Passion’s Return: a Romance and the American Ranger Short Story

Now available to members of my Readers’ List!

She survived his death once…

New York Colony, 1758.

Hunted by the French, widowed Abigail Brewster is running with destruction at her heels. Desperate to reach the safety of Fort Edward, she refuses to let this war claim the only thing she has left—her life.

Fergus MacDonnell, scouting ahead of his ranger company, tracks the lone survivor of an enemy raid. He thinks he is risking his life for an innocent settler, only to discover the woman who betrayed him.

She thought he was dead. He thought she had forsaken him. But furious raiders are closing in, and if they can’t find a way to forgive each other, no amount of rekindled passion can save them.

This pulse-pounding, second-chance romance is available only to members of my Readers’ List. Join now to get your copy.

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Scroll down to read a sample chapter!

This is a short story, six chapters long, and approximately 10,500 words. The perfect length for a bedtime read!

Not sure you want to commit to a full-length novel if you haven’t read my work before? This is just the right length for a getting-to-know-you read. If you only want the story, that is perfectly all right. This is my gift to you. You can always unsubscribe with no hard feelings.

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**Passion’s Return has been named a winner in the American Fiction Awards!**

Passion’s Return has been named a Readers’ Favorite Five Star read!

Passion’s Return was named a finalist in the Romance Writers of America/New York City Big Apple Contest!

Passion’s Return: A Romance and the American Ranger Short Story
eBook ISBN: 978-1-960402-05-9

Read a Sample

Somewhere north of Fort Edward, New York Colony, June, 1758

Abigail Brewster stopped on the deer path and shoved a blood-stiffened lock of hair from her eyes. More patches of sky showed through the trees now, and they had turned a violent orange. The sun would be up at any moment. Not good.

She swung Charles’s long musket from her shoulder by its strap and leaned on it, taking a little of her weight off her sore feet. Just for a moment. She traced the fingers of her free hand over the familiar heart-shaped etching on the side of her powder horn as if it were a talisman.

She’d pushed hard through the night, but she couldn’t outrun French raiders if they spotted her. Daylight would not be her friend.

The same strand of hair slipped down over her nose, and she swiped it away again. Her hands were as bloody as her hair, which was now the same coarse copper color as her dress instead of its usual pale gold. She shivered in the late spring heat. None of the blood was hers—it belonged to the last of her family.

But if she thought on that, she wouldn’t make it to Fort Edward, and from there, somehow, to Albany. And she would make it—the French be damned. They might have taken everything she had, but they didn’t have her.

And they weren’t going to get her.

Something rustled in the leafy underbrush to her left, and her heart lurched. Blood pulsed in her fingers where she clutched the musket.

A chipmunk skittered across her path with its cheeks stuffed full. She heaved a breath, slung the musket back onto her shoulder, and rubbed her hands over her stinging eyes. She was so tired right now, every stump looked like a Frenchman. That was bad enough. She would be dead if she mistook a Frenchman for a stump.

She turned toward the rising sun and checked that she was headed in the right direction. If she pushed herself, she might make Fort Edward by mid-afternoon. But traveling when she was this exhausted would make her an easy mark.

Her muscles ached from the accumulated miles, and her soul ached from the accumulated…everything.

She couldn’t just stand here in the middle of a deer path. It was time for decisions. Push on and risk being easily tracked, or hide and rest. Resting would be heaven, but she dared not sleep with the French on her heels. Not good choices, but the only two she had.

Her senses were dulled from exhaustion, and if she stayed and rested, she would fall asleep.

Footsteps sounded to her right. She yanked the musket off her shoulder again and pointed it toward the noise, her view blocked by spring leaves. Three deer jerked to a halt when they spotted her. Then they snorted in alarm and bounded off. Her hands trembled as she clutched the gunstock. She hadn’t heard them until they were so close she could almost touch them. Risking sleep would be foolhardy.

That decided it. She would push on and try to reach the fort in daylight. The ground was rocky, and if she was careful, that could help her avoid being tracked as she followed the path the deer had taken.

What she would give for some friendly company. The last humans she had seen were the French scouts who had scalped and gutted her husband. She swiped at a tear that escaped her lashes. This war had lit the world on fire, and it seemed intent on consuming everything before it burned itself out.

She’d married Charles to save herself after the man she loved had been killed at Fort William Henry almost a year ago. Charles had been kind, had understood the danger she faced as an unprotected woman at a fort, and had taken her in. Now he was dead along with his parents. And she was alone again.

A squirrel shot past her like a demon was on its tail. The skin on the back of her neck prickled. She listened for any sounds.

The forest was silent. She pushed faster, looking right and left with every step. Something moved out of the corner of her eye. Then, a hard body slammed into her from behind, and a hand clamped over her mouth.

Her heart jumped in her chest, and only the man’s hand kept it from leaping right out from between her lips. She kicked and writhed with every bit of energy she had left, and fought to suck in air.

They would not take her.

She tried to scream. He shushed her, low in her ear.

As if she would give in just because he wanted her to. Not on her life.

Her musket was pinned between their bodies, and dug into her back, then something hard poked her hip as he dragged her off the path. Panic rose in her throat, trying to choke her. No! She kicked with all her strength.

She half expected to see the scarlet sleeve of a British regular again, like the last time a man grabbed her from behind—when only trying to rip the soldier’s ballocks off had saved her.

This man’s mouth was practically on her neck, and his whiskers pricked her skin. She twisted her body, and he pressed her tighter against his own. His arms were strong, but with one hand over her mouth, he could only pin one of her arms. She clawed behind herself and found his knife on his belt. Wrapping her fingers around the smooth hilt, she yanked it free. Then, fueled by all the anguish of the past year, she jammed it backward into his thigh.

He grunted, yanked her off her feet, and threw her to the ground, with his body falling on top of hers. “Stay still,” the voice hissed in her ear.

In English, not French.

Cool moss pressed against her hot cheek. English.

With his body pinning hers, he pried her fingers from the knife’s hilt. “Do not cry out. The French are close.”

The smell of damp earth filled her nose, and her mind lurched. The voice was tight with pain, and as familiar as her own. But that wasn’t possible.

She craned her neck to look over her shoulder and saw his features. Every drop of blood drained from her head, and the world spun. Her chest ached. Her sleep-deprived mind was playing tricks on her, or else she had finally gone mad.

His lips pressed tight against each other, and his eyes pinched shut. His honey-brown hair was longer and coming loose from its queue, and under his unshaven whiskers, his cheeks were gaunt. It was still unmistakably the face of Fergus MacDonnell.

But ghosts weren’t real. They were not.

She blinked hard, and when she opened her eyes, nothing had changed.

Her heart stuttered. “You’re dead.” She could barely hear her own voice, but he heard it.

His body tensed against hers, and his eyes went wide. He’d been dead since the massacre. Almost a year. Then his eyes narrowed. “Is that what you told yourself to ease your conscience, Abigail?” His voice was barely audible, but harsh. It was nothing like the sweet, irrepressible sound that she still listened for at night.

The weight of his body on top of her stirred memories she had long buried, and his breath whispered across her face.

Ease her conscience?

When he died, he’d left her without even the protection of his name. He’d left her alone at the fort to fend off the British regulars, who decided she was now theirs to defile however they pleased. He’d left her, but he hadn’t died.

She shoved at him. How dare he?

He slapped his hand across her mouth again and ducked his head down next to hers. Leaves rustled against each other, and something metal clanked softly.

Neither of them moved, but their hearts banged against each other.

“Rien.”

“Où est cette chienne?”

Fergus held her tight as the raiders walked within twenty feet of them. The heat of his body warmed hers. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried not to breathe.

They lay, frozen in time, until the voices finally receded into the distance. When it had been silent for what felt like an eternity, he rolled off her. She wanted his weight back the moment it was gone.

And that was folly. She sat up and went to stand. She couldn’t look at him. How in heaven’s name could he be here? Her entire world had just tilted, and she couldn’t get her bearings.

“Shit,” he groaned.

She turned and then gaped. His knife was still lodged along the side of his thigh, with the handle sticking up, and the tip poking through a couple of inches below, and blood oozed from both gashes.

What had she done? She reached for him, and he grabbed her wrists.

“I am not fool enough to yank it out, Fergus.” She kept her voice low but snatched her hands free. Was that fear in his eyes?

She needed a bandage of some sort. “Do you have a spare shirt?”

He shook his head.

“Don’t you have anything to bind wounds?”

“One of the men was shot. Used it on him.” He grunted and shifted his position. “Sent the others back with him. Then checked the burning farm myself. Followed the tracks away from it.”

“You were tracking me?” Her heart gave an extra hard thunk.

He glared at her. She waited.

“I didn’t know it was you.”

Her chest felt like an ox had kicked it. “Why didn’t you come back if you were alive?”

He snorted. “Can we deal with the knife first?”

Answers would be more satisfying, but she wouldn’t get them if he bled to death. She gave herself a little shake. He had died, and her life had plunged into chaos, and now here he was. He wasn’t dying again before he explained.

She kicked off her shoe and reached under her skirts, and his eyes went wide. She yanked one stocking off.

Understanding shone on his face. It was the easiest thing available to bandage him with.

She took a deep breath. Good Lord, that knife was nearly as long as her arm. She reached under her skirts again and yanked the other stocking off. He cocked an eyebrow and watched with a look she remembered well.

“This is going to hurt,” she said. His expression shifted, and his lips tightened into a grim line. She edged one stocking under his leg, jostling it as little as she could, and looped the ends together in the beginning of a knot, just above the knife.

His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard. “Get the other one ready, too.” Color was draining from his face. She slid the second one under his leg. She would need both hands to pull the knots tight the instant the blade was removed. “Can you pull it out yourself?”

The muscles in his jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth, and he nodded.

She grabbed each end of the first stocking and met his gaze. They both breathed for a moment.

Then he sucked in a deeper breath and pulled the knife free. The instant its tip emerged, she shifted the stocking over the torn flesh and hauled on the ends as hard as she could, reaching across his body to tie the knot tight. Within a heartbeat, a crimson patch stained the surface.

He breathed in staccato blasts now. She grabbed the ends of the second stocking and tied it over the first.

It took five or six heartbeats to soak through this time. Her stockings weren’t enough. She placed her hands on his thigh and pressed her full weight on them.

He was not dying again.