The Lawman's Oklahoma Sweetheart

Bound by a Secret

When Katrine Brinkerhoff’s cabin is attacked, only sheriff Clint Thornton’s heroism saves her. She owes Clint her life—and her help catching the men responsible. All she has to do is trust in Clint’s plan to protect her family. But she can’t let herself care too deeply, not when her past carries secrets that would drive him away.

Infiltrating the murderous gang is a dirty job, yet Clint is determined to see it through. The brigands will face justice—and they will never harm Katrine again. Clint would give his life to keep the beautiful settler safe…but will he be willing to risk his heart?

Bridegroom Brothers: True love awaits three siblings in the Oklahoma Land Rush

“You can tell me one of your stories while I lay the corner timbers.”

“You want to hear one of my stories?”

Snapping the reins, Clint set the horse to a gentle trot toward the spot a bit outside of town where Katrine and her brother had staked their claim. “I like your stories.”

She laughed. “Lars thinks you find them silly.”

“They are.” Clint laughed right along. “Some of ’em, at least. But there’s a place for silly. We’ve got all the serious we need, and then some.”

She eyed him, head cocked to one side. “Sheriff Thornton, you surprise me.”

“I think we can dispense with the ‘Sheriff Thornton,’ don’t you? You can call me Clint.”

“Well, then, I suppose you may call me Katrine.”

She offered a shy smile. The breeze sent strands of her hair playing across her cheeks. It looked like spun sunshine to him—not that he’d ever say such a thing to her face. Clint swallowed hard and turned his eyes to the path. “Thank you kindly, Katrine,” he said. “I’ll do that.”

* * *

ALLIE PLEITER

Enthusiastic but slightly untidy mother of two, RITA® Award finalist Allie Pleiter writes both fiction and nonfiction. An avid knitter and unreformed chocoholic, she spends her days writing books, drinking coffee and finding new ways to avoid housework. Allie grew up in Connecticut, holds a B.S. in speech from Northwestern University and spent fifteen years in the field of professional fund-raising. She lives with her husband, children and a Havanese dog named Bella in the suburbs of Chicago, Illinois.

The Lawman’s Oklahoma Sweetheart

Allie Pleiter

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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Be strong, and let us fight bravely for our people and the cities of our God. The Lord will do what is good in His sight.

—2 Samuel 10:12

In memory of my dear mother-in-law, Clarice

Special thanks and acknowledgment are given to Allie Pleiter for her contribution to the Bridegroom Brothers miniseries.

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

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Chapter One

Brave Rock, Oklahoma Territory

June 1889

Fast wasn’t fast enough.

Clint Thornton ignored the knot of iron tightening in his gut. He told his fear to go away, to stop growing colder and heavier with each minute, each uncrossed acre, each dangerous stretch of land between himself and the Brinkerhoff homestead. Oklahoma was hot and dry in June. A fire could turn deadly in a split second. And the fastest fire of all was one that had been set to kill.

He bent over his horse, boots digging into the animal’s flanks. Faster. Clint’s breath tightened to short, hard gasps. If he failed, Katrine would soon be gasping as well, lungs frantic for air, throat singed by the heat, chest bound by the dread of a cabin burning around her. The men threatening the homestead were once soldiers, after all, men trained in the taking of lives. A renegade soldier was a dangerous man indeed. Clint had learned they were seeking to burn a cabin to the ground tonight, but only when he’d followed a gut instinct to check on the Brinkerhoff place had he learned the blood-chilling truth.

Snapping his reins against the horse’s sweating flesh, Clint pressed on toward the four torchlights circling the tiny, nearly finished dwelling in the middle-of-the-night darkness just over the hill.

Katrine had nothing to do with any of this, but that wouldn’t stop the cavalrymen or the flames they were about to set. They were looking to kill her brother, Lars, the witness to their crimes, and if she happened to die as well it would be of no consequence to them.

Clint yelled out to the men, hoping to distract them and buy Katrine more time, but he was still too far away for them to hear. The knot in his gut seemed to constrict around his whole body as he watched the leader of those men. In a cruel trick of moonlight, Clint saw Samuel McGraw casually, almost amusingly, touch his torch to the roof of a shed next to the cabin. Air fled Clint’s lungs in a helpless whoosh that seemed to say “too late.”

No. It could not be too late. Clint yelled, “McGraw!” once, then louder, jabbing the horse with frantic boot heels. “McGraw!” Some survival instinct took over from there, turning his voice to one of conspiratorial indifference even as his insides were going off like cannons at the thought of Katrine trapped in the smoke. Even as he watched embers float lazily from the shed to settle and ignite on the homestead roof. “McGraw, it’s Thornton. Hold on there!”

Finally he was close enough to see McGraw’s face as he handed his torch to another man and peered in Clint’s direction. “Thornton?”

Clint kept at full gallop the last few feet into the homestead yard, even as the fire began lapping up the structure’s roof. “There’s men behind me,” he panted, hoping his breathlessness would come off as strain, not fear. “Just up over the ridge. Go.” He pulled on the reins as his horse made uneasy circles, spooked by the growing fire. “Get yourselves gone. I’ll cover. I’ll say the place was burning when I came up on it.”

He needed them to believe he was on their side if his plan to infiltrate the Black Four gang would ever work. But he also needed them to leave so he could save Katrine. McGraw, evidently one to see a job done, didn’t seem too eager to be gone. Clint’s heartbeat pounded ice against the heat now flushing his face. The ice threatened to swallow him altogether when he heard the sound of a bang from inside. It did swallow him when he saw the plank the soldiers had nailed across the homestead door.

“Get on out of here,” he insisted as hard as he dared. “I’ve reason to be here, you don’t. I’ll cover for you but it won’t do one lick of good in five minutes if you’re not gone.”

“He’s right,” Bryson Reeves, another of McGraw’s cronies, said as he tossed his torch into the little set of rosebushes Katrine had optimistically planted along the east wall. Clint felt them burning as if the flames nipped at his own throat. “Let’s get gone, Sam.”

Clint flung himself down off his horse with what he hoped looked like indifference. Every inch between him and that barred front door yawned long and deadly. He gestured over the ridge he’d just rushed down. “Land sakes, McGraw, are you waitin’ for an invitation? Go!”

McGraw considered for an excruciating moment, Clint’s throat turning to knots as he heard yet another sound from within. The Brinkerhoff homestead held no windows, no way out but the door barred behind him. He thought he heard a cough and imagined Katrine sinking to the floor, her pale hands clasping at her throat. He felt the heat of the flames prickle the back of his neck. The urge to rush over there and physically push McGraw off toward the river nearly overpowered him. He heard a small, insistent thud from the side of the house away from the men and for a terrible moment imagined he was hearing Katrine’s body hit the wall.

Then he remembered the logs. The loose two logs on the far side of the house, the ones Katrine was always complaining let the wind in to chill the room. He heard more thuds and realized she was trying to kick them out. Kick, he pleaded to her silently as his hands fisted in frustration. Keep kicking.

“I’m handin’ you a gift here, McGraw. Are you too dumb to take it? You’ve got four minutes, maybe five afore those men behind me catch up and see you standin’ here with torches while this shack burns.”

“Fine!” McGraw pronounced after what felt like a year, turning his horse and waving his henchmen to ride off.

Clint forced himself to stand and watch, shoving his weight back on one hip as if the burning house was just another prairie brushfire. The kicking behind him had slowed and stopped, halting his blood right along with it. Just twenty more feet. That’s all he needed.

Because God have mercy on him if he had to watch one more person die...

* * *

It was as if the walls of the tiny cabin had come alive, creeping toward her like prowling animals. Katrine’s eyes stung, far more from the smoke over her head than from the tears wetting her cheeks. The smoke made it impossible to shout, so she’d tried the door, but it would not open. She’d heard voices—there were men outside, but they did not open the door. They were not here to save her. The Black Four had struck again, had come to burn down the house to push her off her land. Her brother, Lars, had worried the terrible gang might someday stoop to killing, but she never imagined they would begin with her. I’m not ready for Heaven, she begged God, even though she knew He would welcome her. I’m not brave enough to die. Not like this, not trapped. Not alone.

Not yet. Turning in frantic circles, Katrine scanned the four stalking walls, searching for any help. It was so hard to see, so awful to breathe. My Lord, my protector, save me. She pulled in another scorching breath, seeing the edges of her vision curl in and grow dark. How could even the Black Four bear to stand out there and watch a soul burn to death?

Stumbling to the table more by feel than by sight, Katrine found a dishcloth, then the Mason jar that still held black-eyed Susans from the supper table she’d set. The supper Lars had not come home to eat. She pulled the flowers from the jar and stuffed the dishcloth inside, the water feeling cool against the growing heat of the room.

For a stunned moment Katrine wondered why she could suddenly see, why the room glowed orange. Then, pressing the blissfully cool cloth over her nose and mouth, she peered up just in time to see a flaming chunk of the roof fall with a hollow whoosh and settle on Lars’s bed.

Had they found Lars first? Was he already dead? Katrine’s heart froze at the thought that her brother, who’d saved her from how many dangers since they’d come to America, might no longer be alive to save her now. No, he must be alive, she declared silently. He must live and make a future for himself in this new town, maybe a family... Her thoughts were coming in tangles now and her eyes stung so badly. Where was Lars? He’d know what to do. He’d built this cabin for the two of them; he’d know how to keep it from being their tomb. Think, Katrine, try to think.

The beams overhead gave a dreadful groan and Katrine backed away from the noise, grabbing the jar of water as she did. She stuffed the dishcloth into the water again, but its paltry contents didn’t help much against the smoke and heat now filling the room. Why, why hadn’t she fought harder with Lars to make windows? He said they would only let in the cold, but the drafty corner did that already.

The drafty corner. The pair of loose logs on the corner of the house. Oh, how she’d cursed those cracks, how they seemed to welcome the flies and dust into the room. Lars had not yet fixed them; they still wiggled when a boot kicked them hard enough. Katrine crouched down and crawled over to the corner, not caring how the split-log floor snagged on her nightshift or scraped against her knees. Behind her, gold light burst out into the room, and Katrine turned to see Lars’s coverlet consumed in flames. It gave her just enough light to find the logs and shift around to start kicking.

Her shifting knocked over a chair, but she merely pushed it aside and continued to slam her bare feet against the loose wood. It shifted, but not enough. “Flytte!” she yelled, commanding the logs to give way in her native Danish as she kicked them again. Behind her the fire’s crackle and growl seemed to come closer. Katrine moved up and began kicking with both feet, not caring about the growing pain on her heels—what would that matter in a few minutes as she lay gasping? The air seemed to race away from her, stealing the breath she needed to keep kicking. She could feel her efforts growing weaker, feel how the smoke robbed her strength.

Keep kicking. Her leg wobbled as she forced it against the log, and somewhere through the thickness of her mind she heard a voice. She thought she heard crumbling, imagined the log was pulling itself from the cabin, coming to life to save hers.

“Katrine!”

She couldn’t actually say whether the voice was real or imagined. Everything was spinning into a black hole in her mind, like water draining through the bottom of a barrel.

The rush of night air hit her face like a slap, clear and startling. She heard a man’s growl of effort as another log shuddered loose and fell onto the floor beside her. Air. “Here! Through here!” the voice called. Without thinking, Katrine turned and reached through the ragged opening, clinging to the hands that grabbed her outstretched fingers.

The change in air was astounding. Yellow sparks swirled against a dark violet sky as she felt herself pulled from the menacing heat. Katrine sucked down a huge draught of air, only to curl over in a cough that seemed to tear her throat into pieces. Before she could catch her breath, the hands dragged her across the cool prairie grass as the most dreadful, most unearthly sound filled her ears. A wind-filled echo, an evil rush of air such as she’d never heard before. Katrine looked up to see her home, her cabin, sprout flames from every corner and tumble in on itself, spouting in a volcano of smoke and sparks.

The fire burned hot and bright in all directions, throwing sharp light and flickering long shadows into the night. She coughed again, tasting coal and acid, and felt a hand on her back. Turning to look, she saw the face of Clint Thornton. She was safe in the grip of the town sheriff, thank goodness.

Fear widened his dark brown eyes, sweat glistened on his cheek even as it plastered the front of his dark hair against his forehead. “Are you all right, Katrine? Are you hurt?” His voice was tight and dark with worry.

Was she? She wasn’t sure she even knew. Too parched to speak, Katrine managed a weak nod, giving over to the shivers that suddenly took her. She hugged herself and drew up her knees, appalled to remember she was in nothing more than a summer nightshift.

Sheriff Thornton kneeled in front of her, shucking off his coat to wrap it around her shoulders. He took each of her hands and arms in turn, checking them for cuts and bruises. His touch was quick and reassuring. Her feet throbbed and felt as if they were covered in scratches, but she could move them. She started to say, “I’m fine,” but the words only became another cough. When he went to stand up, Katrine grabbed his hand, stopping him until he looked at her.

“Thank you,” she managed in a thin whisper that hurt with each word. She squeezed his arm again. Sheriff Thornton was Lars’s good friend. Surely he would know about her brother. “Lars? Is Lars alive?”

“Yes...and no.”

Katrine felt her fear surge back up. “Whatever do you mean?”

“Lars is safe, but only if no one knows.”

She blinked up at him, confused.

His dark brows furrowed. “I have a plan, Katrine, but you may not like what it is.”

Chapter Two

Katrine began to come undone by the time Clint managed to get her to his brother Elijah’s house. She looked up at him one more time as he brought her down off his saddle.

“You’re sure there is no other way?” He hated that she was near to tears again.

It felt cruel to ask something so big of her just now, but there simply wasn’t another way to keep her and Lars safe. Not that he could see. “Yes, I’m sure. This will work, and it will get me in with the Black Four so I can put them away for good. I’ll convince them you were gone tonight—say you had an argument with Lars or some such thing—and that they got Lars in the fire.”

“Why would they believe you?”

“Folks are always ready to believe what they want to hear.” Life had taught him that, over and over. Even here in Brave Rock, people were too ready to believe the broken fences and other “accidents” that had happened in the past month weren’t anything more than hard times.

This time he would make blind assumptions like that work in his favor. “They already think I’m on their side since I told them I’d cover their tracks. I’ve needed this chance—I can put it to good use—and it might not come again. The best way to bring the Black Four down is from the inside.” He caught her elbow and felt her shiver even under his coat. “I know it’s hard, but Lars would agree, I’m sure of it,” he pressed, even though this was far beyond the plan he and Lars had crafted mere hours before.

“I don’t like lying. Not about this.” She shook her head more firmly. “How can I tell everyone he is dead?”

Clint stared hard into those big blue eyes now rimmed in red and soot. He did hate putting such a load on her like this. After what she’d just been through, it didn’t seem fair. He’d seen enough of her spirit to know she was strong enough to handle it, even if she couldn’t quite see it now. “You like to tell stories, you’re good at it. This is a story to save Lars. To save yourself. Can you be brave, Katrine?” He dared to use her first name as he took both her shoulders. “Can you trust me in this?”

She softened a bit under his hands. “You promise me Lars is well?” Katrine sniffed, and he could feel her clutching at his arms even through the sleeves of his coat that hung down well below her hands. “That you need this story, and only for a short while?” She looked frail, as if she’d sway any moment.

A trickle of panic skittered down Clint’s spine. He knew how to protect, but precious little about how to comfort. Lije was good with people, Clint’s other brother, Gideon, was good with animals, but Clint had neither of those gifts. He was the sheriff here, and despite his fondness for many of the folk in Brave Rock, that meant he kept a certain distance. By personal choice and by profession. All that neighborly comfort business? That was his pastor brother’s corner.

Still, as much as Katrine needed Godly comfort, he couldn’t let her into Lije’s house until he’d gotten her to agree to his plan. That meant that for now, he’d have to venture into those emotional waters and try to tell Katrine what she needed to hear. Looking into those impossibly blue eyes, it wasn’t hard to find a soft spot from which to pull the words. Tall as she was, she felt tiny and frail under his hands, and the urge to keep her safe needed little encouragement. Those eyes could drive any man to feats of heroism, especially when framed with wet lashes and looking up from within the confines of his own coat. “I promise Lars is safe. And will be.” He meant every word, gruff and hoarse as they came from his sooty throat.

She blinked back more tears, and something unknotted inside Clint. He couldn’t leave all the comforting to Lije; after all, he’d placed Katrine in this spot and it was up to him to help her endure it. The compulsion to tighten his grasp on her shoulders became irresistible. He wanted to hold her up, to lend her some of his strength despite how out of his depth this all felt. “Give me a little while,” he said, amazed at the unfamiliar tone of his voice. “Give me some time, and all will be well.”

He saw the light come on in Lije’s window. Hang it, he didn’t have time. The lawman side of him knew what had to happen now, kind or not. If he didn’t get an agreement from her right this minute, all would be lost. “But this piece cannot wait. Say yes.” He forced the command back into his voice, hating the flinch he felt in her shoulders. “Now, Katrine. You must say yes to this now.”

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment, as if the weight of her agreement pressed down on her spirit. Of course it did—he’d pressed it there himself—but he couldn’t think about that now.

“Yes.” It was a whisper. A frail whisper with an edge of fear he felt right down to his gut. Still, it was an agreement, and that’s what he needed right now. “I understand,” she went on, nodding, her voice gaining a tiny sliver of strength. “We will do this. For Lars.”

“Clint?” Lije’s voice came from the door as he pushed it open. “I saw flames. What is...” His expression changed as the light from the window illuminated Clint’s and Katrine’s soot-smeared faces. “Land sakes! Are either of you hurt? Where’s Lars?”

Katrine looked back to Clint with wide, panicked eyes. For the delightful storyteller Katrine was, this tale seemed beyond her right now. Could she really do as he asked? He looked at her hard, his stare saying “Lars needs you to do this,” but she blinked and wobbled a bit as if she’d just had the breath knocked out of her. He spared her any further answer by turning toward his brother and slowly shaking his head.

Clint watched as the realization spread over his brother’s face. Losing Lars would be a huge blow to this community—it was precisely why he had to be “lost” now so that his life could be saved. “God have mercy. No. Not Lars.”

Clint nodded even as Katrine seemed to wilt. He held her upright by the shoulders, sending her strength through his grip. This was asking a lot of her, but he knew her. She was stronger than she knew, even if she couldn’t have been prepared for tonight’s shock. The fire’s trauma still pounded through his own blood, for that matter. How could it not still hold her in its grip? “The house went up like a matchstick,” Clint said, focusing his thoughts with the facts he could safely relate. “It’s a wonder I could get Katrine out through the back wall.”

“You saved her life, Clint. Thank God for that.”

Lije’s brand-new wife, Alice—they’d just been married the first of the month—came out from behind her husband, wrapping a shawl around her nightshift. “It’s dreadful, dreadful news. Bring her in here, Clint. The two of you look awful.” She pulled Katrine from Clint’s grip, brushing aside the blond locks that had frayed out of Katrine’s long braid. “You’re sure you’re not hurt?”