Almost an Outlaw by Patricia Preston Page A

the tape measure that hung around her neck. She was a graduate of the San Francisco Academy for Young Ladies, where she had been taught good manners and social graces. She knew exactly what was and was not proper. She sighed. “The rules of etiquette change nothing.” They were only words in a book. “They can’t change what is inside me.” They couldn’t change what she had done. She splayed her hand over the waist of her black bodice. “Black suits me.”
    The jingle of the bells attached to the front door of the shop came as a welcome diversion. She left Emma to admire herself in the mirror and went to wait on her customer. She stopped short when she saw the customer was a man. Rarely did a man enter her dress shop, only the occasional local business owner looking to buy his wife or sweetheart a gift. The tall, dark-haired man standing with his back to her as he looked at the ready-made frocks on display looked more like a gunman than a gentleman. A black duster fell from the wide span of his shoulders to his knee-high boots, and he held a center-dented black hat in his left hand. Men who dressed like him lived in the saddle. Uneasiness spread through her. The large bounty offered for her cousins, Frank and Jesse James, had brought a number of unsavory men into the town of Liberty. It was a dangerous time, especially for those connected to the outlaws. No one trusted outsiders.
    The customer appeared particularly interested in the expensive emerald gown that Emma had suggested she wear to Jesse’s wedding. It was a lovely dress. One she had fallen in love with the moment she saw it in Saint Louis.
    She squared her shoulders as she made her presence known. “May I help you?” she asked pointedly, standing behind a gleaming mahogany counter.
    He turned and she looked into a pair of exceptional eyes she had never forgotten. Over a decade had passed since she had looked into those uncommon smoky gray eyes. Time and the elements had aged him somewhat. Then again, he had never had the face of a boy. Injustice and atrocity had matured him at an early age.
    “Miss Howard.” He gave his head a dip of respect as he addressed her by her maiden name.
    She remained mute for a moment as her brain struggled with this reality. It appeared Captain Austin Cade, the infamous guerilla commander, was not dead. He was alive. He was here. The man who had defied the odds and saved her years ago. He had been her hero on that summer day. Memories returned of the farewell kiss he had given her. It had been her very first kiss. Considering her husband’s deception, Austin may have given her the only true kiss she’d ever had.
    “Captain.” She managed to find her voice. “I-I thought you were dead.” The war had been over for years, and it had been assumed that Captain Austin Cade had died in some forsaken place. Violently, like all his peers.
    He didn’t appear surprised. “Most people think that.”
    “Obviously, we have all been wrong in our assumption.” Fidgeting with her cameo brooch, she hoped she didn’t sound as overwhelmed as she felt.
    He strode over to the counter where she stood. Sensations she had long ago buried darted through her. He brought the scent of leather and forest to the shop that usually smelled of lavender and roses. Warmth spread through her body as he leaned against the counter. She pressed her hand against the front of her bodice, which suddenly felt too tight.
    Years ago, the newspapers had dubbed him the White Comanche. The first time she had seen him, his dark hair had been much longer, well below his shoulders, and war paint had made his handsome face terrifying. She remembered the way he moved. Like a young mountain lion on the prowl. She felt as stunned by him now as she had ten years ago.
    He set his black hat on the counter. “When did you move back?”
    “Last year. I liked living in San Francisco, but I wanted to come home and bring a little fashion to the ladies of Liberty.”
    He