For the Record (Ozark Mountain Romance Book #3)

Regina Jennings

Description

Jennings Offers Another Delightful Blend of History and RomanceBetsy Huckabee might be a small-town girl, but she has big-city dreams. Writing for her uncle's newspaper will never lead to independence, and the bigger newspapers don't seem interested in the Hart County news. Trying a new approach, Betsy pens a romanticized serial for the ladies' pages, and the new deputy provides the perfect inspiration for her submissions. She'd be horrified if he read her breathless descriptions of him, but these articles are for a newspaper far away. No one in Pine Gap will ever know. Deputy Joel Puckett didn't want to leave Texas, but this job in tiny Pine Gap is his only shot at keeping his badge. With masked marauders riding every night, his skills and patience are tested, but even more challenging is the sassy journalist lady chasing him.

Sujets

• Historical romance

Informations

• Publié par: Baker Publishing Group
• Date de parution: 06 décembre 2016
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781441230553
• Langue: English
• Poids de l'ouvrage: 1 Mo

Extrait

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
© 2016 by Regina Jennings
Published by Bethany House Publishers
11400 Hampshire Avenue South
Bloomington, Minnesota 55438
www.bethanyhouse.com
Bethany House Publishers is a division of
Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan
www.bakerpublishinggroup.com
Ebook edition created 2016
Ebook corrections 07.31.2017
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
Library of Congress Control Number: 2016942750
ISBN 978-1-4412-3055-3
Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.
This is a work of historical reconstruction; the appearances of certain historical figures are therefore inevitable. All other characters, however, are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Cover design by John Hamilton Design
Author is represented by Books & Such Literary Agency
Dedication
To Bob and Glenda Jennings in honor of their crowning achievement
Contents

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
Epilogue
About the Author
Books by Regina Jennings
Back Ads
Back Cover
Chapter 1

October 1885 Pine Gap, Missouri
Only a limited patch of Earth could claim the privilege of belonging to Texas. Not that he despised the rest of the world for its misfortune, but there was a difference.
Deputy Joel Puckett dropped his saddlebags on the platform of the depot and surveyed the wall of mountains that surrounded the valley. He hadn’t seen all of Texas. It’d take more years than his twenty-four to visit every town from the badlands of El Paso to the swamps of Beaumont, but he knew now that a native Texan could sense when he’d been separated from his homeland, and he felt the loss keenly.
The train’s chugging had ceased to thunder through the hills, and yet no one came out of the depot to greet him. Rustling started at the top of the hill as a gust worked its way down the mountain, tumbling autumn leaves across the rocky expanse in front of the train station. The stars had already appeared above the mountain, and the air was cooling. Joel lifted his Stetson and ruffled his hair. According to Governor Marmaduke, the people here were desperate for help, begging for relief from the outlaws who razed their homesteads. So if they were anxiously awaiting his arrival, where were they?
His boots echoed on the platform as he strode to the depot building and rattled the door. Locked. The brim of his hat bumped against the glass as he peered through the lone window but found no one. No help coming from that quarter.
Joel scanned the dense woods that surrounded him, but couldn’t make out anything in the darkness. He picked up his saddlebags and studied the rocky road that passed along the railroad tracks. When they’d arranged for him to ride the train, he hadn’t counted on being afoot once he arrived. He should have insisted on bringing his horse. Who knew what kind of mount they’d be able to provide? For now he’d have to make use of his own two feet. Uphill or downhill? Which would take him to civilization sooner?
The sounds shifted. Joel froze as his hearing instinctively separated the routine noises from the new element. Years of tracking had honed his senses so that any change alerted him. An unknown entity had entered the area and was even now racing toward him.
Hooves on rocks. Many hooves. Voices raised, calling to each other not in anger but in a boisterous excitement that usually preceded acts of derring-do. They were coming down the hill fast. Most men would’ve stepped out of sight until they knew what they were facing, but the thought never occurred to Joel. His hand flexed at his side, and he didn’t have to check that his six-shooter was in place. His feet were spread wide in classic gunslinger pose. What if he was in over his head? What if he’d made a mistake? With the horses barreling out of the trees, it was too late to second-guess himself.
His blood chilled at the sight of the first rider—a torch-toting apparition straight from hell, complete with a disfigured, blackened face and horns. As more of them raced from the trees, Joel realized the masks were burlap sacks, holes cut out for eyes and marked with white paint to make terrifying faces. Cones had been attached at the corners like horns, tassels streaming in the wind from their tips.
Hooting and hollering, the riders raced into the clearing, straight at him. Who were they? If they meant him harm, he was hopelessly outnumbered. With coats turned inside out and socks over their boots, the only identifying markings would’ve been those of their horses, but even they looked to be rubbed with soot. Dozens of them appeared, some waving a bundle of switches in one hand instead of a torch, but they paid him no mind. Streaming past the depot, they continued their ghastly calling as if he were of no more consequence than the squirrels darting about for acorns beneath the oaks.
Instead of being relieved, Joel fumed. He was not used to being ignored. As the men were disappearing into the trees, he cupped his hands around his mouth and hollered a challenge.
“Hey! Don’t you see me standing here, or are y’all afraid to stop?”
He was downright affronted that no one thought enough of him to break stride.
Save one.
Just before his horse dipped out of sight, one man reined hard to the left. Gravel flew as his horse cut and circled around the depot clearing. The man was massive, and the loose sack over his head only added to his bulky profile. One of his horns had twisted and pointed down like a crazed bull’s. His horse plunged its head, wanting to rejoin the herd, but the masked man held it steady and steered it directly toward Joel.
With the disguise, Joel couldn’t make out much about the man besides his size and his attitude. A leader—definitely. Fearless and arrogant. Someone he’d lock horns with sooner or later.
Might as well be sooner.
Joel stepped to the edge of the platform and looked down on the rider. Every nerve was taut. Every sense sharpened.
The man’s expression was not visible through the mask. He shifted in his saddle, and before Joel knew it, he felt the cold wooden handle of his own gun in his palm. But the man hadn’t drawn a gun on him. Instead of bullets flying his way, a bundle of switches skidded across the platform and landed at Joel’s feet.
One glance to see they posed no threat, and then Joel had the rider back in his sights.
The man’s horse pranced as the noise of the other riders faded into the woods.
“A bundle of sticks?” Joel said. “What’s that supposed to mean? Who are you?”
The white painted circle over the masked man’s mouth distorted and stretched with his answer. “I’m the law.”
Turning his horse, the rider spurred it, and they shot off like a cannonball to catch their companions, thundering across the clearing and ducking where the road entered the woods.
Joel’s scalp crawled. Releasing a long breath, he holstered his gun and only then allowed himself to consider what could’ve happened. They’d warned him that the mountains were dangerous. He’d thought the risk better than the fate that faced him at home, but now he wasn’t sure. Whatever he’d expected on his arrival, this wasn’t it.
Nope. This definitely wasn’t Texas.
Chapter 2

While we think your writing shows promise, our readers have no interest in the ineffectual attempts of a mountain sheriff to apprehend criminals in the Ozarks. If you find a topic that would be of more interest to those unfamiliar with your area, please submit again—
Betsy Huckabee folded the letter along its well-established creases. Good news, bad news. She could tell a story, but there wasn’t any story worth telling in Pine Gap, according to the Kansas City paper’s way of thinking. How could they not find the clash between the various gangs and outlaws fascinating? But they claimed their readers couldn’t relate to the incidents. While they might live in the same state, the mountaineers didn’t catch the attention of the city folk. If she wanted to start her career, she’d have to come at it from a different angle.
Stuffing the letter into her skirt pocket for the hundredth time, Betsy took up the wooden spoon and scraped it against the bottom of the iron pot, loosening what had stuck while she was distracted. There was more onion than squirrel in the pot. While the onions filled the cabin with a pleasing aroma, they wouldn’t keep her stomach from rumbling all night. The hams, shoulders, and middlin’ meat of the recently butchered pig were curing in the smokehouse, but they would have to stretch through spring, and evidently Sissy was already worried about running short. Betsy took a stick of walnut, tossed it in the cookstove, and then set to stirring again.
Maybe she could write a sentimental story for the ladies’ page—some fictional piece that would put her name in the paper and some money under her mattress. It wouldn’t hurt to try. She needed to think of something to help her earn a place of her own. The current situation wasn’t conducive to her well-being.
A whistle shrilled from outside. Was that the train? Betsy glanced at the clock on the fireplace mantel. Eight o’clock, and there the whistle went again, probably to alert the town that some poor soul had been abandoned at the depot. She set the kettle on the table and wiped her hands on the checkered dishtowel. She might be hungry, but she couldn’t stir onions when there was a mystery afoot.
“Uncle Fred? Did you hear the train?” Pushing open