"A Western filled with survival, moving on, and learning how to find love again!"
Reviewed by Heather Lobdell
Posted July 4, 2012
Romance Historical
LOGAN'S OUTLAW was a first for me on many levels. I cannot
say that I have ever been a big Western fan and this is the
first of author Elaine Levine's stories that I have read. I
was honestly caught off guard within the first few pages
when I realized that I was getting in to this story! Not
only was I getting into it, but I found myself flying
through the chapters so engrossed by the Dakota Territory
that I had read half of the book before I ever took a
breather. While there are a few love scenes I feel that I
should warn you that if you are looking for the steamier
side of romance you will not find it here. However, if you
are looking for a story of strength, survival, and new
beginnings you have come to the right place. My initial reaction to Logan was not a very good one. I
thought here is the typical male hero: quiet, shy, strong,
gruff, protector of a man who has a hard time expressing his
feelings. I thought I had it figured out. Yep my version
went somewhere along the lines of him finally realizing he
loves her at the last few chapters or pages of the book. I
was very shortly proven wrong. Logan began to evolve into
more than the macho man I thought he was. I was very
pleasantly surprised by the depths his character ended up
having. There were tender emotional filled moments when I
was so grateful for his presence in Sarah's life. There were
moments when I could not imagine being in his shoes and
looking beyond the pain to find the hero in his heroine.
Sarah was definitely not the typical heroine. First she was
hurt by her past husband, then abducted by Indians,
tortured, and managed to escape. Many women would have lost
their minds and given up hope by this point. But not Sarah,
she is still evading them, plotting against them, and
fighting to stay alive long enough to make her place in the
world. Picking up a protector like Logan does not seem like
such a bad thing, but when he begins to open her heart Sarah
finds that he could be so much more. If only she would let him. For all intents and purposes the romance story of LOGAN'S OUTLAW
is enough alone to make me encourage you to read it. The
strength of Sarah, the development of these characters, and
the life that they are leading is another reason to read it. But the way that Levine manages to create an underlying plot
of exactly how harsh life really was for both the settlers
and the Sioux Indians should be the convincing factor.
Levine has definitely done her homework and kept the story
true to fact, where other writers would have stuck with
fiction. LOGAN'S OUTLAW is the one Western that will be
staying on my
shelf.
SUMMARY
Sarah Hawkins survived capture by the Sioux, but after her
escape she faced public scorn. Now, she'll do anything to
start over, and the small town of Defiance promises the
anonymity and security she needs. Before she melts into the
shadows, though, it's her mission to put a great injustice
to rights, and that means jeopardizing her safety once more. But this time, she's not alone. Without meaning to, Sarah
has fallen under the protection of Logan Taggert, a rough-
and-tumble trader unused to caring for others - and yet
unable to ignore the tempting, tenacious woman's plight.
Though she refuses to trust him, Logan won't leave her side,
keeping her one step ahead of danger...even as she takes
hold of the very thing he never thought he'd risk: his
heart.
ExcerptChapter 1Fort Buford, Dakota Territory, June 1875 The cold steel of the Peacemaker gave Sarah Hawkins an
artificial sense of security. Had she owned this gun a year
ago, the Sioux would never have taken her alive. "You're too small for that piece," the shopkeeper said as he
frowned down at the revolver she was examining. "That's a
seven and half inch barrel. It's almost three pounds fully
loaded. And begging your pardon, ma'am, but when you fire
it, you'll be sitting on your bottom." "I have to agree, Mrs. Hawkins," Captain Frasier spoke up.
"A derringer is just as deadly and would be easier for you
to handle. You don't have the strength a man has in his
hands and shoulders to use a Colt effectively." Sarah checked the cylinders of both guns. They were empty.
She pointed the derringer at the shopkeeper, practicing her
aim, familiarizing herself with the weapon. He barely
registered concern. When she lifted the Peacemaker, he
stepped back quickly--even knowing it wasn't loaded. A gun was for killing. The bigger, the better. The fear
she'd felt when the war party raided their cabin had been
crippling. She doubted her ability to kill herself with the
little derringer, should the situation arise again. And she
knew, sometime in the next fortnight, it would. "How much for the Colt?" she asked the shopkeeper "Twenty-five dollars." Sarah gasped, shocked. "The catalog price is just seventeen
dollars! Shame on you for taking advantage of a widow." "I got a strong market for that gun, ma'am. Ain't a man on
the post who wouldn't sign over two months' wages for it.
None of ‘em want to be caught out on the Plains without a
piece of iron at their side. But you want the catalog
price, then I'll place that order for you. In three months
or so you'll have your gun." Waiting was not possible. She was leaving for Cheyenne
tomorrow. "I'll pay twenty dollars for the gun and five
boxes of cartridges." The shopkeeper's eyes bulged. "You want me to give it
away? I told you I got buyers standing in line for it." The captain cleared his throat, catching the shopkeeper's
eye. A look or signal passed between the men which made
Sarah grit her teeth. She was a supplicant, in need of
anyone and everyone's help. The women at the fort had taken
up a collection for her which was the source of funds she
used for the gun--and the very clothes she wore. She hated
being needy, even as she was grateful so many were willing
to help. After paying for the stage ticket and food supplies for the
journey, she had only thirty dollars to her name. This
purchase would leave her with ten dollars once she reached
Cheyenne, enough to live on for two weeks if she found
affordable lodging and ate only once a day. Two weeks was
enough time for her to find a job, to begin over--or at
least, to support herself until she felt it was safe enough
to leave Cheyenne. It was the only plan she had, and she was sticking to it. "What I expect, sir, is for you to sell the gun to me for a
fair price." The shopkeeper glared at her, his mouth compressed into a
thin line. He exchanged another look with the captain.
"The gun and three boxes of cartridges." "Done," she said. "And throw in a holster and a gunbelt," the captain added.
"And a kit for cleaning the pistol." "No!" Sarah turned to look at him. "I haven't the funds
for those things. The gun and cartridges are all I need." "Then the others will be my gift to you, Mrs. Hawkins. It
is the least I can do, as an officer of the United States
Army." The shopkeeper eyed her waist. "Don't have a gunbelt
that'll fit a tiny thing like her." "Then get a large one we can wrap twice around her," the
captain said. A short while later, at an area designated for shooting
practice, Sarah took the gun out of the holster and put it
back, twice, getting a feel for the revolver, making sure
she could handle it even with the tight fit of her gloves.
The weapon's heavy weight made her feel less a victim. The
Sioux might come for her again, but if they did, she
wouldn't be taken alive--and she wouldn't die alone. She nodded at Captain Frasier, ready to begin learning some
rudimentary things about loading and handling her gun.
"Have you ever known a gunfighter, Captain?" He frowned. "Why do you ask that?" Sarah smiled as she holstered her Colt and spread her hands
wide. "Because I feel like one right now. Don't I look
rather fearsome?" She laughed, softening the intense
curiosity behind her question. "I did know one once. Red McGuire. He's in jail now.
Heard there was another one up in Defiance, but I think he's
retired." "What's his name? Where's Defiance?" "Jace Gage. Wyoming." Captain Frasier crossed his arms.
"You seem intent on finding a gunfighter. Why?" Sarah sighed. "I'll only have this afternoon to practice
with you. Surely it takes much longer to become an expert
shootist." The captain's brows lifted. "Mrs. Hawkins, please forgive
my curiosity, but why in God's name would you want to become
a shootist?" "Because, Captain, I am a widow. I need to be able to
protect myself." The captain glared down at her. A red flush slowly rose up
his neck. "None of that is necessary. You could marry me.
I would protect you. You would have my name. No one would
dare whisper even a hint about what happened to you. You
wouldn't have to leave the fort, except with me when I'm
reassigned to a new post." He took hold of her free hand as
his words spilled out in an impassioned fervor. At the contact, a buzzing started in Sarah's head. She
tried to pull free, but he wouldn't release her. She tried
again with no better results. Her lungs ceased pulling air. "Please tell me you'll consider my proposal." Sarah went
very still, neither resisting nor encouraging him. "I know
what you've been through. I know what those red monsters
did to you. You must know by now that I would not hold it
against you." He paused, releasing her hand as he became aware of her
stillness. Anger broke the panic crippling her lungs,
letting her take little gasps of air. Her wounds were still
raw, her scars permanent. If he married her, she doubted he
would ever be able to forget--or let her forget--what had
been done to her. It didn't help any to know the captain was right. Few men
would take her to wife once they learned what had happened
to her. She had no money, no skills, and no family. She
was fairly well educated. She could perhaps find a teaching
job, at least until her students' parents learned she had
been a captive. Everything was gone. Perhaps, when she had
completed the task she'd set herself, his offer would still
be open. Marriage--to anyone--was her best chance for survival. She had only to get to Cheyenne and give the sheriff the
papers, to correct a wrong she needed to see put right.
What happened after that mattered very little. "Captain, I am not ready to be a wife again." She could not
bring herself to look at his eyes. The very thought of
letting a man near her body made her physically ill.
"Though it is kind of you to offer. Let's just focus on the
lesson, shall we?" Unfortunately, before they could get beyond loading and
unloading her gun, Captain Frasier was summoned back to the
office to attend to a military matter. He escorted Sarah to
the little cabin she'd been provided as lodging among the
laundresses' quarters. It had several cots in the small,
one room space. Over the time she'd been at Fort Buford,
other women had occasionally stayed there with her, but it
had been hers alone for the past week. He took her key from
her and was just fitting it into the lock when the door
pushed open. "Mrs. Hawkins, you must pay attention to securing your
quarters. We're a small, close-knit group of people here at
the fort, but there's no need to put temptation in front of
anyone. We do have many transients come through, begging
for hand-outs, Indians and such. It isn't safe to assume-" "I did lock it." Panic made her bold enough to interrupt
his lecture. She slipped past him into a space that looked
as if a buffalo had been let loose in it. Furniture was
overturned. Bedding was slashed and shredded, the supplies
she bought for the trip littered every surface. Straw and
feathers were spread about. Her fine linens--the only
mementos left of her family's Philadelphia home--were cut
into scraps. Even the clothes that had been donated to her
by the fort's women were sliced and ripped. She couldn't breathe, couldn't move. Her heartbeat backed
up into her ears, pounded her brain, drowned out whatever it
was that the Captain was saying. He stepped to the door and
shouted an order. In the midst of the debris, she sighted
her carpet bag turned upside down. It lay discarded next to
her empty trunk, whose false bottom had come loose. She stepped woodenly toward the satchel, looking for its
support board, the one she'd sewn her husband's papers
into. She sifted through the pile of shredded clothes and
spilled foodstuffs. It was gone. Fear made her knees
weaken. The room started to spin. It was gone. Men hurried into the room. There were angry voices behind
her. Someone pulled on her arm, but she jerked free. She
pushed aside more debris, digging to the left, to the
right. Her frantic motions stirred up a fog of flour from a
ripped sack. Someone pulled at her again, but as he started
to draw her to her feet, she found the support board.
Crying out, she lunged for it, clasped it to her breast.
The stitches were untouched. Whoever had done this had left empty handed. The papers
were safe.
Logan Taggert pulled his saddle off his lathered mount and
set it on the corral fence. Even at this early hour, the
hostlers were rushing about the livery, taking care of the
livestock. "Taggert!" the stable master shouted as he trotted over.
"What in the blazes are you doin' out here?" Logan shook hands with the old cowpoke. "I could ask the
same of you. Thought you retired to a life of luxury." "I'm too old for running cattle, but not too old to clean a
hoof or two. Need a fresh mount?" "I do. I'm headin' over for some grub. You think Bella's
kitchen is open?" "Today it is. There's a stage heading down to Cheyenne.
You ridin' shotgun? Heard they were looking for a couple of
men." "Hell no. I value my scalp too highly for a leisurely coach
ride across open country while the Sioux are on the
warpath." He looked over at the black stage where six
horses were being hitched up. "Who in his right mind would
run stages between here and Cheyenne, anyway?" "It ain't no more crazy than opening trading posts in Indian
country, I reckon," the grizzled old man said, shooting
Logan a meaningful look. "Martin Chandler, the man who owns
that coach and a dozen others, is figurin' on beating out
the competition, getting the first start carrying folks
between Deadwood and Cheyenne, what with all the gold being
found in the Black Hills." Logan whistled. "He's got no business up there. That land
belongs to the Sioux." "Since when has that ever mattered? There's gold up there.
I, for one, am glad for the business it's bringing us. The
hell with them red savages. I may actually retire and go
panning myself." Logan's mood darkened. The hostler's attitude was exactly
why no white man, woman or child was safe here anymore. He
headed over to the trading post, wanting to eat and ride
out, well ahead of that stage and any trouble gunning for
it. He hoped the storekeeper's wife could be talked into
making him one of her famous breakfasts. His stomach
grumbled in anticipation. The long shadows of the morning sun cut across the ground in
sharp angles from the various fort buildings as he crossed
the dusty campus. As brisk as the morning was, the day
promised to be brutally hot. He stepped up on the boardwalk
that fronted the trading post. A couple was strolling his
way. The man wore an officer's uniform bearing a captain's
insignia. The woman, far too thin, wore an ill-fitting
dress of brown homespun. The captain carried her carpet bag
and held her coat draped over his arm. The woman looked up
at Logan as they went past. Their eyes connected. Locked. He sucked in a breath. All
rational thought fled his mind, as did his manners. He
didn't lift his hat or nod or even move aside to give them
room to pass. He just stared. Her hair was of the palest
blond he'd ever seen, paler even than his own. Her nose was
straight and little. Her chin came to a delicate point.
Her eyes were big and brown. And utterly, devastatingly,
haunted. He caught the tail end of their conversation as they passed
him. "You'll be safe on Chandler's stage, ma'am," the
captain assured her. He's hired a professional guard to
ride shotgun. Chandler's setting up road houses along the
way, so there will be a few overnight stops that don't
involve camping outdoors. He can make the trip to Cheyenne
in a little less than two weeks from here." Logan propped himself up against a corner of the trading
post and continued listening to their conversation,
intrigued that the woman was not the soldier's wife. "Thank you, Captain. How far did you say Defiance is from
Cheyenne?" "About three days' ride." What did she want in Defiance? No one ever went there
intentionally. Not unless they were looking for trouble or
heading up to the lumber camps. She followed the captain
out into the sunshine. Light poured over her pale features,
making the braids that circled her hair look as if they were
woven from gossamer strands of white gold. She pulled her
bonnet on and tied it beneath her chin. "I think I'll get to Cheyenne myself in a couple of
months." The captain stopped and faced the woman. "Would
it be terribly forward of me to think that I might call on
you, Mrs. Hawkins?" Logan ground his teeth. Mrs. Hawkins. She wasn't
the captain's wife, but she was married. Still, he held his
breath, waiting for her response. She lowered her head,
letting her bonnet block her face from both him and the
captain. "You have been the very soul of kindness,
Captain. I shall not forget that. I regret, however, that
I'll not be in a position to entertain gentleman callers.
It is too soon." The captain did not take that as a no. Or perhaps he'd
stopped listening after her first sentence. Logan almost
had. Her voice was husky yet sweet and feminine, the kind
of voice that set all the wrong sort of images floating
around a man's head. The captain hooked a finger beneath
the woman's chin, forcing her to look up. Logan felt the
shock of that contact through his entire body. He started
forward, intending to teach the bastard to keep his
distance, but Bella, the sutler's wife and sublimely
talented cook, came out to stand with him. Logan didn't waste time exchanging greetings. "Who is she?" "Poor Sarah Hawkins. Bless her heart. She and her husband
were attacked by a Sioux war party about a year ago. Her
husband was killed and she was taken captive. She showed up
here at the end of April, a ghost of a woman, near frozen
and half starved. It's taken the women of the fort all this
time just to feed her up to the puny thing she is now. "And as if that hadn't been enough, someone vandalized her
room yesterday. Shredded everything she owned, including
all of the clothes that had been donated by those of us with
something to spare." The matronly woman shook her head,
anger darkening her features. "She's a kind soul, that one." She shoved an elbow into
Logan's side, giving him a meaningful look. "All the single
men--and even some that ain't--are plumb crazy about her.
Heard that red devil who married her still wants her back.
I hate to see her leave. She would be safer if she stayed
here." Bella looked at Logan. "What kind of world do we
live in where Indians can do that to a family? When are we
ever gonna be safe out here?" Logan didn't offer a comment. How many Sioux, Cheyenne, and
Arapaho warriors had asked him the same thing--but about the
soldiers that dogged them? "Bella, I'd be forever in your debt if you'd pack up as much
of that fine cornbread you can spare. I'm gonna get some
supplies from your husband and retrieve my saddle." "Logan Taggert! You ain't even stopped for a real visit
yet. Where are you running off to?" Logan grinned as he kissed her cheek. "I got a stage coach
to catch!"
What do you think about this review?
Comments
No comments posted.
Registered users may leave comments.
Log in or register now!
|
© 2003-2024 off-the-edge.net
all rights reserved Privacy Policy