Mathew collected Verity into his arms and carried her to his office. "I love you," he said with a gravelly growl.
"I love you, Matt."
His lips crashed against hers. Their hands caressed each other's bodies, eagerly undressing, while moans blocked the noise from the kenneled animals. Verity and Mathew made good use of his desk for a few hours, even with Snoopy watching from his doggy bed.
Epilogue
Bridgeport, Wisconsin
1853
Four weeks earlier…
SHERIFF CLINT NELSON knocked on the Grignon estate's grand entrance again. The garden was unkempt—overgrown dead grass, bushy hedges, and sharp brush narrowed the path more than usual. No birds chirped on this cold December morning. A rustling in the woods turned his head, but it was just a squirrel.
Sheriff knocked again. He opened the creaking door with his hand at the butt of his Colt revolver.
"Jaime, you in here?"
Now, Sheriff had seen a lot in all his years, whether he was minding the law or not, and walking into a palatial estate—the finest in the tri-village area—and finding two dead bodies in the foyer was a new one for him.
Sheriff released the weapon from its holster and gripped it tight. He crouched inside on silent feet. Any enemy would've heard his announcement, but he didn't have to wave a target around for them. Sheriff checked the first body for signs of life as Dr. Frank had taught him, and decided it wasn't worth trying. His throat had been sliced clean through.
The next body, likewise. Most of the blood must've been absorbed by their clothes, because not much puddled beneath them. Did ol' Millie try to clean them up?
These were all Jaime's men.
Sheriff took the stairs and noticed the little birds were silent. With the temperature inside, that wasn't surprising none. He squeezed the revolver's grip and held it up near his chest. The first room at the top of the stairs knocked the breath from him.
"Aw, damn, Millie. What have ya gone and done this time?"
The plump woman was half-bare and leaned over a table in Jaime's punishment room. He checked her throat and there was nothing but an unpleasant stench.
Sheriff checked each room, expecting more bodies, and when he got to Jaime's bedroom, he didn't know if he should chuckle at his accurate prediction or be resigned to more paperwork.
"Well, shit."
Jaime lay on his back with a gash in the center of his chest and…Sheriff inhaled deep and slowly released his breath. "Them's some mighty personal wounds ya got there."
Next to Jaime, Sheriff found Ben Pool. "Now what did you gone and done now, boy?" He checked him for a pulse as well, and at this point, Sheriff was going to assume everyone was dead. Sheriff shook his head and walked out. Down in the kitchen, Sheriff heard a rustling and that wasn't no squirrel.
"Hello? Anyone there?"
The rustling came again, like a doorknob rattling. Sheriff followed his ears and knocked at the locked door.
"You's in there?"
"Let me out!"
Startled, Sheriff jumped back and collected himself. He shouted a warning through the door. "All right, now move aside."
Sheriff wound up for a swift kick and sent the door flying in on its hinges, exposing a small closet.
He smiled.
"Well, well, well, Joe Pool. How's a man like you still alive in all this gruesome glory?"
"Howdy, Clint." Joe Pool's wobbly legs carried him out of the closet. Apparently, the door whacked him a good one.
"When the bandits come armed, sometimes hidin' is smarter than fightin'."
"Looks to me like we have a common enemy. Wanna help me take down the bandits?"
Joe Pool stretched his legs as if stuck in the closet for far too long. "For an arrest or hanging?"
"Whatever happens, happens."
Joe Pool smirked. "Feed me and I'll call it a deal."
***
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Find out the bandits' fates in Jonathan Arris and Becca Wagner's story Days to Hide (Curator Series Book Three) available HERE. Check out a sneak peek below!
DAYS TO HIDE Blurb:
Thrust back in time to 1854, she's on a mission to save a good man turned bandit. Falling for him wasn't part of the plan and neither was earning herself a target on her head.
Veterinary assistant Becca Wagner drowns in romance novels on her lunch break, someday hoping to find what she had lost: a family. When her soon-to-be ex-husband arrives with a new woman on his arm and a cute puppy needing shots, Becca quits. While packing her house to restart her life, Becca's co-worker offers her an escape—a dream study for her master's degree with promises of healing from the pain. Becca doesn't hesitate. Before drifting off to sleep, she is given a mission: Becca must convince a farmer to accept a crooked sheriff's deal, otherwise the farmer will be killed. Amused by the chance to participate in a romantic adventure novel of her own, Becca eagerly accepts the terms.
In 1854, farmer Jonathan Arris turned bandit for his own reasons, no matter how much his little brother complains. The sheriff in town makes Jonathan an offer to go undercover for him in exchange for immunity from his crimes. Despite Jonathan's better judgment—the bandits are a bigger threat than the sheriff—he accepts. But soon it's clear the sheriff's deal isn't going to keep Jonathan alive, and the strange woman from the future quickly captures his heart.
Becca must decide between two futures—the present, where she's jobless but safe, or the past, where she has to risk her life to follow her heart.
If you love sizzling romance, edge-of-your-seat action, time travel, courageous heroes, and daring heroines in a small town setting, you'll love Stephanie Flynn's dramatic historical adventure books. Each is a standalone with guaranteed HEA, but an overarching narrative. Best if read in order.
Buy Days to Hide on Amazon!
Sneak peek of Days to Hide:
Chapter One
Green Bay, Wisconsin
Present Day
SWEAT ROLLED BETWEEN her breasts, but Becca Wagner wouldn't have it any other way. Sure, it was the middle of July, already a humid seventy degrees outside, and the air conditioning wasn't working. The landlord claimed he'd fix it—a month ago. Big negative on that one, buddy. But Becca had more pressing issues than a minor luxury. She slid the baking sheet with dollops of chocolate chip dough into the oven, while 375 degrees of heat blasted her face. Mixed from scratch was the only acceptable form of scrumptious confection. Store-bought cookies were relegated to the blasphemous bin, just like kicking puppies, skipping the tip jar, and mixing cheese and sprinkles. Sometimes blood, sweat, and tears were a necessity to enjoy the finer soul-soothing things in life, and in this case—two of the three. She hadn't cut herself in the kitchen yet, but the day was still young. Her eyes sought out the stack of papers on the counter as if willing them away. Becca sighed and set the timer.