Speaking of cooperating, when my editor called and gave me the opportunity to write a book for Silhouette’s VIRGIN BRIDES series, I jumped at the chance to cooperate. The Bounty Hunter’s Bride is my fifteenth book for Silhouette, and while I’ve enjoyed writing every one, Josie’s story is my favorite. For you see, when those drums started beating for Kane and Josie, I couldn’t help but remember...

Here’s to happy reading and happy memories!

Always,

Chapter One

There was pain. There was darkness. And there was snow. Kane Slater had lost track of how long his life had consisted of those three stark realities. One hour? Four? Ten? Had there ever been anything else? He knew the sky was up. Therefore, that’s where the darkness and the snow had to be coming from. The pain, on the other hand, was coming from all directions: from the sting of the wind on his face, the prickling numbness in his feet and the piercing ache in his shoulder.

He’d tracked men through higher mountains than these, in worse blizzards, but at the time he hadn’t been freezing, or bleeding, or lost. Taking as deep a breath as he could without moving his shoulder a fraction more than he had to, he pulled one foot out of the deep snow and took a tortuous step.

There was pain.

He took another step. There was darkness.

He drew in another slow, careful breath. There was snow.

Pain. Darkness. Snow. Pain. Darkness. Snow. And a flickering yellow light.

A yellow light? He breathed too deeply, clutched his arm and nearly blacked out. Being more careful, he strained to see through the blinding snow. High on the next ridge, a light flickered. Maybe he could make it to that light before he died. Or maybe he was already dead and was having one of those out-of-body experiences and was being drawn up toward that light. Not likely. He had a pretty good idea which direction he was going when he died. And it wasn’t up.

He’d never planned to grow old, but by God, he didn’t plan to bleed to death on some nondescript little mountain in Tennessee, either. He closed his eyes. Since the light was still there when he opened them again, he concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other.

Blasted blizzard. Blasted weakness. Blasted poor excuse for a mountain.

Josie McCoy stopped humming long enough to open the door on the woodstove and add two more logs to the glowing coals. The fire crackled and popped, the flames curling upward like a living, breathing being that gobbled up wood in exchange for blessed, glowing heat. She closed the door and latched it securely before turning in a circle inside the old hunting cabin high on a narrow bluff in the Blue Ridge Mountains.

The wind whipped snow against the single windowpane. “You know Mother Nature is only doing this out of spite.” She spoke out loud and—since there was no one else to talk to—to herself. Her father and the boys were probably having a good belly laugh right about now at her expense. “Go ahead and laugh,” she said as if they could hear her halfway down the mountain.

The howling of the wind was her only answer. Peering out the window, Josie smiled, because it was answer enough. J.D., the brother closest to her in age, had claimed she’d never make it two whole weeks with nobody to talk to. Hah! They’d never make it two whole weeks without somebody to cook their meals and wash their clothes and haul their big feet out of the way in order to tidy the place up a little. Her father and brothers might have been mountain men, but thanks to the satellite dish on the shed’s roof, the twentieth century had finally made it all the way to Hawk Hollow, Tennessee. Right on its heels had come women’s lib. That’s what Josie was doing. Liberating herself from those ingrates who were her closest relatives.

“Men!” she sputtered. “With their chew and whiskers and clodhopper boots. Who needs ’em?”

Closing her eyes, she ran her fingers over her face, spreading them wide into her hair, over the collar of her flannel shirt, and—slowly—down to her waist. Surely all men weren’t like her father and older brothers. Surely there was one man out there—somewhere—who was tall and debonair and pleasing to the eye. And sexy. She opened only one eye and fixed it on her bed. God, yes, he would have to be sexy.

A log popped, making her jump. Shivering against a sudden draft, she folded her arms, eyed the dwindling stack of logs piled next to the stove and promptly headed for the front stoop where she’d had the good sense to heap enough firewood to make it through the night.

Bracing herself for the shock of the wind, she tugged on the latch. The door swung open with so much force it banged against the wall. A shock went through Josie, but not from the wind. A man stood on her doorstep. A big man. She didn’t have time to scream. She barely had time to break the man’s fall before he hit the floor, unconscious or dead, she couldn’t be sure.