Thank the Lord he is safe. He should have been here hours ago.”

  She lifted the latch and tugged the door open. Cold air drifted inward.

  The clanging stopped. She rushed outside. The gate squeaked, and within moments she reappeared with the priest, aged well into his fifties and breathing heavily from his exertions.

  Black robes flared about his ankles; a knotted rope wound about his plump waist. The wisps of hair remaining on his balding pate stood in wild disarray.

  His arms were laden with baskets filled with fresh-baked bread and jars of preserves, holiday gifts for the less fortunate. Hannah herself had helped fill them. He set the baskets aside.

  “Forgive me for my tardiness, but--.” He paused to catch his breath. A ruddiness colored his cheeks.

  “Slow down, Father. Has Lucifer been chasing you?” Mother Superior’s eyes crinkled, and she patted the priest’s arm.

  “Lucifer has no time for me, it seems,” he said. He cast a hesitant glance toward the Sisters, their perfect line hopelessly gone awry in their curiosity. “He’s been busy elsewhere.”

  Her humor gone, the abbess frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “It’s the prison. Something is wrong. Graves are being dug. Now. At this very hour. Too many to count.”

  “Graves?”

  “I first noticed them on my way to deliver our baskets,” he said. “The sight troubled me, and I had to return for a second look.” He shook his head in puzzlement. “More graves have been added. I knew I must come back for help.” He emitted a slight moan of dismay. “I can’t help feeling the warden has engaged in some form of illicit behavior.”

  The abbess pursed her lips. “Warden Briggs has a heart of stone, it’s true, but I can’t imagine him doing anything that would jeopardize his position at the prison. Surely the inmates suffer from an ailment. Influenza or stomach poisoning, perhaps. The food served there is atrocious.”

  “If it were a treatable illness, why wasn’t a doctor called? Or me? And why the secrecy? Lord help us, digging graves at midnight!”

  “You must go back, then.” Mother Superior’s decisive tone indicated Father Donovan had convinced her of the seriousness of the situation. “Those men deserve our prayers and compassion. And the Last Rites, if nothing else.”

  “Yes, yes. I quite agree.” He skimmed a glance over the group. “Sister Evangeline, you have an understanding of medicine. I’d like you to accompany us. Bring what medical supplies you have.”

  “Yes, Father.” As if he had only suggested a stroll through the garden instead of an uninvited late-night visit to the notorious penitentiary, her wimpled head lowered without argument. Hannah marveled at her obedience.

  “I’ll fetch my prayer book and holy water,” he said. “I’ll be but a moment.”

  After he left, Mother Superior turned toward the group of nuns. “We shall return to the chapel, Sisters. We must offer more prayers this hour. Sister Mary Margaret, begin the rosary, won’t you? I shall join you shortly. Hannah, I’d like a word with you.”

  Hannah halted in mid-step. Sandaled feet scurried toward the chapel amidst a clatter of rosary beads, leaving her behind and wary of what the abbess might ask of her.

  “Sister Evangeline, you’d best a cloak,” Mother Superior suggested. “And please fetch an extra one as well.”

  “Yes, Mother,” she said and departed toward the sleeping quarters.

  In the dimness of the hall, Hannah waited with her gaze to the stone floor.

  “Sister Evangeline cannot go alone to the penitentiary, even with Father Donovan as her escort. I would like you to accompany her, Hannah.”

  Hannah’s eyes widened, and her head lifted. “But, Mother--.”

  “Hear me out, my child.” Though they spoke in hushed tones, firmness laced every word. “You have not left the monastery since you joined us. This is an opportunity, a test of sorts, to help others in need and to assure us of your calling.”

  In the low, even voice she had learned to emulate, Hannah dared to protest. “There are other novitiates far more worthy than I to do this kindness at the penitentiary. I--I am not ready.”

  “There is no other better suited.” The abbess hesitated. “Your past has prepared you for this act of mercy. You have been--shall we say--hardened for what you will see there.”

  “Mother, I seek only to forget.”

  “You are not here to avoid the world, my child. You are here to embrace it, to pray for others and help them when they cannot help themselves.”

  Dread draped Hannah like a suffocating blanket. “Please. I ask for only a little more time.”

  A gentle smile hovered upon Mother Superior’s mouth. “You have taken the name of Sister Ariel. ‘Lioness of God.’ When you speak your final vows, you will no longer be Hannah but Ariel. A lioness. Strong and proud.” The smile deepened, as if she approved of what Hannah must face. “Tonight will be a chance for you to learn if you are worthy of such a beautiful name.”

  Miserable, Hannah lowered her gaze. “Yes, Mother.”

  A slender finger tilted her chin up again. “You will be safe with Father Donovan and Sister Evangeline. Try not to worry so. Warden Briggs, for all his sinful ways, will not harm you. He is like the devil who withers in front of Jesus’ cross.”

  The softly spoken words did little to salve Hannah’s apprehension. With Father Donovan at her heels, Sister Evangeline hurried toward them and thrust a wool cloak into Hannah’s hands. Silently, she slipped into its folds.

  “Take the baskets,” the abbess urged. “The men will need decent food to eat as well as our prayers.”

  “Of course,” the priest said, taking one and handing another to Sister Evangeline. He left the last for Hannah. “We will return as soon as we can,” he said and hur
ried outside.

  The abbess’ head inclined in a deep nod. “God be with you all.”

  For the briefest of seconds, Hannah met her glance. Beneath the starched wimple, the abbess’ smile faded and concern creased her brow. Sister Evangeline stepped out into the night’s chill. Hannah swallowed hard, slipped the basket’s handle over her arm and followed.

  With the clang of the iron gate echoing throughout the hall, Mother Superior clutched her rosary beads and began to pray.

  The New Mexico Territorial Prison loomed like a black monster, grim and forbidding on the horizon. Darkness enshrouded the structure; the air hung heavy with the scent of death, and the grisly silence sent shivers of unease down Hannah’s spine.

  She had not thought she’d be near such a place again in her lifetime, and yet fate had thrown her back when she’d sought only to escape, to leave the memories of a life peppered with evil behind. She did not want this ‘test’ of her calling. She did not want the uncertainties of the next minute or hour to keep her from the haven she’d needed in recent months. She stared hard at the imposing penitentiary. No, she did not want this.

  Too many times Pa had dragged her with him into escapades not so different from this one. In the end, she had survived when he had not. It had cost her dearly, and just thinking of what laid ahead clogged her throat with the bitter taste of an ugly premonition.

  The carriage drew closer, the wheels growling over the rocky ground in warning of their approach. But it seemed their arrival went undetected. The rig rolled to a stop.

  “See them? Over there.” Father Donovan pointed to a far corner of the penitentiary grounds.

  There, on a rise of land, mounds of earth took the shape of newly-dug graves. In the meager spray of moonlight, Hannah deciphered an assortment of shovels and spades strewn about, as if the time had not come to put them away, that they would be needed again soon. She shuddered.