Chapter Twenty-Five
Epilogue
Dear Reader
June 1882 Gatlinburg, Tennessee
There was an intruder in the mercantile.
In her haste, Nicole O’Malley had forgotten to lock the rear entrance, and now she was alone.
While not common in this area, robberies weren’t unheard of. In fact, this very store had been targeted two years ago, and her oldest sister, Juliana, kidnapped by outlaws.
A shudder ripped through her as stealthy, faltering steps echoed down the long hallway that led past the private quarters, storeroom and office to where she’d been dusting shelves in the front area of the store. Whoever had dared enter after hours was up to no good.
Alarm pooling in her belly, Nicole seized a large enamel pot from the nearest shelf and wedged herself into the narrow space between the high shelving unit and door frame. She lifted it high over her head.
Her sister had been fortunate. She’d escaped unharmed.
Would Nicole face a worse fate?
What if he had a gun? What if he shot her on sight?
That’s why I have to be faster than him. Seize the element of surprise.
The footsteps neared. Paused somewhere in the vicinity of the office immediately on the other side of the doorway. Her hands curved around the pot handles until they bit into her palms. Heartbeat roaring in her ears, her arms began to tremble from the strain. The safe containing the money was in the office. If he went in there, she could try and sneak out the front entrance.
But he didn’t enter the office. Instead, he stalked through the doorway. Halted inches away, hands on lean hips as he surveyed the interior. By now things like his scent—peppermint of all things—and impressive height were registering.
The intruder seemed to be cataloging the goods. What was his plan? Steal the valuables and sell them for profit?
He started to pivot in her direction, and she caught a glimpse of sleek jawline above a starched white collar. Nicole’s throat closed up. She would not be taken hostage like Juliana. If he had time to draw his weapon, she was done for. It’s now or never.
She swung with all her might. The impact of the heavy cookware against his head knocked him forward. He grunted, hands going up as if to defend himself from another blow.
Go. Now. The pot hit the just-swept floorboards with a dull thud. She dashed into the shadowed hallway, desperation powering her rubbery legs. A low growl cracked the air. He scrambled into the hallway after her. Without warning, strong arms stole around her waist, halting her forward movement and digging into her stomach. She was shoved face-first against the wall. His large body followed, heaving chest pinning her.
“Who? Why?” he panted against her ear, hot breath fogging her neck.
“Let me go, you ill-bred ruffian!” Raising her foot, she slammed her heel down, grinding it into his boot.
He gasped, jerked, and Nicole slipped sideways out of his grasp.
“Oh, no, you don’t.”
He captured her before she could put any sort of distance between them, this time seizing her arms in a painful grip. Ignoring her struggles and seething threats of retribution, the intruder propelled her into the store, snatched a silk tie from the rack on the counter and tied her wrists behind her back. Anger pulsed at her temples. “You won’t get away with this,” she said.
He spun her to face him, pushed her into the lone chair and, shoving aside her skirts, bound her calves to the chair legs. Insides quivering with indignation, she did everything she could to make things difficult for him. She wiggled. Strained against the ties.
When she delivered another threat, he straightened to his full height, folded his arms and glared down at her, his honey-colored eyes glittering with ill humor. “If you don’t want me to gag that pretty little mouth of yours, I suggest you shut it.”
A lock of jet-black hair flopped over his left eyebrow, and he shoved it back, wincing when he came into contact with what was probably a good-size knot on his head.
“I don’t know what your story is, lady, but you had better hope it’s a good one. You’ll be telling it to the sheriff here shortly.”
Her frazzled mind belatedly homed in on his accent. It wasn’t the slow, easy drawl typical of East Tennessee. His words were clipped. Fast. Northern?
Dread clawed upward into her throat, nearly choking her. Please don’t let this be who I think it is. Nicole did a quick inventory of his appearance—quality brown leather boots peeked from beneath perfectly creased blue trousers. His navy vest and white shirt had been crafted from sturdy material. He didn’t dress like a ruffian. Didn’t look like one, either, with the clean shave, neat haircut and carved features. Power and authority cloaked him.
“Did you say sheriff?”
“Sure did.” He jabbed a finger in the air above her nose and quirked a mocking brow. “Stay put.”
Outrage flamed in her cheeks. “Wait. I can explain—”
But he was already undoing the knob lock. “Save it.”
The door clicked shut behind him.
Nicole listened helplessly to the retreating footsteps of Clawson’s new owner—and her new boss. She hung her head in defeat. She was never, ever going to live this down.
* * *
Quinn Darling made his way down the boardwalk, head throbbing with each step. That was a fine welcome to his brand-new life. He’d wanted change, a simpler existence than he’d led among Boston’s elite. Nothing simple about being assaulted by a madwoman the second he arrived.
Gatlinburg had the appearance of a peaceful place. Majestic mountains cradled the town, green slopes cast in waning golden-orange sunlight. Businesses lined either side of Main Street, and a white church boasting stained-glass windows sat at the far end, surrounded by rolling fields and scattered tree groves.
Spotting the lone horse outside a building marked Jail, Quinn picked up his pace. His muscles ached from days of travel; his belly was protesting the long hours since lunch and his headache—compliments of her—had quadrupled in size. He wanted the female out of his possession so that he could unload his personal belongings and explore the store that belonged to him.
“Excuse me,” he addressed the rugged, fair-headed man behind the desk. “Are you the sheriff?”
Eying Quinn,
