Pursued

By Kent Hamilton

I wake up with a gun between my eyes.

"Belle Reed, ya dang strumpet, get yourself up," a voice says.

The pistol smacks into my forehead, and then I see him, the owner of the voice. The man who killed my husband. The man who's here to do the same—or worse—to me: Frank West.

He's here with his cronies, of course; a bunch of mean-faced men with hungry eyes. Eyeing me as wolves a lamb. Hungry—for blood.

Belle Reed was called the Bandit Queen for good reason.

She wakes up with a gun in her face, and that's just the start of it. The clock is

ticking for Belle and her children,she is on the run from the sheriff, and she is pregnant with her criminal dead husband's child.

The Starr clan is the only place she can go and yet, doing what they demand in order to be accepted may just be the ruining of her.

Meanwhile she is battling a growing attraction to the one man who could make all her efforts in vain…Sam Starr.

"Pursued" mixes some good Old West action with a dash of romance, as well as fact with fiction, based loosely on the life of notorious American outlaw Belle Starr.

Texas, 1874

• Language: English
• Publisher: TheHeirs Publishing company
• Release date: Jul 25, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393095361

Kent Hamilton

Author Kent Hamilton has always had a natural flair for writing, right from his school years. A student of Columbia University, he has over 15 years of writing experience and is an avid reader of clean romance, dramatic fiction and the classics. Kent passion for evoking raw emotion and his honest representation of the human experience makes his work relatable to his readers. He enjoys drawing on the experiences of his surroundings, observing the behaviors of others and combining this with a healthy dose of imagination. He is a keen communicator with an eye for detail and this is reflected in his writing. Having written short stories since he was a teenager, Kent also contributes to online blogs and enjoys reviewing novels from new and established authors. He is constantly open to learning new things and thrives on reading fiction that evokes emotion and stimulated the senses. Prior to writing his clean romance novel Without a Hitch, Kent spent several years traveling around Australia where he met his current partner. He lives with her and their one year old daughter and his other passions include cooking, photography and film. Without a Hitch is a novel that questions the notion of true, lasting love and draws the reader into the hearts of its protagonists. Kent has recently started another romance story which he hopes to publish next year.

Book preview

Wild The Secret

Western Women

Pursued

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An Old West Novella

A Mail Order Bride Story

Part one

By: Kent Hamilton

© 2017

Printed in USA

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© Copyright 2017

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All Rights Reserved

No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form whatsoever, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any informational storage or retrieval system without express written, dated and signed permission from the author.

By reading this you accept these terms and conditions.

Table of Contents

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Chapter One: Shot

Chapter Two: Coming and Going

Chapter Three: A Bad Dream

Chapter Four: No Rest for the Wicked

Chapter Five: An Unwelcome Welcome

He spreads his arms, his Winchester M1873 glinting in the sun. He smells like sweat and death.

Chapter Six: Breaking Point

Chapter Seven: Singing Pain

Chapter Eight: A Decision

Chapter Nine: Insidious Seeds

Chapter Ten: Powerless Loss

Chapter Eleven: A Dance of Hopeful Death

Chapter Twelve: Eyeless Seeing

Chapter Thirteen: Ruined Plans

Chapter Fourteen: Never as Easy as It Seems

Chapter Fifteen: Damned if You Do

Chapter Sixteen: The Happiness Before the Storm

Chapter Seventeen: Death’s Point

Chapter Eighteen: The Reckoning

Chapter Nineteen: Mud Warriors of Death

Chapter Twenty: Last Day

Chapter Twenty-One: A Good Dream

Chapter Twenty-Two: The Mud is Turning Red

Chapter Twenty-Three: No Escape

Chapter One:Shot

I wake up with a gun between my eyes.

Belle Reed, ya dang strumpet, get yourself up, a voice says.

The pistol smacks into my forehead, and then I see him, the owner of the voice. The man who killed my husband. The man who’s here to do the same—or worse—to me: Frank West.

He’s here with his cronies, of course; a bunch of mean-faced men with hungry eyes. Eyeing me as wolves a lamb. Hungry—for blood.

I get up. My hands stay still, but my legs are quivering to run.

There’s four of them, not counting Frank. They’re all armed. If I run, I won’t make it out of here alive.

Belle, we know you were with your husband when he jumped that stagecoach, Frank’s black teeth say.

It’s funny: he’s Paris’ most affluent sheriff. And yet no matter how he scrubs his teeth, he can’t get the black off them.

No, I say.

He strikes me on the side of the head this time. My tears are checked by his laughter; I don’t want him to see me cry. I don’t want to give him the satisfaction.

I lunge forward but it’s too late: two of his men have my wrists in big meaty-fingered cuffs, while Frank—stupid, evil, vicious Frank—is already in the other room. Eddie’s screaming.

Leave him alone you yellow belly! I cry.

Next minute Frank is back in the room, dangling my darling little boy by his foot, grinning as he shrieks and thrashes.

I’d apologize for the insult if I was you, he says, and gives Eddie a shake.

Yes, yes, I yell over my boy’s shrieks, my gaze searching for his, trying to let him know that’s it’s going to be ok, I’m sorry for calling you a yellow belly, Frank.

The grip on my wrists soften, and I say it again, softer: I’m sorry, Frank.

His black little eyes search my face for the lie I can’t let him see, for the plan I haven’t yet sprung.

These kids of yours and Jim were never any good—more of him in them than you, I always said, he says.

I say nothing and, slowly, eyes on me, Frank lowers his arm, until the tip of Eddie’s head is against the hard, wooden floor. Eddie’s sobbing lessens, and the grip on my wrists softens.

Maybe this is all for show?

Frank shoots me a sneer, and I know then—but it’s too late—he’s dropped my son, and my darling boy’s head smacks against the floor.

I yank my wrists free and grab the gun of the one on the left to shoot the one on the right. Next shot is aimed at Frank, but he’s dived out of the way. It hits the man beside him, one of his cronies who moans as I run for my wailing boy.

As I pick Eddie up and run out, bullets dance around me. I slam the door and lock it from the outside. That Jim wasn’t good for much, but for this—locks on every side of the door, guns in every corner of the room—there was no one better.

Pearl is up, already at the door: Mommy, mommy what’s-

No time, I say, taking her hand, and pulling her along the hallway.

Behind us, bullets are smashing through the closed door onto the floor.

We’re taking a little trip, I say, because I can’t tell her we’re running for our lives.

I’ve always tried keeping the kids out of Jim’s idiocy. I’m not going to stop now.

We’re at the bottom of the stairs when the upstairs door is kicked open. It catapults inches to our left, but we’re out the door a second later.

I start unlatching Pebbles.

The cart’ll be too slow. Already its canvas is flapping in the wind and full of holes, a grim reminder of what we’ll all be if we don’t hurry.

Belle! Frank is roaring.

I lift Pearl onto Pebbles’ back, then Eddie. They’re both crying, soft, uncomprehending tears. My fake strained smile can’t be helping either.

BELLE!

A shot whizzes by my head, hits the cart I was standing in front of a second ago.

I shoot back, but the shooter has already ducked behind the doorway.

I throw myself on the horse and smack him into motion.

Bullets are pouring out now but we’re off, off and away—Frank’s too late, too late entirely, and I turn back to laugh, to tell him so, when one hits my arm.

Chapter Two: Coming and Going

It’s like a horsey, see?

I wag my arm and avert my face so they won’t notice.

It was stupid to do that. My wound still hurts.

But I got off lucky.

Staring off into the arid endlessness, I remind myself: I got lucky. The bullet just grazed me, only left a bruise that looks