Wylder Opal

By Maryanne Ross

Gunslinger turned playwright Opal Calahan is handy with a pistol and even handier with a pen. She arrives in town dreaming of creating the new Wylder Playhouse. Rugged prospector Heath Rawdon tantalizes as her perfect leading man—but why does he hate theaters? And why does he have a price on his head?
Heath is running from his past and wrestling mental demons. Thanks to his visit to the playhouse in the lawless Ballarat goldfields, he lost his mate and his goldmine—and got slammed with the charge of murder. The last thing he needs is a beautiful, charming playwright disturbing his harsh existence. But feisty Opal has secrets and needs his help.
Together they banter, dance, face theatrical disaster, and combat danger in a race to rewrite their future and achieve their dreams.

• Language: Unknown
• Publisher: The Wild Rose Press
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9781509246960

Maryanne Ross

Maryanne Ross is totally addicted to reading. She adores writing contemporary and historical romances laced with adventure, sparkle and spice, featuring independent heroines, swoony heroes and satisfying endings. She has a science degree in horticulture, and many of her stories are set in gardens and gorgeous wild landscapes. Her award-winning short stories appear in Romance Writers Australia Little Gems, Award Winning Australian Writing and Sisters in Crime Scarlet Stiletto. The rom-com novella "How (Not) to Make a Grandchild" (TWRP) is currently available from ebook retailers. Maryanne works as a public relations consultant for a major Aboriginal organisation, and prior to that indulged her love of nature while working as a communications advisor with National Parks.

Book preview

Men come to the frontier because they have secrets, sweetheart.

Ooh. Sweetheart. In a gritty, gravelly voice that skittered over her skin.

She tilted her left shoulder forward and pouted her lips. "Don’t you know better than to tempt a woman with the mention of secrets?"

He laughed, white teeth gleaming under his long black moustache, dark eyes flashing with amusement. Crikey! Played that badly. With that smile, his whole face lit, changing from thunder to sweet spring sunshine. Not safe out here for pretty hothouse flowers.

She jutted her chin. I’m no hothouse bloom. I’m a gunslinger.

He choked. His lips pressed tight. Then he released a huge belly laugh, long-fingered hands pressing into his thighs as he bent forward.

She slammed her right hand on her hidden holstered hip, mean-eyed. She tapped an impatient toe. Men always underrated her, always tried to coddle and hedge her in. Even her tall, fierce sharpshooter brothers did sometimes. Not for long.

Opal drew her Smith & Wesson .44 Russian with a smooth, quick motion even her daddy would have approved and shot a metal mug off a stump thirty yards away.

He dropped his pick, which clanged to the rocky ground and held both hands up in surrender. Stone the flamin’ crows! Feisty damsel. A man’d be a fool to cross you. He shot a quick look back at his damaged cup. Quirked a black brow. A grin creased the corners of his lips.

Praise for Maryanne Ross

Praise for Crushing the Corset

…awesome romance. Page-turner, romantic, unpredictable, witty, wonderful characters.

~ 5 stars, Brenda, BookBub

A feisty, beautiful heroine in need for rescue - check, an outlaw hero helping her - check, a wicked villain plotting against our heroine - check. The book is intriguing, interesting and will keep your attention focused on the plot from the first sentence you read. It is definitely worth your time.

~ 5 stars, Netgalley reviewer

Praise for Bouncing the Bustle

…an immense pleasure to read…storytelling, characters and vivid descriptions are captivating.

~ Neeha, Reedsy

…definitely recommend this to my friends.

~ Hani, Netgalley

Wylder Opal

by

Maryanne Ross

The Wylder West Series

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.

Wylder Opal

COPYRIGHT © 2022 by Maryanne Ross

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the author or The Wild Rose Press, Inc. except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

Contact Information: [e-mail]

Cover Art by Tina Lynn Stout

The Wild Rose Press, Inc.

PO Box 708

Adams Basin, NY 14410-0708

Visit us at www.thewildrosepress.com

Publishing History

First Edition, 2023

Trade Paperback ISBN 978-1-5092-4695-3

Digital ISBN 978-1-5092-4696-0

The Wylder West Series

Published in the United States of America

Dedication

To my father, James Ross, who asked for a romance-western. With love and thanks for a lifetime of stories!

Wylder author acknowledgements

Wylder West is a shared world.

A big shout out to all the other Wylder authors, and especially those authors whose wonderful characters appear in Wylder Opal: Talia Logan (Sheriff Branch Wylder), Nicole McCaffrey, and Sarita Leone, April Hollingworth (Molly Maguire & Parkinson), Barb Bettis (newspaper editor), Renee Johnson (postmistress), and Tena Stetler (blacksmith).

A special huge thank you to Laura Strickland for lending Buck and Cissy Standish, and to Marilyn Barr for the riotous Sagebrush family and the bear cub.

Chapter One

Early May, 1880

Opal Calahan was handy with a gun—and even handier with a pen. Her new Plan galloped in her mind, as lively as the antelope racing the train. She jiggled her legs under cover of her skirts. Come on, come on!

Last stop, Wylder. The conductor lifted down her carpetbag and valise from the luggage rack. What might you be doing way out here in the Wild West, all by yerself, miss?

I’m trackin’ a gunslinger.

The man stared, pop-eyed, and almost dropped her valise. The train whistle hooted, and her belly clenched with excitement.

On the facing seat, the sleeping mound of disarrayed clothing, lip-paint, and curls stirred and sat up. Plenty of sharpshooters in Wylder, my lovely. Cowboys and outlaws too.

The conductor smoothed his moustache. Dangerous men, miss.

Opal slid him a wink. One particular gunslinger will do.

He shook his head and turned away muttering, his walk a practiced dance with the rocking of the train.

The two women stared at each other. Opal pointed to her own cheek to show where a smear of lip paint had escaped. The woman said, And why—

Urgent words swirled in Opal’s brain and burst out like the hot steam from the train. After I find my gunfighter… She sucked in a couple of quick breaths while her companion drew out a hand mirror.

Could she own her dream, say it out loud to a stranger? I’m gonna be…Wylder’s newest and best playwright!

The woman’s bright eyes fixed on Opal. She raised her arched brows encouragingly.

Opal waved her arms. In plays—if my characters accidentally misspeak, if they act too fiery or hasty, I can write them a second chance.

Her companion nodded. Lovely! You’ll be Wylder’s only playwright, far as I know. Good luck to you, my sweet.

With a conversation-drowning roar and great plume of thick smoke, the train pulled into Wylder railway station. Opal disembarked into a warm spring breeze, gripping her luggage as her train companion shouted directions in her ear. Go up Sidewinder Lane there, with the honky-tonk bar on the corner.

She swung her bags to tinkling piano music issuing from the saloon as she headed up the narrow lane. At last, Wylder Street! Opal stepped up into the lobby of the grand Vincent House Hotel, luxuriating in the welcome embrace of cool air, clean-scented with vinegar and wax.

Dollar fifty per night or seven dollars per week, Miss Calahan.

She grimaced at the eye-watering tariff but quickly pretended she merely squinted at the clerk’s name tag. Two weeks. Thank you, James.

In her pretty room, she made a lightning-fast wash and change and headed off on an exploratory walk to stretch muscles stiff from travel.

Opal edged through gun-toting cowboys in woolen vests, the air humming with male laughter. She dodged clip-clopping buggies, fringed surreys, and steaming horse poop. A side alley lured her down past the fancy Wylder County Social Club, with its fretwork balconies and a red lamp glowing at its door.

A footbridge beckoned over a glittering river. She strode out across the town’s scrabbly, desert-chewed edges. Herb-scented air tickled her nose. Jagged mountains soared in blues and grays on the skyline.

She rounded a curve in the track and stopped, stunned.

Best of all?

Right now, she just might have found her perfect leading man.

A broad-shouldered, dusty-garbed man held a long-handled pick high overhead, then slammed it down in a rhythmic thumping stroke into the rocky river bank. The lean muscles in his sweat-damp shirt—back and arms—flexed and pulsed with the action. His worn cotton trousers hung low on lean hips. A tanned hand flicked back a sweat-soaked curl.

Opal swallowed, transfixed. What was he doing? She darted a quick glance around. Shallow metal bowls with mesh bottoms were scattered along the riverbank. Some kind of sluice contraption stood in the burbling stream.

Did she gasp aloud? He sensed her presence and whirled, body alert, his pick wielded before him like a weapon.

Whew, reflexes! A smoldering dark gaze nailed her.

Had she found the gunslinger then? Tough. Calm. Self-contained. Devastatingly handsome. Tall, with that special athletic balance…just as she had imagined him.

Better be sure. What’s your name, mister?

She repressed a fidget as a long silence stretched. His gravel voice uttered, Heath.

Oh. Not the gunslinger. A knife of disappointment lanced her. Heath? Well, that’s pretty.

He snorted. Muttered pretty under his breath. Curled his lip as if she’d said something ridiculous.

She waited, trading stare for stare. She couldn’t hold out. What’s your other name?

No other name. He leaned on his long-handled pick.

Did he have a strange kind of accent? Fascinated, she probed. Your surname. Family name. Ya can’t be just Heath! She smiled to take the bossy sting from the words.

He scratched his stubbled jaw, skewering her with a smoldering dark glare. Why do you want to know?

Definitely an accent. Sort of flat and musical at the same time, somehow with sun and wildflowers woven in. I’m curious, is all. What’s the big deal?

Men come to the frontier because they have secrets, sweetheart.

Ooh. Sweetheart. In a gritty, gravelly voice that skittered over her skin. A little bit dazzled by all that manliness.

Stop that. This heart is occupied already.

She tilted her left shoulder forward and pouted her lips. "Don’t you know better than to tempt a woman with the mention of secrets?"

He laughed, white teeth gleaming under his long black moustache, dark eyes flashing with amusement. Crikey! Played that badly. With that smile, his whole face lit, changing from thunder to sweet spring sunshine.

Crikey. What was that? She stored the expression away in her word-hungry brain. She pressed her advantage. C’mon. Tell. Pleeeeease?

And then you’ll go? Not safe out here for pretty hothouse flowers.

Now, why would I do that? We’ve only just met! I’m fine, anyhow. She jutted her chin. "I’m no hothouse bloom. I’m a gunslinger."

He choked. His lips pressed tight. Then he released a huge belly laugh, long-fingered hands pressing into his thighs as he bent forward.

She slammed her right hand on her hidden holstered hip, mean-eyed. She tapped an impatient toe. Men always underrated her, always tried to coddle and hedge her in. Even her tall, fierce sharpshooter brothers did sometimes. Not for long.

Opal drew her Smith & Wesson .44 Russian with a smooth, quick motion even her daddy would have approved and shot a metal mug off a stump thirty yards away.

He dropped his pick, which clanged to the rocky ground and held both hands up in surrender. Stone the flamin’ crows! Gunslinger, hey. Feisty damsel. A man’d be a fool to cross you. He shot a quick look back at his damaged cup. Quirked a black brow. A grin creased the corners of his lips.

He bowed. Heath Rawdon. At your service. He raked her with that dark gaze. I apologize for laughing. You look way too dainty and sweet to pack a gun.

Well, you’d be wrong.

The silence clanged between them. Opal wrenched her rioting brain back to her mission in Wylder. Know a man called Buck Standish?

Heath Rawdon blinked. His forehead creased. Why do you want to know?

He humiliated my little brother, Neddy. Also a gunfighter. Well, that was part of the truth.

Heath curled his lip again. You’ll probably find him back in town. But you’d better leave that Buck Standish alone, if you ask me.

I didn’t ask you. Opal tossed her head.

With a few quick, graceful movements, he stacked his tools neatly by the tent. He bundled a small package into a leather pouch. Dusted his hands on his pants. Those hands. Calm. Gunslinger steady.

He held one out. Here, I’ll walk you back to town. These mountains are wild and lonely. Even a gun-toting, fire-breathing wench shouldn’t be out here by herself.

Opal snickered. I wouldn’t want to keep you from your work, mister. But he came anyway.

What are you up to out here, Mr. Heath Rawdon?

He slowed his long-legged, loose stride to match her pace. His large frame blocked the gritty wind snatching at her skirts.

Hiding from the world. His mouth twisted. A tiny silvered knife scar twitched on his left cheekbone. Heath. Drop the Rawdon.

Hmm. Doesn’t hiding involve keeping a low profile, not slamming noisy picks around and scattering one’s belongings from river to mountain?

How she loved his laugh! So rumbling and infectious, but rusty, as though long disused.

He avoided a direct answer. Instead, he grated, I’ll thank you to keep my name and my activities to yourself, Miss Gunslinger.

She realized—he hadn’t asked her name. Frontier courtesy? Or lack of interest?

And why did she care?

They traded snappy banter all the way to the bridge into town. At the town border, Heath nodded once, spun on his heel and left.

She stood, blinking in the warm sun, until she pulled herself together.

As she bustled up the road to the Vincent House Hotel, a man in a sheriff’s uniform stepped in front of her. Two holstered 1873 Colt Single Action revolvers rode high on his hips. Nice.

New in town, miss? You best stay away from that fellow, he said, jerking his chin toward the bridge. He tipped his hat at her. Branch Wylder, sheriff of these parts.

Oh? Opal Calahan, sir…playwright.

That so? Well, that man might inspire an interesting character. But it’s my job to listen to whispers—and I’ve heard tell that mountain loner is a wanted man. Price on his head. Claim jumping. Bushranging. Murder. Don’t want to brand a man unfairly—I’m making inquiries.

A hot surge of denial surprised her. But the lawman was only doing his job. I thank you, Sheriff. I’ll keep that in mind. She gave him her sunniest smile and traipsed on to her hotel.

Rats! She should ask him if her triggerman was in town. She swiveled.

The sheriff stood straight-backed, right hand resting on his Colt, staring out toward the mountains. Oh. Better leave him be.

A thrill ran through her. Frontier town. Danger. Excitement. Her steps picked up.

At the lovely Vincent Hotel, she had a quick wash in her sweet room, brushed down her dress, and tidied her hair. The housekeeper, Molly Maguire, brought in warm water and fresh towels and lingered. Don’t mind our resident ghosts now, Miss Calahan. They won’t hurt you any.

Wow! Hotel ghosts. She adored Wylder already. Which was all to the good if her plans for the famous gunfighter worked, and she was to stay here.

As Mrs. Buck Standish. Playwright.

Stepping out of hotel, Opal enacted imaginary scenes of her first sight of her hero, Buck Standish. In her fantasy, romantic violin music soared as their gazes locked in instant passion in a dusty Western street.

No, that wasn’t right. Those dark satiric eyes belonged to the prospector. And that dark brown curling hair. And that lanky, muscular body. Calahan, take a breath and start again.

Now she didn’t know what her imaginary Buck looked like. His physical presence—described so many times by his adoring little sister Abbigail—had wavered and vanished. Opal frowned.

Excuse me, she said, turning back to the Vincent Hotel doorman. Is the famous gunslinger Buck Standish in town?

One hairy gray eyebrow twitched. You might try the bakery just across the street, miss.

The bakery?

Well, she supposed even renowned gunsharks had to eat.

Opal dodged a thundering coach spraying dust, two mounted cowboys, and a herd of noisy, scruffy boys kicking a ball. She wandered across to the bakery, still frowning.

The warm, yeasty smell of fresh-baked pies and breads wafted enticingly. A vivid-faced woman with lovely white-blond hair piled high smiled at her as she arranged a tray of dainty cakes in the window.

The patrons included two giggling, wiggling women with low-cut dresses and painted faces—had she found Wylder’s actresses? Four men, all sturdy, all wearing hard-worn gear, waited in broody, hungry silence for their pies. But the men lacked that special light-footed balance of the dedicated gunslinger. She should know. Her daddy and three brothers were gunfighters. Well, two of her brothers. Her baby brother Neddy…

Which brought her mission slamming into her brain.

Damn that handsome prospector, making a girl giddy and forgetful.

Can I help you? The pretty blonde’s voice was as charming as her hair.

I’m looking for… Now it came to it, her words dissolved on her tongue. She’d spent months dreaming about Buck Standish, weaving her plans, visualizing their dramatic meeting.

Opal cleared her throat. …Buck Standish? The famous gunslinger.

Oh yes? And who wants to know? A hint of steel rang in that sweet voice.

A tall man bustled out from the kitchen, heaving a tray of delicious-smelling pies. His floral, frilly apron emphasized the strength in his arms. Opal didn’t miss the adoring glance he cast at her companion.

Opal said, I wanted to talk to him about my little brother, Ned Calahan. Buck totally humiliated him in a gunfight.

The tray wobbled. A pie slid. The apron-clad man snapped out a lightning-fast hand and caught it deftly, balancing the tray in the other hand.

Despite the warmth from the kitchen, palpable cool emanated from the woman now. The pie catcher stood frozen.

"I