His Most Wanted

It'll take more than a badge to get her to confess her secrets.

The River Rogues
, Book 2

Kit Wainwright only meant to stop the thief making off with his beloved uncle's ashes. He wants to hang up his gun, become a law-abiding citizen and leave his violent past behind. But the mayor takes notice of his sharpshooting skills, slaps a badge on his chest and puts him in charge of cleaning up this lawless town. Starting with tracking down the notorious Velvet Grace.

Bordello owner Cora Reilly never meant to become a crusader. But after shooting the last corrupt sheriff in self-defense, she's spent the last few months turning her hastily donned disguise into a local legend to defend the girls in her town from riff-raff.

There's no way Cora can trust the handsome new sheriff. Yet Kit's kisses leave her wanting to open her arms—and her bedroom—to soothe his grief. Even if it brings him too close to the truth that could send her to the gallows.

Warning: Contains a reluctant sheriff with a keen eye for a moving target, and a take-no-crap madam who isn't about to let him get close. Okay, maybe just a little bit closer. Just this once…

His Most Wanted

Sandra Jones

Dedication

For Tina W. For her friendship, support and inspiration throughout the years.

“What would men be without women?

Scarce, sir. Mighty scarce.”

Mark Twain

Prologue

The gun, still warm from shooting the sheriff, fit just right against Cora Lynn Reilly's ribs, wedged beneath her breasts between her corset and her blouse. Her heart thundered like a cannonball as she looked for a way to exit the room that wouldn't require going near the body on the floor, but unfortunately, there wasn't one. The sound of the blast would likely bring someone upstairs to check on the man, and she couldn't be caught alone with him.

Balancing on her toes to miss the blood spreading across the boards, she stepped over the first booted leg, her skirt spanning Bill Sidlow's bloated thighs. She lifted her hem to avoid dragging her petticoat across the man's torso, now damp and crimson, and set her left foot down with care between his side and his spread-eagle arm.

Don't look, don't look.
But morbid curiosity got the better of her. She had to be absolutely certain the bastard was dead, so she glanced down at Sidlow's face. His sightless eyes stared back at her, familiar enough to make a frisson of terror run down her spine again after he'd cornered her against his apartment wall with demands of sex.

“Shoulda known better,” she scolded beneath her breath. But whether she'd directed her words at the sheriff or herself, she wasn't sure.

He gave no response, his flaccid mouth and sagging jowls glistened with spittle—no different than in life, she supposed. When he'd visited the club earlier that night, he'd pulled her aside to invite her here to his place for a private word, and even then his breath against her ear had been wet and disgusting.

She'd assumed he wanted to talk about business away from the girls and their customers, because if he'd wanted to make any advances of a sexual nature, where better than the Willows, the popular social club she owned on the Row? But she'd been wrong. The sheriff had wanted more than to talk. He'd wanted to
take
, and that was something Cora wouldn't allow.

Now, one mistake and a bullet later, she had to get out of his apartment fast before anyone found her here.

Tearing her stare away from the sheriff's corpse, she set her body in motion for the door, but the sudden tread of boots on the stairs outside stopped her in her tracks.

“Sheriff? Was that your gun I heard?” Mrs. Murphy, wife of the boarding house owner, called from a short distance below.

Cora's pulse raced. She scanned the room again. There was a window, but she didn't recall seeing a way down. She was certain no one else had seen her enter the building. She couldn't let Mrs. Murphy find her now, for who would believe a bordello madam who'd shot the sheriff with her pearl-handled pistol in his own bedroom?

No way would she allow anyone to hang her for the likes of Bill Sidlow. She'd never shot anyone else in her life and hadn't even taken her gun out of its case before tonight. The only reason she'd brought the weapon was in case she was accosted by one of the drunks in the streets outside.

Besides, her girls needed her. Especially now that there would be no one to keep the town's worst ruffians from their doorstep, and God knew, Fort McNamara had its share of those.

She swept another glance around the room for something she could cloak herself in. The bed was stripped to the sheet, but a long blue velvet drapery hung above the lone window. It would have to do.

A knock sounded at the door. “Sheriff? You all right?” Mrs. Murphy asked again.

Cora vaulted over the body and yanked the heavy fabric from the rod. Returning to the door, she swirled the drape around her head and shoulders until she'd fully cocooned herself, then she waited for a chance to escape.

The door metal rattled. When Mrs. Murphy peeked in, Cora threw her weight against the wood panel, knocking the woman outside off balance, and then barreled past. She descended the stairs, running as fast as she could in the tight wind of her drapery cloak.

As she reached the front door of the boarding house, she heard the woman's shriek of horror at discovering her boarder's remains. “Murder! Help, the sheriff's been murdered!”

Bursting outside into the darkened street, she kept to the shadows, holding the fabric closed at her neck as she dodged drunken cowboys looking for good times. She averted her face, praying no one would recognize her until she made it back to the bordello.

One thing she knew for certain, after this night, she had better get used to carrying her pistol.

Chapter One

Three months later…

Wharves were good for two things according to Kit Wainwright's years of experience traveling up and down the busy Mississippi, and he reckoned the Arkansas River town of Fort McNamara was no different. For starters, a man could step right off a steamboat in any port city and find himself a drink. And second, he could just as easily find himself a willing woman. This night, he'd already indulged in the first endeavor, getting foxed at the saloon. Now for the second, finding the right woman to lose himself in until dawn.

Anything to keep his mind off the past two weeks and tomorrow's grim responsibility of putting Uncle Bart's remains to rest.

Following his well-tuned instincts for such, he approached a row of houses near the docks, with lanterns still glowing outside late in the night. He shifted the bag on his shoulder, too wary of strange places to leave his valuables lying around in an empty hotel room.

Of the three stately houses, he chose to approach the door of the last one. Groomed rose bushes flanked the entry, proving the owner cared to maintain an orderly, attractive facade. He could only hope the ladies within were equally as appealing as their place of business. Having once owned a brothel of his own back in St. Louis, he couldn't help his critical eye for the establishment.

A customer wearing a tall hat and good clothing exited as Kit drew near the entrance. If the man represented the bordello's usual clientele, the place earned good money.

A sign hung under the lantern, a wooden placard painted with two willow trees.

Kit knocked on the door and didn't have a long wait before an attractive brunette welcomed him inside. The bordello's comfortable parlor held two sofas and a wingback chair. A redhead played soft piano music for two gents with whiskey glasses in their hands as they waited to be serviced.

“Welcome to the Willows. Would you care for a drink while you wait?” The brunette showed him to an empty seat on the sofa beside one of the men.

“Depends. How long will I be waiting?” He sat, placing his satchel at his feet.

She shrugged and eyed him from head to toe. A pretty thing, she wore too much face powder for his tastes, but he didn't need to be so discerning tonight.

“That's up to Miss Cora. You pay her and she sends you to a room.”

He strained to see past the blurred edges of his whiskey-rimmed eyes, taking in the parlor again. Redhead on piano. Brunette playing doorman. And, ah, yes, the lady to whom she referred, a blonde reading a book in the corner.
Curious.
Three young ladies in the parlor while three paying customers sat waiting in line for a woman? Hardly seemed sensible…and he should know.

Unwillingly to part with his comfortable spot on the sofa, he leaned forward, touching the back of the brunette's hand, and murmured, “'Haps you and I could come to an arrangement ourselves? I'll pay double.”

The sofa shifted slightly, perhaps caused by the anger of the gent waiting beside him. Kit was past caring what others thought. He'd been patient and polite his whole life. Now that his Uncle Bart was gone, he had no one to reprimand him, no one to disappoint.

“I can't.” Her lip curled into a slight pout, telling him she probably wanted to accept his offer. “Miss Cora handles all the money in the Willows. You gotta see her first.”

He looked around her to the prim blonde in the corner. She hadn't lifted her eyes from her book as far as he could tell, but if she was the one in charge, she had her girls' obedience. Good for her. But not for him.

“Look, I've been traveling the past few days on the river. I'm weary. Do you think you could ask Miss Cora to come to me?” He leaned back into the lush cushions of the sofa. Euphoria was already taking hold as the saloon's whiskey did its trick and his muscles slowly unwound.

“I can ask…”

The brunette sashayed away, her lovely bottom making a pleasant swing beneath her silk and crinoline.

He closed his eyes for a second, wanting just long enough to soothe them, when he felt something nudge his boot. Suddenly alert, his eyes flew open.

The blonde stood over him. A pint-sized commander of women in a high-necked, no-nonsense green frock, she looked to be close to his age. He reckoned a good gust of wind would likely carry her away. “I'm Cora Lynn Reilly, owner of the Willows Social Club. Bernadette said you wished to speak with me?”

His eyes riveted to her lips as she spoke. Her mouth hitched at one corner as she formed the words, as if she found something humorous. And she probably did, but he was just too damned drunk to figure out what it was. Still, she had a beautiful mouth, and he'd like to explore it further…

“You
do
wish to speak with me? Or did Bernadette have it wrong? We're a business here, sir. If you'd like to spend some time with one of the ladies, you pay me a dollar and I give you a token. Then you wait until I summon you.”

“A token?” He worked to make sense of her scheme. Christ, this Fort McNamara was an odd place, but it sure beat the city, where he'd had to hire a man to guard his brothel, keeping out riffraff and protecting his interests. The Willows only had the brisk Miss Cora? “Intriguing…” He reached for her hand, the same as he'd done with her minion, and tugged her a step closer. In comparison, her hand was cool and softer than the other woman's.

Rather than indulging his presumptuousness, she jerked loose, yet not before he'd felt the tremor running down her arm. “Mister…?”

“Christopher Wainwright, but you can call me Kit.” If he stayed on in the frontier town like he'd planned, he would need to get on Miss Cora's good side.

“Yes.” Her blue-green eyes darkened. “Mr. Wainwright
,
do you have any money to pay for time with my ladies?”

“Of course.” He reached out and snagged her other hand in his lightning-quick grip. This time, he held on when she tried to free herself. Her eyes blazed at him, her nostrils flaring at the indignity of his touch. He wasn't an aggressive man, but he knew for a fact he would enjoy a war of wills with this pretty little dictator. “What say we dispense with the protocol and make an arrangement between you and me? I used to own a brothel myself, and wouldn't it be interesting to…compare our experiences?”

She lifted her chin, glaring down at him, but even through his intoxicated haze, he caught the slow movement of her hand working her skirt, hitching the hem up a little higher, showing off her delicate ankle and then her slim calf. His mouth watered, already imaging the delight of having those perfect legs wrapped behind his neck.

A whoosh of air stirred beside him, and the sofa moved. Vaguely, he wondered if he'd lost his balance or had the carpet pulled out from under him, so to speak, with all the drinks he'd had earlier. He glanced in the direction of the customer sharing the sofa and found him missing.

Kit's satchel was gone as well, headed for the bordello's entrance…along with Uncle Bart's ashes.

Cora wrapped her hand around the pearl grip of her pistol that she'd earlier strapped securely to her thigh, but she didn't get to use it. Kit Wainwright, the raven-haired drunk, jumped up, his hands touching her waist for only a split second, yet long enough for her to feel their strength and heat, making her tremble. His ice-blue eyes had left her feeling off-kilter since she'd first gazed into their enthralling depths—which was probably why Bernadette had felt compelled to do the man's bidding in the first place when he'd sent the girl to fetch her.

Now the stranger swept her aside to draw a Colt dragoon from inside his coat. She nearly grabbed for him to keep her balance before finding equilibrium. For a man three sheets to the wind, he moved like he was sober, crossing the room in a blur of speed she didn't think possible for his height and build.

Tarnation.
In his condition, he could hurt somebody else besides the thief running off with his bag, and no one would stop him. Or care.

She dropped her skirt with an angry sigh and followed him out the door he'd left hanging open.

Outside, Wainwright had already caught up with the source of his trouble, and the two exchanged blows.

There was nothing she could do now to help, except maybe shoot one of them, but she couldn't draw attention to the fact she'd kept herself armed these past three months since she'd killed the sheriff. She'd never armed herself before while there'd been the lawman around.

Crazy, all that time she should've been worried about protecting herself from
him
. Now someone might see her with a gun and put the pieces to the puzzle together.

Ever since Sidlow's death, the mayor's posters were plastered on every structure in Fort McNamara.

The bandit known as Velvet Grace.

Wanted for murder and various crimes against society.

Presently, the most wanted criminal in the county was watching Mr. Wainwright take justice into his own hands as he aimed his steel at the crook's retreating back.

Another day, another death.
Will it ever end?

Wainwright's gun made a loud
crack
, the report casting a blanket of ominous silence over the city. The crook dropped, slinging the stolen satchel far from his body. Wainwright marched past him toward his belongings, while Cora went to check on her poor customer.

“Watch out. He isn't dead,” Wainwright called as he slung his bag over his shoulder, stopping her a few feet from the fallen man.

She squinted at the form lying in the dirt. Though she couldn't see where the bullet had struck, she wasn't taking any chances. She stood her ground and crossed her arms over her stomach as nausea set in.

The thief groaned and drew into a ball, pulling his left leg against him. “My ankle! He shot my ankle!”

“Cora? 'Zat you?” A man hailed her from up the street. Ray Thorntree, mayor of Fort McNamara. She recognized his stalking gait, shoulders back, head held nearly as high as his opinion of himself, as well as by the gangly deputy, Jim Hazen, ever present on his heels.

“Another thief, Ray,” she called.

“What's happened to him?”

Wainwright holstered his gun. “Just crippled him. You can give him to the sheriff.”

“I would if we had one.” The mayor bent over the man and swore beneath his breath. “Logan Dix, you sonofabitch. What did you steal?”

Wainwright ambled toward the glowing light of the Willows' entrance, making his intention to re-enter clear to Cora. Apparently, the thief was no longer his concern.

“Oh, no, you're not going back in my place.” She circled the gunman, putting herself between him and the door. “Go sleep off your drink somewhere else, Mr. Wainwright.”

He stood inches away, his proximity making warning bells sound within her. She'd lived with constant fear ever since the sheriff's death—fear of getting caught, of course—but also worrying that at any time another man might put his hands on her…or pin her in a corner. This attractive stranger reeked of danger and had made her skin prickle and flush with heat when he'd dared to touch her hand.

Shooting the thief's foot hadn't been easy in the dark with a moving target, and Wainwright was barely sober enough to stay awake. Obviously, he wasn't a man to be trusted in any state, intoxicated or not.

He moved closer. A red mark stood in relief on the hard edge of his jaw where the crook had struck him.

His cool blue eyes measured her. “Lovely lady, I aim to sleep, but not before I buy one of those tokens of yours.”

“Not tonight you won't.”

He wavered slightly on his feet and adjusted the satchel's strap on his thick shoulder. “Now you wouldn't deny my business here just because I stopped that man from stealing, would you? Way I see it, I just did you a favor. You allowed a thief to frequent your establishment until I took care of your problem. I could take my business elsewhere, but I'm willing to put this behind me. No harm was done.”

“I'm sorry about what that man did. He's never been to the Willows before. But it was no fault of mine.” She braced her feet, preparing for a challenge. “I don't want any gunslingers—especially drunk ones—around my girls.”

His mouth twisted in a half grin. “I'm not very drunk. I'm still far too sober, and I'm in need of a bed and a pretty lady to keep me warm. Maybe you could help me with that?”

“Go somewhere else, sir.”

He ran a hand through his hair. It fell in dark, shiny waves around his forehead. He leaned deeper into the doorway, his face hovering over hers so that she could smell the whiskey on his breath, as well as the smoke and leather from his travels. “You'd send me away…in this condition?” he slurred. “I promise, I'm not dangerous. I'll let you hold my gun…”

His cheek dimpled at his words, or perhaps at her reaction. She felt heat surging to her face at his double-entendre.

“Besides—” he shrugged, “—after tomorrow, I won't need it anymore.”

She bit her tongue to keep from asking what he meant by that remark. Really, she ought to just shut the door in his face already.

Intending to do just that, she reached behind her for the handle, but he stayed put, mocking her appraisal of him, inhaling her perfume as his eyelids drifted closed. He murmured, “If it's your employees you're worried about, take me to your room. My offer still stands. I'll pay your fee. Unless you're afraid…”

Right now, the only thing she feared was her erratic pulse brought on by the gunman looming over her.
Crazy.
Drunkards had never unsettled her before. Of course, the sheriff used to keep them out of her establishment, for a price, but now that he was dead, she'd had to work to deter them. Maybe this particular drunk with his baby blues and smirking face couldn't be too much trouble without a weapon.