Anya Read online

  The Sisters O’Ryan 2

  Anya

  In 1875, Anya O'Ryan Stockwell runs from her husband of two years in an effort to escape his abuse. Two years later, her illusion of safety is shattered when Brandon Monroe enters her boarding house. Even the sheriff, Lowry MacLaughlin, doesn't understand the fear Bran inspires because he doesn't know Anna's history—or that she's married. If Jeremiah Stockwell knows her whereabouts, she'll have to run again.

  Bran knows immediately that Anna Runyon is the woman he's been paid to find. Now, however, desire keeps him from fulfilling his contract. When Stockwell is killed on the way to claim his wife, Anna asks both Bran and Lowry to help her experience love for one night. By dawn they all know that one night isn't enough to answer her fantasies. Or her happiness. Only the determination of both men—and their guns—will do that.

  Genre: Historical, Ménage a Trois/Quatre, Western/Cowboys

  Length: 29,830 words

  ANYA

  The Sisters O’Ryan 2

  Jenna Stewart

  MENAGE EVERLASTING

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

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  A SIREN PUBLISHING BOOK

  IMPRINT: Ménage Everlasting

  ANYA

  Copyright © 2012 by Jenna Stewart

  E-book ISBN: 978-1-61926-454-0

  First E-book Publication: August 2012

  Cover design by Les Byerley

  All art and logo copyright © 2012 by Siren Publishing, Inc.

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

  All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

  PUBLISHER

  Siren Publishing, Inc.

  www.SirenPublishing.com

  Letter to Readers

  Dear Readers,

  If you have purchased this copy of Anya by Jenna Stewart from BookStrand.com or its official distributors, thank you. Also, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

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  This is Jenna Stewart’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Stewart’s right to earn a living from her work.

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  DEDICATION

  There is never any excuse for spousal abuse. None. Ever. For those brave enough to escape, God be with you. For those yet unable to find the strength, God be with you, too. The situation is horrible for the victim and any children involved, as well as anyone who loves the victim. I know this from experience. Staying is never the best option.

  For my own sweet love who has never brought me anything but happiness. God smiled on me many years ago, and He’s still smiling now. I love you, Jack.

  Copyright © 2012

  Chapter One

  Anna would not forget the date. May 12, 1877. After so many years, she had forgotten what fear felt like, but the feeling came back with a rush.

  As soon as the stranger walked through the door, she sensed he would be trouble. It was more than his confidence, size, and bearing, which reminded her of royalty, of someone who would expect a bow or curtsy as his due. No, it was the tension in his shoulders, his stance that announced his readiness to leap into action, and the wary look in his eyes, so unlike her regular boarders. His gaze roamed the room, evaluating his environment. Anna had no doubt he catalogued every chair, every chipped table, every tiny frayed fringe on the carpet.

  She followed his deliberate appraisal. Where he might see a flawed painting, she saw the work of a friend, imperfect but precious. Where he might see a small parlor, she saw evenings of laughter and discussion. Where he might scent the aroma of a simple loose meat casserole, she smelled a comforting, warm dinner, prepared lovingly. Where he might see a quaint farm-style house, not deserving of a second look, she saw Brompton House, a cozy rooming home she had bought with hope two years before and in which she had found peace and safety.

  Then his gaze rested on her. Sheer willpower kept her from squirming under his appraisal. He had the look of an owl who had just spied a field mouse. He was a searcher, a bounty hunter, or something equally dangerous. He couldn’t be here for her. Not after all this time. No one knew where she’d lighted, no one. Especially not Jeremiah Stockwell.

  “May I help you?” The steadiness of her voice surprised her.

  “I need a room. I was told up the road that you run the best boardinghouse in Brompton.”

  His gaze threatened to penetrate her defenses. “I appreciate the compliment, but I’m afraid I have no space at the moment. Perhaps you would try Mrs. Hill’s establishment.” She had to get him to leave. They stared at each other, a standoff between a lion and a rabbit. But even the rabbit could escape being eaten now and then. She would not be the first to look away. She would not.

  To her surprise, he forfeited the unspoken challenge by glancing out the window. When he looked back, the muscles of his jaw seemed more relaxed, and his eyes appeared more weary than watchful.

  “Perhaps one of your other clientele might consider moving to Mrs. Hill’s in exchange for ready cash.”

  Cold fear filled her. Why did he insist on staying in her boardinghouse? She took her hands off the counter and folded them at her waist in an effort to keep the trembling under control. Thank heaven he had arrived when she stood behind the small welcome area where she maintained her books and sign-in ledger.

  “I rather doubt it. My guests are all regulars. Mrs. Hill’s is quite satisfactory, I promise.”

  “I don’t want to stay at Mrs. Hill’s.”

  “Then perhaps you should continue on. The town of Westway is a few miles along the Missouri further west, and Miles City is a short distance east. They both have boardinghouses.”

  He moved forward, a cat on the prowl. He used such grace, he didn’t even appear to be walking. Just one moment he stood near the door, and the next he was within a foot of the desk.

  “I don’t care to go further in either direction. I have business in Brompton, and I need a place to stay. This is the place I want.”

 
Dear Lord, the way he studied her. She’d felt more clothed in her doctor’s examining room.

  “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible. Perhaps your mother taught you at some point that we don’t all get what we want.” She felt brave and bold standing up to him. This was her establishment, her business. Her life. Whoever this man was, he had no business coming in off the street and dictating to her. Still, her knees threatened to buckle.

  “I’ll pay you fifteen dollars a night for as long as I stay if you will find a space for me here.”

  Fifteen dollars a night! She charged seventy-five cents per night, with breakfast and dinner included. With his exorbitant offer, she could replace the furnace before winter and add gaslights to replace the oil lamps she currently used. She closed her eyes for a brief moment, imagining the luxury. Then she opened them and met his gaze square on. “I’ve told you that I have no room.”

  He edged even closer. She inhaled pine forest and horse and fine, worn leather from his jacket. She felt his breath tickle her cheek and saw the flash of fire in his eyes at much too close a space. Her palms moistened, and her breath quickened. She willed herself to remain calm.

  “What about your room?”

  She stepped back involuntarily. “No.” Then she came forward again. This was her house, after all, and she shouldn’t need to show fear in her very own place. “Mr…?”

  “Monroe. Bran Monroe.”

  “Mr. Monroe, why do you insist on staying here when a perfectly fine rooming house exists right up the street?”

  “I have a gut feeling.”

  “And you always follow your gut feelings?”

  He nodded. “Always.”

  “Well, tell your gut that it should go to Mrs. Hill’s.”

  His eyes narrowed, focused on her. “I want to stay here, Miss O’Ryan, and here I will stay, even if it means sleeping on the porch outside the front door.”

  O’Ryan! He knew her name. Or rather, her maiden name. How?

  “Someone has informed you incorrectly. My name is Mrs. Runyon. My husband passed away two years ago.”

  He shrugged. “O’Ryan, Runyon. An easy mistake.”

  Insufferable man! And trouble as well. “I warn you, I am a good friend of the sheriff. He can provide you overnight accommodations if I ask him.”

  Monroe chuckled. “They won’t be comfortable as your bed.”

  Anna gasped. “The effrontery!”

  “I didn’t mean to offend you, ma’am. Anya,” he added in a low tone that sent frissons of panic from her nape to her lower back. He saw it happen. His assessing gaze told her so.

  “I didn’t mean to imply that you would occupy the bed with me, although—”

  “Stop! Right now.”

  “If you’ll recall, I offered good pay for use of a room, far above your usual charge.”

  She could use the money, especially if he actually brought the trouble she feared. The damned man was bound and determined to remain, regardless of what she said or did, and calling in Lowry MacLaughlin would only raise questions and bring unwanted attention to her and her rooming house. Like the Missouri River flowing eastward a mere two miles away, Anna Runyon, née Anya O’Ryan, took the path of least resistance.

  “Very well. For fifteen dollars a night, I will relinquish my room for your use.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  “That is none of your business.” She removed the guest ledger from the desk drawer and set it on the counter for him to sign. “I require your name and current address.” She hesitated. “And payment in advance. How many nights will you be staying?”

  “At least five, maybe longer.” He pulled a pouch from beneath his jacket and, without batting an eyelash, laid a one hundred dollar note on the counter.

  “Keep the extra for the inconvenience I’m causing you.”

  “I shall, and thank you.”

  She watched as he signed the ledger with a neat script. Brandon Monroe, Riverside, Mason, Ohio. She took the bill from the counter and stashed it in her apron pocket. The hundred dollars represented more money than she had been able to save in all her time here. More than she’d dreamed of making in all the next year, and the next. She fought hard to keep her excitement from showing.

  “If you will wait for about an hour, I will prepare the room.”

  “Is there a telegraph office nearby?”

  “At the train station. Go west about half a mile and turn right on Main Street. You’ll find it directly.”

  He tipped his head. “Much obliged, Anya. I’ll be back this afternoon.” He turned.

  Nervous but determined, she cleared her throat, causing him to stop. “Mr. Monroe, I don’t know who misinformed you of my name, but it is Anna Runyon. Mrs. Anna Runyon.”

  He pivoted far enough to see her face. “As you say.”

  “But who told you otherwise?”

  He stared as though he saw right through her, saw her sins and faults more than her priest ever had.

  “A man told me to look for Anya O’Ryan. Just a man.” He strode from the house, across the wide porch, down the steps. The room suddenly seemed larger without him.

  But because of him, Anna felt rich beyond belief. If, as she first suspected, Brandon Monroe turned out to be dangerous, he had just given her the means to escape. She had disappeared once. She could do it again. And next time she wouldn’t be so stupid as to adopt a name so close to her own.

  * * * *

  On his way back to Anya O’Ryan’s rooming house, Bran reflected that riding horseback through a town gave a man a different perspective than when he walked. Things that were hidden from someone on the ground were revealed when in the saddle. Euphemistically, that was how Bran had viewed Anya O’Ryan—or Anna Runyon, if she preferred. He’d give her that until he was certain beyond any doubt that he’d run his quarry to ground.

  He hadn’t meant to bring the fear into her eyes that he’d seen. Well, maybe a little, but not to the extent she’d shown. A little fear told him volumes about a person without his having to ask. With Anna Runyon, her discomfort had been blatant. She’d removed her hands from the counter, but not before he noticed the trembling. At one point, her face had lost all color and her eyes had darted left and right, like a doe searching for the quickest escape route from the hunter. He’d struck a chord, no question.

  Bran couldn’t be certain she was the woman his client searched for, but she was the closest he’d come in months. Since others had failed to find her in the last two years, he particularly wanted to succeed. Not only would he gain the satisfaction of completing a job that others couldn’t, but the reward promised to be great. He could end this miserable job, gain back some self-respect, stop this infernal wandering, and find a place to settle down. Like here. Brompton appeared to be large enough to live his own life without the constant interference of imposing neighbors, yet prosperous enough to allow a man opportunities.

  At Brompton House, he swung off his horse. After tying the reins to a hitching post in front of a whitewashed picket fence, he removed his saddlebags and flung them across his right shoulder. Pulling his Winchester from the pouch that hung beside the saddle, he patted Brownie and spoke softly. “Let me get settled, and I’ll take you to a nice stall and some oats,” he promised. The telegraph man had informed him that the best stable in town was but a block behind Brompton House.

  He pushed through the gate and took the steps two at a time. Before he reached the door, however, a tall, red-headed man came out. Bran studied him with a quick appraisal that came from years of having to sum up an opponent. The man examined him in the same way. He wore a star prominently displayed on his jacket.

  “Sheriff,” Bran said and made to move around him. The sheriff cut off his path into the house.

  “Monroe. Mrs. Runyon asked me to stop by and talk with you.”

  “Is that so. About what?” Bran stepped back and dropped the arm that had balanced the saddlebags. The barrel of the Winchester pointed toward the porch. A casu
al observer would think him totally relaxed. With his intense gaze and ready hand near his holster, the sheriff was not a casual observer. With a glance, Bran saw Anna Runyon peeking through the curtains at the two of them. So her claim of friendship with the sheriff isn’t empty.

  “The lady has rules of the house. She said due to your stubborn insistence in having your way earlier, she’d like me to explain them to you.”

  Bran shrugged. “Go ahead. I’m not an unreasonable man.” Catching her open mouth and wide-eyed look of disbelief made him smile inside. It was true. Though the lady might never believe it, he was a reasonable man. When he got his way.

  The sheriff cleared his throat, probably to make sure he had Bran’s attention. “There’ll be no female visitors in your room.”

  “Of course not.”

  “And no alcohol.”

  “I wouldn’t think of it.”

  The sheriff paused, glancing at the Winchester and then the Colt belted low on Bran’s hips. “And no guns.”

  Bran tipped his head. “Now there we might have a problem. I don’t plan to look for trouble, but neither do I plan to be defenseless if trouble finds me.”

  She had moved to the screen door without his noticing. “My clientele are businessmen, not gunslingers, Mr. Monroe. There is no need for you to keep weapons in your room. In my room.”

  Eyebrows a color that nearly made them disappear furrowed on the sheriff’s face, and he half-turned toward her. “Your room?”

  So, she hadn’t explained their arrangement. The sheriff’s interest in who was sleeping in the lady’s bed screamed that he considered himself more than a mere friend.

  “Lowry, I don’t have any free space.”

  “Then he can hie down to Emma Hill’s.”

  “I told him. Do you think I didn’t tell him?”

  Bran was almost enjoying himself. He leaned against the porch railing and switched his attention from one party to the other.