PRAISE FOR

  The Last Renegade

  “Fans of Western romance will be thrilled with this delightful addition to Goodman’s strong list.”

  —Booklist

  “Simmering sexual tension, exceptional character development, and slowly revealed secrets make this a book to savor.”

  —Library Journal

  “Humor and drama . . . A complicated, fast-paced, and deliciously believable story of love, sex, and secrets.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Exceptional across the board, a sheer delight.”

  —Reader to Reader

  “Jo Goodman is a master storyteller and one of the reasons I love historical romance so much. . . . The Last Renegade is an outstanding historical Western.”

  —The Romance Dish

  Kissing Comfort

  “A perfect read for fans of West Coast Old West . . . A romance to savor. Nicely done!”

  —Library Journal (starred review)

  “The cast of likable, articulate characters—including the complicated, independent, and altogether impressive heroine—makes this an entertaining and sizzling offering for lovers of Gilded Age pageantry.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Jo Goodman’s books are one of the main reasons why I love historical romance so much.”

  —The Romance Dish

  “Business, money, lies, betrayal, and love are a dynamic recipe . . . Jo Goodman is a master at historical romance. Kissing Comfort is charming, humorous, all-consuming, and a blast to read.”

  —Fresh Fiction

  “A wonderfully intense romance that entertained me from beginning to end . . . A captivating read.”

  —Romance Junkies

  “Jo Goodman is one of my favorite authors and is one of the few historical romance writers that still sets her books in America . . . I absolutely adored her latest book, Kissing Comfort, where she has spun a gripping tale that absorbed me to the very end.”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “Goodman’s longtime fans will recognize the author’s signature style and new fans will enjoy this good, old-fashioned Western.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “An exciting American romance starring two likable protagonists and an overall wonderful cast.”

  —Genre Go Round Reviews

  PRAISE FOR THE NOVELS OF JO GOODMAN

  “A perfect treat for readers who enjoy smart, sensual love stories à la Amanda Quick.”

  —Booklist

  “Goodman has a real flair for writing romantic tension and sexy love scenes . . . Fans of historical and Western romances will also appreciate Goodman’s witty dialogue, first-rate narrative prose, and clever plotting.”

  —Publishers Weekly (starred review)

  “Exquisitely written. Rich in detail, the characters are passionately drawn . . . An excellent read.”

  —The Oakland Press

  “Jo Goodman is a master of her craft, and it’s easy to see why she is a bestseller. She has the rare talent to put you in the hearts and minds of her characters . . . If you see her name on a book, it’s a guaranteed good read!”

  —Night Owl Reviews

  “For the pure joy of reading a romance, this book comes close to being some kind of perfection.”

  —Dear Author

  “Goodman’s . . . prose is rich and luscious.”

  —The Romance Reader

  “Delightful and exciting . . . Goodman holds the suspense as well as the surprises and never lets up on the passion.”

  —RT Book Reviews

  “Goodman is a thoughtful and intelligent writer who can make her characters live and breathe on the page.”

  —All About Romance

  Berkley Sensation titles by Jo Goodman

  KISSING COMFORT

  THE LAST RENEGADE

  TRUE TO THE LAW

  True to the Law

  JO GOODMAN

  THE BERKLEY PUBLISHING GROUP

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, USA

  USA | Canada | UK | Ireland | Australia | New Zealand | India | South Africa | China

  Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  For more information about the Penguin Group, visit penguin.com.

  TRUE TO THE LAW

  A Berkley Sensation Book / published by arrangement with the author

  Copyright © 2013 by Joanne Dobrzanski.

  Excerpt from Nat Church and the Runaway Bride by Jo Goodman

  copyright © 2013 by Joanne Dobrzanski.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without permission. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Berkley Sensation Books are published by The Berkley Publishing Group.

  BERKLEY SENSATION® is a registered trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  The “B” design is a trademark of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.

  For information, address: The Berkley Publishing Group,

  a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014.

  ISBN: 978-1-101-60640-7

  PUBLISHING HISTORY

  Berkley Sensation mass-market paperback edition / May 2013

  Cover photo by Claudio Marinesco.

  Cover design by Rita Frangie.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  Contents

  Praise

  Also by Jo Goodman

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Special Excerpt from NAT CHURCH AND THE RUNAWAY BRIDE

  In memory of my mother, whose gift was believing in her children, and in honor of my sister, a teacher, who believes in every one of hers.

  Prologue

  August 1889

  Chicago

  “Find her.”

  Cobb Bridger gave no indication that he was inclined to accept or dismiss the job. Most men in his position would have taken this opportunity to ask a question, perhaps several questions. Cobb remained silent. In his experience, silence was a powerful motivator, and he judged that it would be a useful tool now.

  It was.

  Andrew Charles Mackey III stopped turning over the envelope in his hand and set it on the desk blotter. He laid his palm over it. “Is it the money? I was given to understand that what I’m offering is well in excess of your usual retainer. I’m aware there will be other expenses. We will settle those when you find her.”

  Cobb said nothing. He tilted his head slightly to one side. His eyes narrowed a fraction. The look was a calculating one, thoughtful in the way one was when taking the full measure of a man. In Cobb’s case, it was also a sham. He was bone weary. Worse, he was bored. No amount of money was an incentive when he was bored. Besides that, he had taken Mackey’s measure at their introduction and distilled all the details to a single salient point: Here was a man with no expectation that he would be, or should be, challenged.

  “I was told you would not ask questions,” said Mackey.

  “I don’t believe I have.”

  The hand over the envelope curled slightly. Mackey began to drum it lightly with his fingertips. “Then you’ll do it.”

  “I don’t believe I’ve said I will.” Cobb’s eyes never left Mackey’s face. He heard rather than saw the drumming fingers miss several beats. After a brief pause, they resumed their tattoo. That’s when Cobb knew Andrew Mackey had made his decision.

  “Miss Morrow has something that belongs to me. I want it back.”

  Cobb detected a hesitation; something in Mackey’s speech suggested he was choosing his words carefully. Although he did not rouse himself to attention, Cobb Bridger was marginally less bored than he had been moments earlier.

  “It is not just for me,” Mackey said after another hesitation. “The family also has an interest in recovering what she has stolen.”

  Not my family, Cobb noted. The family. Cobb wondered if Mackey were aware that a distinction had been made. Probably not. One of the reasons Cobb had a reputation for asking so few questions was that he knew the answers to many of them before he scheduled the first meeting.

  Andrew Charles Mackey III was still a bachelor at thirty. As Cobb himself was only one year younger and also unmarried, Mackey’s single state was not by itself very interesting. The fact that Mackey had been engaged three times and all of them ended abruptly, was. As far as Cobb was able to determine, Mackey had no bas
tards. An only child, his parents had died within months of each other when he was still at Princeton. More recently, in fact just two months ago, his only remaining grandparent, his paternal grandmother, passed away. The death of Charlotte Mackey left a not insignificant hole for the society pages to fill; yet that hole was nothing compared with the one left in the business pages.

  The Mackey empire was in want of an . . . emperor? Empress?

  Andrew Mackey’s failure to marry and produce any offspring, and the death of his parents and now the Mackey matriarch, did not, however, mean that he was without family. Cobb counted one uncle on the Mackey side and half a dozen Mackey cousins. Charlotte Mackey’s death meant there was a vacancy at the head of the family and an opportunity for someone to fill it.

  It seemed that Andrew Mackey was speaking for the family. Cobb was uncertain if he had appointed himself to this front-and-center position or if he had been thrust there by the Mackey collective, and neither was he sure that it mattered. What piqued his curiosity was the missing item. What had Gertrude Morrow taken with her when she disappeared? What was important enough to Andrew Mackey, and ostensibly to the rest of the family, that hiring a private detective was a reasonable solution?

  Cobb asked, “Is it bigger than, say, my fist?”

  Mackey blinked. “What?”

  “This something that you allege Miss Morrow stole . . . is it bigger than my fist?”

  Now Andrew Mackey frowned. “Miss Morrow took it. That is what is important. The size is of no consequence.”

  Cobb wondered how that was possible. Mackey had given him a useful description of Miss Morrow, discussed at length her former position in the house and the access she had to every part of it, but especially the access she had to his grandmother, and finally, albeit without fanfare, shared the classified section of the newspaper he recently discovered in Miss Morrow’s former room—with seven advertisements for employment neatly removed from the pages. The newspaper, which he described as having been secreted away by Miss Morrow, had been found in a stack of similar papers bundled for removal. In Mackey’s mind this was further proof of Miss Morrow’s clever and concealing nature.

  Cobb did not point out that a more clever and concealing woman would have burnt the paper, not left its discovery to chance. Mackey had a great deal to say about Miss Gertrude Morrow and nothing at all to say about what she took.

  “The size,” said Cobb, “has some bearing on finding what’s been taken . . . and returning it to you.”

  Andrew Mackey picked up the envelope and tapped one corner of it against the blotter. Before he spoke, his mouth thinned briefly. “You mistake the assignment, Mr. Bridger. I am not hiring you to find and return what’s been stolen. I don’t believe I ever said as much. For the matter of the theft to be resolved, you only have to find Miss Morrow. She is, you will note from my description, bigger than your fist.”

  Cobb thought he probably deserved Mackey’s condescension. It did not make it more palatable, but it did stay the aforementioned fist from mashing Mackey’s patrician nose. “And when I find her?”

  “You will inform me. I expect you will observe her until I can arrange a meeting. It is a precaution, nothing more, in the event she decides to disappear again. At all costs, you should prevent that.”

  “At all costs,” Cobb repeated, shrugging. “It’s your money, Mr. Mackey.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  On the face of it, the job was straightforward. Cobb doubted that was the case. The point of hiring someone with his particular skills generally meant that the face of it was a façade.

  All the better, else where was the challenge?

  “Very well,” said Cobb, rising to his feet and extending his hand across the desk.

  Mackey also stood. He offered Cobb the envelope, not his hand.

  Cobb thought he correctly read the intent of the exchange in Mackey’s taut expression. No gentleman’s agreement here. This was business.

  Cobb Bridger was fine with that.

  Chapter One

  October 1889

  Bitter Springs, Wyoming

  Finn Collins decided he would stare at Priscilla Taylor’s braid until his eyes crossed. The braid, perfectly plaited with every hair still in place at the end of the day, rested along the line of Priscilla’s ramrod straight backbone. Priscilla never slumped on her bench. She never fidgeted. The braid never moved except when Priscilla raised her hand to answer a question, then it slid ever so slightly to one side and the tip curled like an apostrophe. Or maybe a comma. Those punctuation marks were suspiciously similar, except one was high and one was low. It was no wonder he got them confused.

  “Finn?”

  Finn did not stir. In point of fact, he did not hear his name being called. He sat with his elbows on the desk, his head cupped in his hands. His chin and cheeks rested warmly between his palms. His eyes had begun to relax. Priscilla had two braids now. Two ramrods. And when she raised her hand to show everyone that she knew the answer to something no one cared about–like the name of the fifth president–the tail of one braid curled in a comma, the other in an apostrophe.

  “Carpenter Addison Collins.”

  Finn came to attention with the jerkiness of someone suddenly roused from a deep sleep. His elbows slid off the edge of the desk, his head snapped up, and his feet, which had been swinging in a lazy rhythm under the bench, kicked spasmodically before slamming hard to the floor. He blinked widely. There was only one person who called him by all three of his proper names.

  “Gran?”

  Thirteen of Finn’s classmates were moved to laughter. Finn’s brother, Rabbit, was an exception. He glanced over his shoulder at Finn and rolled his eyes. Somehow he managed to convey disapproval and embarrassment. Just like Granny.

  Finn felt color rush into his face and knew his cheeks were glowing like hot coals. If someone poked at him, he would burst into flames. For himself, he didn’t mind so much. In some ways it would be a relief. More concerning was that no one would be safe from the conflagration. Priscilla’s braid would take to the fire like a candlewick. She’d whip her head around then, he was certain of it, and shoot tongues of fire at anyone who tried to save her. Stupid girl. She would burn down the school. Probably the town. It would be his fault because no one ever blamed girls. To save the school, the town, to save everyone, really, he had to act. The solution was clear.

  He yanked hard on Priscilla’s offending braid.

  She squealed. It was a sound no one had ever heard her make before, but everyone knew how a piglet sounded when it was in want of its mother’s teat. Priscilla squealed like that, and all eyes shifted to her. A moment later, so did the laughter.

  Priscilla swiveled on her bench seat, slate in hand, and swung it at Finn’s head. Finn ducked instinctively, but he was never in any danger. Miss Morrow stepped in and stayed Priscilla’s arm. Out of the corner of his eye, Finn saw her calmly remove the slate from Priscilla’s hand and set it gently on the desk. She had a small, quiet smile for Priscilla, one that was more understanding than quelling. For the class, she effectively used a single raised eyebrow to stopper the laughter. It was Finn for whom she had words. He held his breath, waiting for the pronouncement.

  “Finn, you will stay after the others leave today.”

  Finn kept his head down, his eyes averted. He knew better than to look pleased. He kept his voice small, penitent. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Is there something you want to say to Priscilla?”

  Now Finn looked up and stared squarely at Priscilla’s back. “Sure is. Prissy, that pigtail is nuthin’ but a temptation. And now that I heard you squeal, well, giving it a yank now and again is a thing that can’t be resisted.” He risked a glance at Miss Morrow. For reasons he did not entirely understand, she looked as if she was going to choke on her spit. “That’s all I got to say, ma’am.”

  Tru Morrow covered her mouth with the back of her hand and politely cleared her throat. “We will speak later, and you can write your apology.”

  Finn’s narrow shoulders slumped. Staying after school with Miss Morrow was nothing but a pleasure. Writing, whether it was an apology to Priscilla or “I will raise my hand before I speak” twenty times, well, that cast a long shadow on the pleasure of Miss Morrow’s company. His pap would tell him that a man has to pay for his pleasure, and it seemed to Finn that his pap was proved right again. He tucked that thought away so he could use it when Pap asked him to account for his behavior today. There was nothing like flattering a man with the rightness of his thinking to stay another lecture on the same subject. Granny would be a little trickier. She wasn’t impressed by flattery, and it seemed that a man paying for his pleasure had a different meaning to her because when Pap said it she snorted and set his plate down hard. If she didn’t have a plate in her hand, she just cuffed him.