LITMIR.BIZ

      “What brings you to Denver?”

      “It’s not important.”

      She didn’t believe him. Whatever his reason for being at Brick’s, he’d made an effort to find her. She felt cheated by the lie, just as she’d felt cheated in Abilene. “If it wasn’t important, you’d answer the question.”

      “I know what I’m doing.”

      When he smirked, she saw the man who’d left her pregnant, alone and ruined. “You haven’t changed a bit, have you, J.T.?”

      His eyes were even bluer than she recalled, and his cheekbones more chiseled. The sun, high and bright, lit up his unshaven jaw and turned his whiskers into gold spikes. The man was untouchable, unreachable.

      “That’s right,” he finally said. “I haven’t changed a bit.”

      “I have,” she said quietly. “What happened in Abilene is in the past. I’d appreciate it if you’d respect my privacy.”

      His eyes clouded with something akin to regret. “I understand,” he said quietly. “You won’t see me again.”

      His surrender shocked her to the core.

      VICTORIA BYLIN

      fell in love with God and her husband at the same time. It started with a ride on a big red motorcycle and a date to see a Star Trek movie. A recent graduate of UC Berkeley, Victoria had been seeking that elusive “something more” when Michael rode into her life. Neither knew it, but they were both reading the Bible.

      Five months later they got married and the blessings began. They have two sons and have lived in California and Virginia. Michael’s career allowed Victoria to be both a stay-at-home mom and a writer. She’s living a dream that started when she read her first book and thought, “I want to tell stories.” For that gift, she will be forever grateful.

      Feel free to drop Victoria an email at [email protected] or visit her website at www.victoriabylin.com.

      Victoria Bylin

      The Outlaw’s Return

      The cowering prisoners will soon be set free;

       they will not die in their dungeon, nor will they lack bread.

      For I am the Lord your God,

       who churns up the sea so that its waves roar— the Lord Almighty is his name.

      —Isaiah 51: 14, 15

      This book was the most challenging writing experience I’ve ever had. For that reason, it requires three dedications.

      The first is to my editor, Emily Rodmell.

       I’m beyond grateful for her insights into this story.

      The second is to Sara Mitchell.

       She’s my dearest friend and a gifted writer. I owe her more than I can say.

      The third is to the people of CenterPointe Christian Church in Lexington, Kentucky.

       From the day Mike and I first stepped through the doors, you made us feel welcome. A special shout-out goes to the ladies of the Flippin’ Pages Book Club. Let’s hear it for Christian fiction!

      Contents

      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

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-One

      Chapter Twenty-Two

      Chapter Twenty-Three

      Epilogue

      Letter to Reader

      Questions for Discussion

      Chapter One

      Denver, Colorado

       July 1876

      When J. T. Quinn vowed to find Mary Larue, he never once imagined they’d meet on a perfect Sunday morning in Denver. On those long nights when he’d lain alone in his bedroll, he’d imagined seeing her on a stage in some high-class opera house. He’d pictured himself in a black suit and a white shirt leaning against the back wall with his arms crossed as he listened to her hit the high note only she could hit. Their eyes would meet and she’d recognize him. She’d miss a beat, but she’d pick up the song with even more power than before and he’d know…she still loved him.

      That wasn’t going to happen today.

      It wasn’t Saturday night, and J.T. wasn’t wearing a suit.

      It was Sunday morning, and he had trail dust in every pore. He also smelled like the inside of a saloon. He hadn’t visited such an establishment for six months, but last night he’d walked past a gaming hall with a head full of memories. A drunken cowhand had stumbled out to the boardwalk with an open bottle of whiskey, and the contents had sloshed on J.T.’s trousers. The smell had sickened him in one breath and tempted him in the next. He’d have changed clothes, but the garments in his saddlebag were filthy. They stank, but not with whiskey. He’d resisted that temptation, and he’d done it because of his love for Mary Larue.

      Heaving a sigh, he looked down at his dog. “What should we do, Fancy Girl?”

      She whapped her tail against the boardwalk and looked up at him with her tongue lolling out the side of her mouth. J.T. didn’t know what kind of dog she was, but they’d been best friends since he’d walked out on Griff Lassen at the Dudley place. They’d been running off Ambrose Dudley and his brother, squatters up in Wyoming, when the dog had charged at them and started barking. Griff had ordered J.T. to shoot her dead.

      J.T. had done a lot of mean things in his life, but not even he could shoot a dog. On the other hand, he’d come close to shooting Griff. When the man aimed his Sharps at the mutt, J.T. had shoved the barrel downward. The bullet had ricocheted off a rock and creased Fancy Girl’s head. J.T. had mopped her blood with his bandanna and fed her jerky from his pocket. When she’d followed him to his horse, he’d poured water from his canteen into a pot. She’d lapped every drop, and he’d filled it again.

      He’d left the Dudley place with the job undone and Griff promising to get even, but the dog had followed him. That night he’d named her Fancy Girl because her fur reminded him of Mary’s blond hair, and he’d made a decision. He didn’t want to be the kind of man who hunted squatters and shot at dogs.

      Over the past ten years, J.T. had sold his gun for money. He’d been nineteen when he’d first been paid to hunt down cattle rustlers, and next month he’d turn thirty. For a gunslinger, he had a lot of years on him. Today, standing outside a saloon and listening to Mary sing, he thought back on those years. He’d drunk oceans of whiskey and been with too many women. The whiskey had never failed to work its magic. The women, though,

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