The Renegade And The Heiress. Judith Duncan

      JUDITH DUNCAN

      is married and lives, along with her husband, in Calgary, Alberta, Canada. A staunch supporter of anyone wishing to become a published writer, she has lectured extensively in Canada and the United States. Currently she is involved with the Alberta Romance Writers Association, an organization she helped found.

      To Marlene Dunn and Donna Levia

      You are both worthy of rubies and pearls, but you know you can’t depend on me for anything.

       So here are a million thanks instead.

       I couldn’t have done it without you.

      Contents

      Prologue

      Chapter 1

      Chapter 2

      Chapter 3

      Chapter 4

      Chapter 5

      Chapter 6

      Chapter 7

      Chapter 8

      Chapter 9

      Chapter 10

      Chapter 11

      Prologue

      The mellow earth tones of a fading Alberta autumn lay over the rolling hills, the burnt umbers and rusts of prairie grasses like vibrant brush strokes on a canvas. A few brightly colored leaves still clung to wild berry bushes and copses of aspen, the splotches of yellow and red bright against the stark canopy of naked branches. And off on the western horizon, the jagged gray fortresses of the Rocky Mountains rose up, their high peaks now capped with snow, the base skirted with dense coniferous forests. All of it blended together in a palette of color, the distant panorama framed by the bright blue sky.

      It had been a long, perfect Indian summer, and even down the streets of Bolton, the speckled colors of fall still lay draped over the trees and shrubs, the remaining leaves clinging tenuously to the branches, waiting for a hard wind to strip them away and send them tumbling to the ground.

      Old Joe Jones thought of himself as something of a poet, and as he drove down the narrow tree-lined street, he figured the big old elm trees looked like grand ladies, dressed in their golden finery. And even though it was nearly the end of October, the lawns still showed signs of green, like faded, worn velvet, but a hard frost had turned the flowers into black rotting skeletons.

      Fall was a particular favorite time of year for him. He liked the autumn colors, he liked the way the mountains were so sharp and clear on the western horizon, and he liked the way the street was matted with a carpet of gold and orange leaves. And he especially liked the smell of burning leaves that wafted in from somewhere nearby.

      That thick carpet of fallen leaves crunched under the tires of his battered pickup truck as he edged over to the sidewalk, taking care not to speed. He got a speeding ticket once forty-five years ago, and he didn’t want another.

      Joe passed by the cemetery on the other side of the street, the landscaped grounds surrounded by a wrought-iron fence and a hedge that turned all shades of red this time of year. The hedge was a beauty, but Old Joe figured that building the new senior citizens’ lodge right across the street from the graveyard was not very considered thinking. Although he had to admit it was a mighty pretty spot, that cemetery. All them big trees and evergreens, and those real pretty shrubs, especially in the spring. And flowers. In the summer, it was like a picture out of a magazine, with rows and rows of bright flowers. But the frost had gotten them too, and the caretaker had already dug them out. It was still mighty pretty, though, and it made a man’s heart lighter, looking at all that beauty.

      Slowing down even more, he pulled up in front of the senior citizens’ lodge, parking close to the curb. He had to get at just the right spot because he was picking up George Walters. George had one of them three-legged canes that kept getting caught in the cracks, and the old guy was nearly eighty-five. Joe himself was seventy-eight, but even though he was a whole lot younger than George, he didn’t have the strength to get the retired farmer back up if he went down. Mostly because his pal was as round and as solid as one of them big market hogs George used to raise.

      Today, he and George were going to the seniors’ drop-in center for the shuffleboard tournament. George hadn’t farmed in these parts, but his daughter lived in Bolton and George had moved into the lodge nearly a year ago. So he and Joe had become pals. And although he might be a bit unsteady on his feet, George could still lick the pants off anybody playing shuffleboard. That was why Joe liked him for a partner—they could clean the clocks of those yappy Campbell sisters without even breaking a sweat.

      The other man was already waiting at the curb, leaning on his three-legged cane, a new John Deere cap on his head, his brown jacket zipped right up to the neck. Joe leaned across and opened the passenger door. “Howdy, George. All ready for this here big tournament?”

      The other took his time climbing in, his joints stiff with arthritis. “Sure am.”

      Joe glanced across the street and saw a familiar vehicle turn into the driveway for the cemetery, then pass between the two stone cairns that supported the wrought-iron gates. George slammed the door, pointing a bony