The Angel and the Outlaw. Kathryn Albright

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      The Angel and the Outlaw

      Kathryn Albright

      To my mother and father, who taught me

       to go after my dreams.

      Thank you for your love, support and encouragement.

      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

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Chapter Twenty-Four

      Chapter Twenty-Five

      Chapter Twenty-Six

      Chapter Twenty-Seven

      Chapter Twenty-Eight

      Prologue

      San Francisco, California, 1870

      At the sound of someone running up his ship’s gangplank, Matthew Taylor looked up from the scatter of charts on his desk.

      “Matthew! Let me in! I must speak with you.”

      He strode to the door and stopped short at the sight before him. “Linnea!”

      The light from the cabin’s oil lamp exposed harsh bruises against the pale skin on her face. Blood dripped from a cracked lip. Under the dark hooded cloak, her blond hair, usually swept up in the latest fashion, hung unkempt to her shoulders.

      “My God! What happened?”

      “I…I killed John!” she gasped. “He was going after Hannah.”

      Suddenly he realized the bundle she held was her daughter. “Let me take her.” He pulled the cover away, breathing a sigh of relief that Hannah was free of any sign of battering. She was shaking, just as her mother was. He laid her on his bunk and turned back to Linnea. “Tell me what happened,” he said, the rage in his voice barely subdued.

      Her eyes filled with tears. “I…Might I use your handkerchief?”

      He handed one to her. God, he couldn’t stand the tears. “Don’t cry, Linnea. You know I’ll help.”

      “Yes,” she said softly. “I know.”

      With his fingers under her chin, he lifted her face to the light. “How long has this been going on?”

      She turned away from him. “Awhile.”

      He poured a brace of whiskey into his mug and handed it to her. “It’s all I have.”

      “Taylor!” John Newcomb bellowed from outside.

      Linnea’s eyes widened. “I thought he was dead!”

      “Taylor!” John was closer now. “You holing up with my wife? You send her on out here. We’ve got unfinished business.”

      Linnea started to rise.

      “No,” Matthew said, and motioned for her to stay put.

      She grasped his arm. “Matthew. Be careful. He’s changed since you last saw him.”

      He stared at her, taking in the changes the past few years had wrought on her. A hundred things went through his head in that moment, none of which he could say to her as a married woman. Why did you marry this animal? Why didn’t you wait for me? He sighed. At the least, he could protect her.

      He squeezed her hand. “I’ll just talk to him. I don’t want a fight, but I won’t run from one, either.” He reached into a desk drawer and drew out his Colt .44.

      On the wharf, John Newcomb leaned heavily against the railing, his tie askew against his linen shirt. “Send my wife out, Taylor. She don’t belong with you.”

      “You’re drunk, Mr. Newcomb. Go home and sleep it off.”

      “I’m not leaving without my girls. Linnea! We need to talk. I…at least give me a chance to apologize.”

      Matthew heard the door creak behind him.

      “Go away,” Linnea said softly, her body half-hidden behind the door post. “We’ll talk later.”

      “We’ll talk now,” John growled, and started up the gangplank, clutching his chest. “Then I’ll have words with Taylor, here.” Suddenly he stopped and leaned awkwardly on the ship’s railing. As he straightened, he pulled a gun from his belt and aimed past Matthew.

      A shot rang out.

      “Mama!” Hannah screamed.

      Matthew watched in horror as Linnea crumpled to her knees, a look of stunned surprise on her face.

      John stormed up the gangplank, aiming his gun for a second shot at her. “I’ll teach you to at shoot me.”

      “No!” Matthew roared. He whipped up his Colt and squeezed the trigger.

      In the loud report of the gun, John Newcomb staggered, but then regained his footing. He swung his gun toward Matthew. “You can’t have her, Taylor. I’ll kill you both before I let that happen.”

      Matthew steadied his gun, aimed at Newcomb’s chest and fired.

      Newcomb fell forward hard, landing with a heavy thud. The wharf’s gas СКАЧАТЬ