A hunters mission of lov.., p.1
A Hunter's Mission of Love: A Historical Western Romance Novel, page 1
A Hunter's Mission of Love
A WESTERN ROMANCE NOVEL
MADELINE THORNTON
Copyright © 2024 by Madeline Thornton
All Rights Reserved.
This book may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.
In no way is it legal to reproduce, duplicate, or transmit any part of this document in either electronic means or in printed format. Recording of this publication is strictly prohibited and any storage of this document is not allowed unless with written permission from the publisher.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Epilogue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
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A Hunter's Mission of Love
Introduction
Elise Sawyer's seemingly perfect life crumbles when her adoptive family neglects her in favor of their own flesh and blood. Left to toil in the shadows, Elise finds an unexpected ally when a mysterious bounty hunter promises to help her find her real parents in exchange for information on his mission. Soon, fueled by surprising feelings for her rugged companion, Elise's heart is torn between her past and her future…
Will her love for Mason win over her mistrust before everything collapses?
Mason Wilson is determined to free his brother from prison and clear his name of a heinous crime, bringing to justice the notorious criminals that have eluded lawmen for years. With the key witness absent though, Mason’s only chance to track them down is Elise who claims to have information about their location. Yet, his attraction over her captivating eyes collides with her suspicious manners, making Mason question her true motives and sincerity…
How will he react upon realizing that Elise never intended to provide the information he sought?
Mason and Elise discover that the path to truth is fraught with danger, but the ultimate destination may be worth every risk. As their perilous and long journey unfolds along their blooming love, a criminal duo from old times appears in their way. Will their bond endure the trials that lie ahead? Can the hardships and love cure their troubled souls and lead them to a brighter future?
Chapter 1
Mulberry House, Somewhere In Chicago, 1880
A harsh banging woke Elise with a jolt.
“Time to get up!” the maid shouted through the door. She was a new hire, a sour-faced young woman here to help the cook and housekeeper with the cleaning, but already she knew the way things worked at Mulberry House. Who to fawn over, who to ignore. Who had to be respected, and who really didn’t.
No prizes for guessing which one Elise had become.
The maid—was her name Lucy?—walked away, heavy-footed, leaving Elise to fumble in the dark for her lantern. It was just short of dawn outside—the Sawyer family kept early hours, and so the household had to get up even earlier to make sure everything was ready—and light hadn’t gotten through Elise’s tiny window yet.
Her bedroom was right up in the eaves of the house, with a small round window set near the floor. Over the years, she’d made it homey enough—patchwork curtains at the window, a handmade rag rug on the floor, a quilt on the bed, and so on. She got up, swinging her legs over the side of the bed.
Her slippers were so holey and worn that it was hardly safe to wear them anymore, so Elise padded barefoot across the cold floor, dressing quickly. Her blue dress was the best choice for a cold day like today. A quick wash at the basin, golden blonde hair brushed into a knot at the base of her neck, and she was ready to go.
Mulberry House was one of the finer homes in their area, on the outskirts of Chicago, three stories high, not including the attic, plus a few rooms down by the cellar for the real servants.
In the kitchen, everything was in chaos, getting breakfast ready. Cook labored over the stove, barely sparing Elise a glance.
“Eggs need bringing in,” she said shortly. “Mrs. Sawyer wants eggs for breakfast today.”
The housekeeper, a prim, thin-lipped woman who disapproved of everything and everyone, eyed Elise over her pince-nez. “And tell Mr. Blackwell that the roses need pruning today. Today, mind you, and weed the herb garden.”
“I will, Mrs. Bragg,” Elise responded, as cheerfully as a person could manage that early in the morning. Lucy, up to her elbows in greasy suds at the kitchen sink, glowered at her.
Picking up the basket left by the back door for just such a purpose, Elise stepped out of the back door. She’d have happily weeded the herb gardens herself, if it would have gotten her out of the taut, uninviting atmosphere of the kitchen.
She paused on the doorstep, adjusting her boot, and was, therefore, perfectly placed to hear the conversation that went on in the kitchen behind her.
“It sticks in my craw, this,” Lucy commented sourly. “She’s down here with us, mucking and grubbing and fetching the eggs, yet sits and eats her meals with the family. It ain’t right.”
“Mind your manners, Lucy!” Mrs. Bragg snapped. “You know fine well why.”
“She’s no better than us. Not really, is she?”
“Be that as it may, Miss Elise is a Sawyer, legally at least. She’s their daughter.”
Lucy huffed. “She’s not their real daughter. She doesn’t even look like them.”
“Course she’s not, anyone with eyes can see that. But until the day Mrs. Sawyer tells us she’s been turned out of the house and isn’t a Sawyer anymore, we mind our business. And you mind yours, girl. You aren’t the first maid we’ve sent packing.”
“The real Miss Sawyer is prettier, anyway,” Lucy muttered, and Mrs. Bragg spluttered in anger.
“You listen here…”
Lucy started to whine as she was scolded, and Elise turned away from the door, her face hot.
Eavesdroppers never hear anything to their own benefit, she thought wryly. But they usually do hear the truth.
Elise kept her head up as she crossed the lawn, the house at her back. If she turned around, she might see Margaret up in one of the windows, watching her. The real Miss Sawyer, Lucy had said.
Margaret certainly resembled her parents. There was a photograph of the four of them hanging in the hallway, with three blond, blue-eyed family members all sitting and smiling together on the parlor sofa. Elise stood behind, tall, dark-haired, eyes the color of honey, altogether alien.
She didn’t like to look at that picture much. There were more pictures, pictures of a happy baby Elise on the laps of her happy parents, freshly adopted, plump and cheerful and perfect.
Three years later, their real baby arrived, the baby the doctors had told Mrs. Sawyer she would never have.
Must be awkward, Elise thought grimly, for the thousandth time in her life. Adopting a baby because you think you can’t have one of your own, and then having a real baby. What do you do with the adopted one?
She knew the answer to that.
Near the chicken coop, a short, round-faced man with graying dark hair and a dark beard rose up out of the bushes and waved.
She waved back. “Morning, Leo!”
“Morning, Miss Elise!”
With a flourish, Leo withdrew a bunch of violets and wildflowers, tied neatly at the stems with an old piece of ribbon. “For you, madam,” he said, making a silly bow.
She took the flowers, giggling as she pinned them to her dress. “Thank you, Leo. They’re lovely.”
Leo was somewhere in his late forties and had been the Sawyers’ gardener for as long as she could remember. He was just about the only servant in the household who was ever kind to her. She remembered crouching in the dirt with him as a child, learning the names of different plants, how to keep flowers alive, and what to eat if it came to it. He’d tried to teach Margaret, too, but she didn’t much like getting dirty.
“Oh, before I forget, Mrs. Bragg said you’re to prune the roses today and weed the herb beds.”
Leo pulled a face. “I pruned them last week.”
Elise shrugged, unlatching the chicken coop. Squawking happily, the birds came flapping out.
“I just repeated what she told me.”
He sighed, wiping sweat from his brow. The sun was only just up, and already he was working hard enough to sweat? That didn’t seem right.
“They think I’m not working hard enough,” Leo muttered. “Mrs. Bragg wants me gone.”
A pang went through Elise’s chest. “Surely not. You’ve been here for over twenty years, at least. As long as I ha
And yet they’d love to get rid of me, too. I’m a problem that has no easy solution.
Leo didn’t respond. Elise collected the eggs quickly, and when she climbed back out of the coop, he was gone.
“Nice talk,” she murmured.
Back at the house, breakfast was almost ready. The dishes were set up, and the rich scent of coffee filled the kitchen.
Mrs. Bragg eyed the basket, lips moving as she counted the eggs. She glanced up at Elise, almost as if she blamed her for the poor yield. Elise wondered briefly whether she should offer to turn out her pockets.
“Go on up, then,” Mrs. Bragg said shortly. “Nothing much else to be done here. I’ll do Mrs. Sawyer’s eggs, Cook. I know how she likes them.”
Elise obeyed. The stairs leading up from the kitchen were narrow as well as too steep and uneven for comfort. The stairs to the upper floors, the stairs the family used, were noticeably different—well-maintained, even thickly carpeted. The dining room—used solely for that purpose—was large, a little too large for comfort.
The table was laid, the three of them already waiting. Mr. Sawyer, hidden behind his huge newspaper at the head of the table, Mrs. Sawyer on his left, Margaret on his right, an empty place beside Margaret waiting for Elise.
“There you are,” Mrs. Sawyer snapped. “You’re getting later and later for mealtimes, Elise. I won’t have it. You know how we feel about punctuality.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Sawyer,” Elise responded quietly, slipping into her seat.
Had she ever called Mrs. Sawyer mother? Elise had a memory of calling them Mama and Papa when she was young, when Margaret was young. It had stopped somewhere, and now they were firmly Mr. and Mrs. Sawyer.
Mrs. Sawyer eyed Elise up and down, sniffing. “Why do you have those wilted weeds pinned to your dress? Take them off at once.”
Elise swallowed, removing Leo’s flowers and slipping them into her pocket.
Beside her, Margaret sat very straight and prim in her seat, hands folded in her lap. They were doing deportment in her home lessons at the moment, and she was excelling at it, apparently.
Margaret was, the whole town concurred, a real beauty. She had beautiful, gently curling flaxen hair, large, doll-blue eyes, a peaches-and-cream complexion, and perfect pink bow lips. It was not surprising, people said, since her mother was so beautiful in her youth. Mrs. Sawyer was beautiful now, with good skin and blonde hair that genteelly did not show the gray, and hardly any wrinkles for her age.
Mrs. Bragg and Lucy came up with the dishes, setting out the breakfast, then disappeared with bobbing curtseys. Mr. Sawyer took down his newspaper for just long enough to fill his plate with toast, scrambled eggs, and bacon, then erected his paper wall again.
Mrs. Sawyer sighed. She did a lot of sighing these days.
“Margaret, you and I are going to pay calls before lunch. Elise, I would like you to stay and do some of the darning in that basket. That wretched girl Lucy really cannot sew a straight seam to save her life. Oh, and another sampler. We’ll have to tell everyone it’s Margaret’s work, as her samplers are too messy to be shown, really.” She shot a disapproving stare at the girl in question, and Margaret dropped her eyes to her plate.
Clearing her throat, Margaret began to scoop scrambled eggs onto her plate, but Mrs. Sawyer tutted loudly.
“Not so much, Margaret! That waist of yours must be maintained, you know. You must be just as slim as Elise, if not slimmer. You don’t see Elise filling her mouth with scrambled eggs, do you?”
Both girls turned a vibrant shade of red. Margaret shot a quick, inscrutable glance at her sister.
“No, Mama,” she said quietly.
Elise, who did not like scrambled eggs, swallowed her dry toast and prayed to get through the breakfast.
Chapter 2
As far as he could tell, it was a quiet little town.
Mason wasn’t sure he liked quiet little towns. They were never as peaceful and orderly as they claimed to be, and there was often a culture of silence against unfamiliar law enforcement officers. Besides, Mason didn’t even have a shiny sheriff’s badge to encourage folks to talk to him.
Sighing, he banged on the roof of the stagecoach, and the carriage lurched to a halt. His fellow travelers—he hadn’t bothered to learn any of their names, to his guilt—glared at him in passive annoyance.
He ignored their glares and climbed out stiffly, nodding to the stagecoach driver. He had no luggage to undo from the roof or back of the vehicle, only the pack he carried on his back. The driver eyed him narrowly, his rheumy old gaze traveling from Mason to the low, dark building set on the ridge of a nearby hill. The sign was pleasantly vague—Detention Center—but nobody believed the fancy words.
It was a prison.
“Visiting friends, eh?” the driver said with a sneer. Mason clenched his jaw and said nothing, and the driver gave a snort and tapped the reins, sending the stagecoach lurching away. Mason watched it rumble away down the road in a cloud of dust. He shivered in the cold, pulling his thin coat tighter around his shoulders.
The coat was a fraction too small for him—a lifetime of hard work and physical effort was making his shoulders, arms, and chest grow and firm up steadily, and his clothes were not keeping pace.
Still, that hardly mattered. Once this latest job was finished, he could buy a new suit or two. But before he got started on his work, there was something he had to do. Mason trudged up the long, dusty track toward the prison, feeling himself tense up inside tighter and tighter with every step.
“I’m here to see Carter Wilson,” Mason said, making the greasy-looking prison warden drag his eyes away from his newspaper. “I did write about coming. The visit’s been arranged for a while.”
Not that it would do much good if the warden decided that Carter wasn’t getting any visitors today, of course.
The warden looked him up and down with distaste. “You’re the brother, then?”
“That’s right.”
“The bounty hunter.”
The warden spat out the word like it was an obscenity. Well, perhaps to a man who was ‘legitimately’ employed, it would be. In Mason’s experience, sheriffs and lawmen were happy enough to make use of bounty hunters when necessary, then go right back to condemning them as borderline criminals themselves. He didn’t bother pointing this out, of course. No sense getting the man’s back up. He needed to see Carter.
The warden chewed a wad of tobacco in his cheek for a minute, then snorted to himself. “Follow me.”
The warden led the way through a narrow, rusting maze of prison cells and foul-smelling hallways, taking his time. He stopped dead in front of one nondescript cell, twirling the keys on his finger.
“You want to go in? He’s a feisty one. I wouldn’t recommend it.”
Mason resisted the urge to smack the warden in his smug little face. “I’d like to go in.”
“Fine,” the warden jammed a key in the lock and twisted. “You’ve got fifteen minutes.”
Mason’s heart sank. Days of uncomfortable, endless travel across the country, days of uncertainty, of not even knowing why his brother had been transferred from one place to another, longing to see him, longing to clear his name—and all for fifteen minutes.
Better than five, the pragmatic voice in the back of his head pointed out. Mason stepped inside the cell, and the door was closed with a clang behind him. The key turned, the warden stamped away, and Mason was left alone.
Well, not alone, of course not.
A tall, lanky figure, taller than Mason himself, unfolded from the single bunk set into the wall.
“Mason?” came a scratchy voice. “I started to think you weren’t coming.”
