Bed of Roses
Authors: Rebecca Paisley
Tags: #victorian romance, #western romance, #cowboy romance, #gunslinger, #witch
A Bed of Roses by Rebecca Paisley
Praise for A Bed of Roses and Rebecca Paisley
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A Bed of Roses
by Rebecca Paisley
Can an outlaw princess steal the heart of a reluctant hero?
Sawyer Donovan wasn’t looking for trouble. Fleeing from his shadowed past, he seeks refuge with a group of nuns only to end up attacked by a cougar and dragged back to the lair of a bandit princess caring for a gang of elderly outlaws.
When Zafiro Quintana sends her pet cougar to investigate the threat of danger, the last thing she expects him to return with is a magnificent, muscular,
young
man with no memory of how he’d come to be naked and helpless under Zafiro’s tender touch.
Zafiro quickly decides her gorgeous prisoner is the ideal candidate to help whip her grandfather’s gang back into shape. Charmed against his will by the raven-haired beauty and her daffy gang, Sawyer’s thoughts turn from escape to a plan to make Zafiro
his
captive—the captive of a searing desire she can no longer deny.
Praise for
A Bed of Roses
and Rebecca Paisley
“Rebecca Paisley makes your heart sing with joy! Her talent shines brighter than any diamond. Historical romance at its best!”—
Romantic Times
“Charm, imagination and laughter! All you need is Rebecca Paisley!”—Lisa Kleypas,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Boldly goes where few writers go and she does it brilliantly!”—Eloisa James,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Rebecca Paisley is the Queen of unique and charming love stories!” Jill Barnett,
New York Times
bestselling author
“Rebecca Paisley dazzles the heart!” Teresa Medeiros,
New York Times
bestselling author
“One of the most talented writers in the genre, Ms. Paisley is an absolute delight to read! Once you’ve read your first Paisley, we can guarantee it won’t be your last!”—
Historical Romance Writers
Amber House Books by Rebecca Paisley
The Barefoot Bride
Diamonds and Dreams
A Basket of Wishes
Heartstrings
Bed of Roses
US and Worldwide
UK
Australia
Coming Soon
Moonlight and Magic (May 2015)
A Prince To Call My Own (June 2015)
Happily Forever After (July 2015)
Copyright Info
A Bed of Roses
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.
Copyright by Rebecca Paisley. All Rights Reserved.
First e-publication 2015
Cover design by Control Freak Productions
Cover Photo Copyright Period Images
Cover Background Copyright Oxana Zuboff, Stephanie Frey and Neirfy (Used via license Shutterstock.com)
Published by Amber House Books, LLC
http://www.amberhousebooks.com
For more information, contact [email protected]
A Bed
of
Roses
by
Rebecca Paisley
Amber House Books
Chapter One
“Y
ou cannot turn three eccentric
old men back into the skilled gunmen they used to be, Zafiro.” Sister Carmelita dropped the sack of flour she’d brought to Zafiro from the convent and took a seat on a weathered barrel. Folding her arms over her stomach, she slipped her hands into the sleeves of her coarse brown habit and shook her head. “Such a thing is like trying to turn raisins back into grapes.”
“There is no other way, Sister.” The words were hard for Zafiro to speak. Her heart pounded frantically, her mouth was dry, and breathing seemed all but impossible.
She hadn’t felt the horrible dread in years. But the fear was upon her now, a deep, paralyzing apprehension that never failed to alert her to danger. “Something is going to happen, I tell you. Something very bad. I do not know when it will happen, but I have had the feeling for over a week and it grows stronger.”
“But perhaps it is not Luis,
niña
,” Sister Carmelita cooed, reaching out to smooth Zafiro’s long black hair. “Perhaps—”
“H-he pr-promised he would find me, Sister.”
“Oh, Zafiro,” the nun murmured, shaken by Zafiro’s fear-induced stutter.
“He swore. Luis did. Swore that he would find me no matter how long it took. And he is a man who will stop at nothing to get what he wants.”
Sister Carmelita didn’t answer. She could only dwell on the sheer horror of Luis’s crimes, most of which she and the nuns learned about through tales brought to them by the weary travelers who stopped at the convent for shelter and what little food the sister house could provide. Luis and his gang had killed scores of people, some of them innocent children.
“Sister?” Zafiro pressed. “You know that I am right, don’t you?”
Silent prayers for Zafiro’s safety threading through her mind, Sister Carmelita looked up at the beautiful young woman. “I am sorry that I could not bring more food to you, Zafiro,” she hedged. “Things are very difficult for everyone. Usually the villagers have many things to share, but this year has been hard.”
Hard,
Zafiro thought.
Impossible
was a more suitable word. “Yes, I know, Sister. But you know we thank you very much for what you and the nuns do for us.”
“Yes, and—”
“But we were talking about Luis, Sister.”
Realizing Zafiro was not going to forget the subject, Sister Carmelita gave a resigned nod. “Many years have passed since he swore to find you.” She tried to comfort Zafiro. “You were only a child then, and he has not found you in all that time, not even with the help of his men. It is possible that he has forgotten or given up—”
“Forgotten how many times I sensed danger before it arrived to harm us?” Zafiro shook her head. “Sister, you do not know how many times I knew when to tell Grandfather to move us before trouble found us. I still do not understand this instinct that I have that tells me when danger is approaching, but it has never been wrong. Now Luis has his own gang. With the help of the devil himself he and his men have managed to escape every attempt to catch them. But their luck cannot last forever, and that is why Luis will not stop looking for me. With my gift, with the strange sense that I have for seeing a dangerous situation before it…”
She broke off, frustrated by her inability to make herself clear to the nun. “Listen to me, Sister. Luis has not given up trying to find me. Tomorrow, next week, next month… I do not know when he will come, but somehow, some way, Luis will find where I hide because he and his gang
need
me.”
Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Zafiro walked a few feet away from the nun and gazed at the thick pine and oak forest that surrounded La Escondida, the hideaway home her grandfather, Ciro, had built to safeguard his gang of aging outlaws. To conceal them from the law, for they all were still wanted for their crimes of the past.
But La Escondida also sheltered
her
. From Luis. Her cousin was an evil that haunted her dreams at night and her thoughts during the day.
Zafiro bowed her head and caressed the large sapphire that hung between her breasts. If only her beloved grandfather were still here. He’d know what to do. But Ciro had died two years ago. Jaime, her father, was gone too, struck down by Luis’s bullets when Zafiro had been but a little girl.
Now she was left alone with the remaining members of the Quintana Gang, with the two elderly women, Tia and Azucar, and with Ciro’s final whispered instructions: “They have no one but you now,
chiquita
. You will be strong. Strong and bold as the Sierras themselves.”
His words clinging to her thoughts, Zafiro raised her head and looked up. Beyond the woods rose the majestic Sierra Madres, and the sight of the beautiful mountains eased her agitation.
How she loved the Sierras. Their towering snowcapped peaks. The steep slopes of their edges, and the multitude of cool, clean streams that flowed through the deep canyons and rocky valleys.
The hard, unyielding Sierras had endured through centuries. As Ciro had instructed her, she would be like these mountains. Nothing would wear down her resolve.
She turned toward Sister Carmelita again. “To teach old men skills they have forgotten, Sister,” she began, “it will not be easy. But I am not a soft nut.”
“A soft nut,” Sister Carmelita repeated. “That is another of the American expressions you like so much?”
“Yes.” A soft nut, Zafiro thought. That didn’t sound right. “A nut that cannot be smashed? I am a hard nut? How does it go, Sister?”
The sister shrugged.
So did Zafiro. “It does not matter. What I mean is that no one will crack me. Especially now, when we are in such danger.”
Sister Carmelita didn’t miss the fire of determination that flared into Zafiro’s startling blue eyes. She was a stubborn one, Zafiro Maria Quintana.
But tenacity would not transform three bumbling grandsires into proficient, able-bodied men. “You forget one important thing, Zafiro. To teach, one must know how to do what one teaches. You know nothing about guns and shooting. Ciro did not allow you to handle the weapons. Perhaps that was a mistake, but what matters now is that you cannot teach your men something you have never done.”
Zafiro realized the nun had a valid point, but refused to admit defeat before she’d even begun. “What I meant to say is…is that I will
help
them remember their skills. I will not stop or rest until I have succeeded. You know the saying: I will burn oil at midnight until they are the men they used to be.”
“Look at them, Zafiro,” Sister Carmelita demanded, popping up from her seat on the barrel. “There. By the fence Maclovio is staggering along.”
Zafiro turned and saw Maclovio. Her eyes narrowed with exasperation. “Another bottle. I just took one away from him this morning, and now he has another!”
Weaving alongside the broken fence, Maclovio raised his bottle toward Zafiro, smiled, and then drank deeply. At age sixty-eight he was the youngest of the Quintana Gang, and there had been a time in his life when his proficiency with horses had been unmatched. Indeed, he’d put on numerous exhibitions through the years, performing his astonishing equestrian tricks in front of crowds. The shows brought in hefty sums of money, none of which Maclovio had ever kept.
All of which he’d given away to orphanages, missions, or other worthy charities.
Now Maclovio was a drunk. Most of the time he was a fun-loving, good-natured drunk, but sometimes liquor made him mean. Testimony to that were the holes he’d kicked in the sides of the barn, all the broken fences, and the hanging door he’d tried to pull off the woodshed. Zafiro had nearly torn the mountains apart searching for the contraption he’d fashioned to make his liquor, but she’d never found it.
