Testing the Lawman's Honor. Lauri Robinson

ection>

      

      Testing the Lawman’s Honor

      Lauri Robinson

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      MILLS & BOON

       Before you start reading, why not sign up?

      Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

       SIGN ME UP!

      Or simply visit

      signup.millsandboon.co.uk

      Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

      El Dorado, Kansas, 1881

      Della Cramer has tried her hardest to ignore the way Deputy Spencer Monroe stirs her desire, believing he doesn’t share her feelings. Little does she know that Spencer has been harboring years of regret for not preventing her marriage to a scoundrel, despite the searing kiss they shared.

      When her long-lost husband’s sudden death leaves Della’s future uncertain, only Spencer can help her. But first, he will have to convince her to trust him and finally give free rein to her passion….

      Dear Reader,

      Welcome to El Dorado, Kansas where Marshal Cord Donavon and his deputy, Spencer Monroe, have their hands full with two spirited widows, Florie and Della. I hope you enjoy the stories in the Wild Western Nights duet and invite you to stop by my blog at www.laurirobinson.blogspot.com to share your thoughts.

      Cheers,

      Lauri

      Contents

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      About the Author

      Chapter One

      Della Cramer pushed the clothespin down so hard it snapped in two. She caught one half, but the other flew across the yard, barely missing Deputy Monroe.

      Too bad.

      The man was a thorn in her side.

      She cringed, knowing she hadn’t wanted the pin to hit him. Besides, Spencer was much too handsome to be compared to a lackluster thorn. A rose would be more just. But men weren’t compared to roses, and roses didn’t grow in her small piece of dry Kansas dirt, which was the problem. Spencer Monroe made her think of things that couldn’t be.

      The deputy bent down and picked up the pin, but the gaze he held on her never wavered. Della’s heart leaped to pound near the base of her throat. She’d tried—for years—but couldn’t ignore the way he stirred her insides. Drawing a fortifying breath, she pulled away from his ink-blue eyes and turned to the couple beside him.

      A chill stole her smile before it could form. Something in both Florie’s and Cord’s eyes said all wasn’t right in the world. Della pushed aside the sheet half pinned to the clothesline. “What’s happened?”

      “Can we go inside, Della?” Cord pointed to her back porch. “We need to talk to you.”

      Della’s heart landed near her toes, imagining the worst—something happening to her daughters. “The girls?”

      “Anna and Elsie are fine, Della,” Spencer assured.

      Relief was short-lived as Della’s next thought went to Otis, the man who’d been her family’s slave when she was a child and her most treasured friend ever since. She should have insisted he slow down, not work so hard at his blacksmith shop. He was getting too old to—

      “Della,” Cord said. “This is about your husband.”

      A swooshing sound echoed in her ears. “Isaac?” Her knees buckled.

      Solid arms caught her, hoisted her into the air, and a command, “Get the door,” sounded.

      Della recognized Spencer’s voice, but couldn’t muster up a protest as he carried her across the yard.

      It had happened. Isaac was back.

      Spencer laid her on the wicker sofa on the back porch, and Della, silently fighting the dread seeping into her bones, took a moment to rebuild her spirit before opening her eyes.

      Florie stood next to her, holding a glass of water, eyes full of compassion. Della wanted to offer a smile, but her lips trembled too hard. She pushed herself up and swung her legs over the edge of the sofa, planting her feet on the solid floor. She’d known this moment would come. It had been like watching a storm brew on the horizon, knowing it would hit, but wondering how severe the damages would be when it did.

      Suppressing the turmoil within, she accepted the glass. “Thank you.” After taking a sip, she set it down on the nearby table.

      Florie sat, and wrapped a hand around Della’s. The silent gesture of support was endearing. Thankful she had such wonderful friends, Della asked, “Where is he?”

      “I’m sorry to tell you, Della,” Cord said sympathetically. “Isaac is dead.”

      Her lungs froze, like an iron fist squeezed them closed. Dead? How could that be? It had been five years since he’d been home—but dead?

      The silence in the room became suffocating. Della managed to draw a breath, knew they waited for her to speak. “I see.”

      That was a ridiculous answer. She didn’t see. She’d never seen what had made Isaac tick. She’d never understood him, not twelve years ago, and not now.

      “His death occurred a few months ago, in New Orleans. He’s buried there,” Cord said. “I wired the authorities, and they confirmed the report.”

      A strange numbness overcame her, as if she had crept into someone else’s body. Tears pressed at her eyes, and stung her nose, but neither an overflow of pain or sorrow nor the urge to cry, rant, or scream about the injustice of it all didn’t fill her. It had been so long since she’d seen Isaac, in a way she’d already mourned his loss, already grieved that her daughters would never have the father they deserved.

      “Della—Mrs. Cramer,” Spencer said, leaning forward. “There’s more.”

      She started to shake, and willed for the power to stop. “More?”

      “There’s a man in town.” Spencer handed her a sheet of paper. “He brought this.”

      The paper, thick and crisply folded, rattled and quivered between her fingers. Words, hereto and therefore, floated before her eyes. One word stuck, making her tighten her grasp and focus her vision.

      “Eviction?” she whispered.

      “The circuit judge is due tomorrow. We’ll have him review it.”

      Della didn’t know who made the statement. Her mind couldn’t get past that one simply penned word. Eviction. “How can this be?”

      “It appears Isaac lost your home in a poker game, and the winner—” Spencer pointed a finger at a name printed near the bottom of the page “—Mr. Lance Westmeier wants to claim his win.”

      “Can he do that?” Della asked.

      “I’m afraid so,” Spencer replied,