OUT OF THE DARKNESS (THE PRESCOTT SERIES) (25 page)

The darkness was completely gone now. Love had filled the void.
Jason’s love. The love of his family, Margaret, John and their children. Cookie, Pete and Willie had filled a space in her heart, also.

She
stood quietly, her face to the sky and let the beautiful spring morning sweep over her. She breathed in the scents of the land. Hearing the noise of the creatures living in the gnarled oak tree, she looked up. On one of the lower branches sat a squirrel on its hind legs. It seemed to be watching her. She smiled, reminded of the day in the forest as she ran from Three Feathers and his party of warriors. How her fancy had taken flight, thinking back to the small creature chattering in a tree. Amused at herself for assuming it was giving her guidance in her escape.

The loss of Jade’s warmth woke Jason. As he stretched, remembered passion stirred in his loins. He had always acknowledged the
passion that he and Jade ignited in each other. Yet, he had not admitted to its depth, until the night he almost lost her. After that, he had waged a war against her senses, using the passion they shared. Little did he realize he had won the war before the first battle had been engaged. She had told him last night of the proof of their skirmishes. It should arrive in six months. Thankfully, this time before winter. He dressed and went in search of his little general to tell her again, how much he loved her.

Jade sensed the moment Jason came to the door.
He came up behind her, slipped his arms around her waist. He placed his hands on her stomach and drew her back against his body. Her sense of belonging burrowed deep inside her. She placed her small hands over the larger ones that held her, not to remove them, but to hold them closer.

“Have I told you today how much I love you?” Jason whispered as he nuzzled her ear.

“Not in the last ten minutes,” she said and angled her head to give Jason greater access to the most sensitive part of her neck. “But, I’ll never tire of hearing it,” she whispered back as her passion rose again.

“
Sweetheart, if you would let me, I’d like to give Nicky my name.” Jason hesitated to ask, but he had given this subject a lot of thought lately. “She feels like mine already, and she’ll need a father in the years to come.” Jason loved Jade’s child as his own. “If you would rather she keep her father’s name, I’ll understand.”

“I think you will be a wonderful father for Nicky. I love Emma as my own and would like to be a mother to her, if you’d let me,” Jade said with all the love she felt for this man and his
daughter.

“I think you will be a wonderful mother for Emma,” Jason teased her with her own words.

“Have I told you today how much I love you?” Turning in his arms, she pulled his head down for a kiss.

“Not in the last ten minutes,” Jason
said smiling against her lips.

Molding her pliant body against his, they
whispered again the words of love that would endure beyond the passage of time.

Please turn the page for an exciting peek at

B. J. McMinn’s

FORBIDDEN DESIRE

THE
PRESCOTT SERIES

Book Two

March, somewhere in southeast Kansas 1876

Astride his bay gelding, on a small hill at the edge of the tree line, J. T. patiently waited and watched for something in the distance to move. He stretched high in his stirrups to ease the ache in his lower back and the tight muscles in his thighs. Traveling for two long days brought its own brand of pain. Although accustomed to a hard saddle for long periods, the secrecy of his mission intensified the tension in his body.

He removed the well-worn, wide brimmed Stetson from his dark head, rested it on the saddle horn, and wiped his sweaty brow with his chambray-covered forearm. He raised his hand and shaded his eyes to scan the valley below for any sign of his contact as closely as the hawk soaring overhead, searched the ground for his next meal.

The trees, rimming the valley, budded as spring forced its way past the cold temperatures of winter. Grass, as of yet, failed to fully blanket the valley floor in a lush mantle of green. Only tufts sprouted here and there, creating an illusion of fertile pastureland.

Nothing.
He lowered his hand.

Anxious, to hunt down the band of outlaws, he’d arrived two days early. Now he’d just have to cool his heels until Matthew Greer, his partner, arrived. The outlaws were out there somewhere. His skin itched with the knowledge. His gaze drifted over the valley again before dismounting.

He led his horse beyond the forest’s edge, a safe distance away from the clearing. Although invisible to the casual passerby, this position gave him an obstructed view of anyone traveling the valley floor.

Maybe he’d get lucky and find a trail the gang used. When certain everything was quiet, he’d make camp farther back into the trees.

A sigh of contentment escaped him at the thought of this particular assignment. He knew this land. It was like coming home. His familiarity with the terrain would prove an advantage for the successful conclusion of this operation. Maneuvering through the countryside undetected was the pivotal role of sending only two men to garner vital information. Information needed to capture a ring of deadly outlaws.

He’d participated in several secret missions during his career. However, this one was special, personal. Good friends had died over the last year during the course of this mission. Sam Rutherford, after infiltrating the gang, was discovered shot in the back, his gun still in his holster. His attacker never gave him the chance to defend himself. Two days later, they found Jeff Turner dead near the old mission where he and Sam were to exchange information. He lay sprawled, face down, in his own blood.

Someone had betrayed them.

His boot-heel slammed into a rock, as angry ripped through him.

The informant spying on their ranks still held his anonymity, but not for long. He and Matthew swore to track him down along with his gang.

This group was vicious and cunning. He mentally ticked off a list of crimes and the wide range this gang traveled: a bank robbed north of here, the clerk shot without provocation, a stagecoach held up due west, the driver and two passengers killed, toward the southwest a small rancher and his family brutally murdered for their livestock, all without leaving one eyewitness alive. Each in different directions, yet all the trails led to somewhere in this vicinity.

Since two men could maneuver through the countryside undetected easier than a large unit could, their orders were to locate trails the gang used for supply transport and routes they rode to and from robberies.

He and Matthew were well aware that if they tried to apprehend this gang by themselves, it would be suicide. Once they gathered information, a centralized division of U.S. Marshals would converge on the outlaws to make the arrest.

Sliding his rifle from its scabbard, he checked the ammunition, and repeated the procedure with his Colt. One empty chamber could cost him his life.

With one booted foot crossed over the other, he leaned his six-foot-one-inch frame against a tree. The bark bit uncomfortably into his skin. Despite the gouging sensation, he relaxed his shoulders and ran a hand over his unshaven jaw. The ruggedness of his face made him appear older than his twenty-seven years. That and the Colt .45 slung low on his hip made sure strangers didn’t take him lightly.

Leaning over, he plucked a piece of grass from the ground, stuck it in the corner of his mouth, and chewed while he pondered what lay ahead for him and Matthew: death, if exposed.

The captain had handpicked him for this task, and given him free reign to select the agent to work with. Trusting very few men, he chose Matthew. He’d discovered, in his line of work, it was wise to be wary.

Matthew was one of few men he banked on, and for a damn good reason. Eight years ago, J. T. as a young, green, recruit had trusted too easily and accepted a tip on a case at face value. Instead of informing his superior officer, as procedure dictated, he followed up on the lead alone.

He found himself hunkered down between two rocks at the bottom of a hill, dodging lead from two men who had ambushed him.
Although, a skilled marksman, the enemy, on higher ground had an excellent view of his position and kept him penned down.

Bullets ricocheted off his rock covering and sent fragments flying. Several shots came too close for comfort when he exposed himself to get in a few shots. One bullet grazed his arm but inflicted little damage. Encouraged when another agent rode in to take up a position several hundred feet from his own, J. T. continued to fire.

Matthew, at twenty-three and more experienced agent, arrived just in time to save J. T.’s life. It hadn’t taken the bandits long to figure out there were two accurate lines of fire coming their way. The attackers decided to make their escape by hightailing it to the south:  toward Indian Territory.

He and Matthew had enjoyed a close friendship ever since.

This was their final assignment. The ranch both men dreamed of, sacrificed for, and invested in, waited for them to begin their future. He gave a humorless chuckle. If they had one after they caught up with these outlaws.

Straightening from the tree trunk, he spit the grass stem from his mouth and gazed toward the valley again. Was there movement deep in the forest shadows weaving between trees, or was it the natural ebb and flow of light among the tree branches reflected on the ground? He kept his eyes trained on the location.

To make sure he wasn’t just jumpy, he glanced at his horse. It shifted its body, swished his tail at flies annoying its back, and then settled into a relaxed pose. With one hind leg cocked, all its weight settled to the opposite back leg, giving him a lopsided look. He watched his horse for several more seconds for any evidence of an intruder: a snort, a twitching of his ears, or restless pawing on the ground. Nothing. It had become second nature to rely on his horse to sense if someone prowled about. The horse would hear anything long before J. T. identified any sound.

Reaching out, he soothed the horse by brushing off the remaining flies. With the sun
sinking low in the sky, he figured he might as well setup camp and make himself comfortable. Matthew wouldn’t be here for two days, at the least a day and a half. He picked up the reins to lead his horse further into the woods.

Bay’s ears twitched, his nostrils flared, and his head swung toward the valley floor.

A buckskin horse burst through the tree line, running hell-bent-for-leather with a small boy in the saddle. Both hands held his hat on. The kid must have lost the reins. If the strips of leather dangled in front of the horse’s legs, he’d trip and send horse and rider tumbling end over end.

It was a deadly situation. He’d seen it end in tragedy when a horse tripped. Either the rider was seriously injured, or the horse broke a leg making it necessary to put him out of his misery.

Torn between his mission’s secrecy and saving the kid, he hesitated.

To hell with orders.
He swung into the saddle and raced down the slight slope in a dead run. By riding at an angle along the valley, he’d intercept the boy. If the kid reached the other side of the valley, he’d disappear into the woods, making the situation more dangerous.

Bay’s long stride ate up the distance between them. How could he stop the buckskin without endangering the rider? His thoughts whirled. He’d snatch the kid from the saddle and worry about catching his horse later.

Arm extended, he reached for the kid. He almost made it, but the boy looked to the side and saw him. The horse spooked, shied sideways, and took the boy out of J. T.’s reach. Damn, he’d have to try again.

Close enough to see fear in the young boy’s eyes, he wondered why a kid no more than twelve or thirteen rode this far out by himself?

J. T. raced on.

With his slight lead, the buckskin’s hooves kicked up patches of dirt and grass, and hurled them into Bay’s face. Bay broke stride. He pulled to the left to prevent flying debris hitting his horse. Prodding him, Bay picked up speed. He reached out to yank the scrawny youth off the runaway. The buckskin changed directions again.

Damn.

The kid still held onto that stupid hat. Why didn’t he turn loose and reach out to grab his hand?

“Hey kid, let go of your damn hat and grab my hand,” He yelled. The kid must be deaf, too, he grumbled. Hellfire, the brat seemed to urge his horse faster.

Bay gathered himself and lunged forward drawing up next to the buckskin. J. T. reached out, grabbed the kid’s shirt, and jerked. The boy landed face down across his thighs. With all the brats kicking, screaming, and flying elbows, he nearly dropped him.

“Watch it, kid,” he shouted at the little devil draped across his lap.

He yanked on the reins to halt his horse. He began to think it wasn’t worth the effort to rescue the retched brat when an elbow caught him under the chin. Tiny lights flashed. For a brief second blackness threatened to overtake him.

Losing his balance, he felt them slip from the safety of the saddle. They fell toward the hard, unyielding ground. He snatched the boy closer to absorb most of the impact, receiving a swift kick near his groin for his effort. Luckily, the brats aim wasn’t any better than his riding ability.