Desert Dreams

Desert Dreams-small

ebook: amazonapple | nook | kobo | Smashwords

“…a powerfully wrought hero, a valiant heroine and an action-packed plot… absorbing characters… captures the triumph of love over sadness.”

“…a dynamite adventure with an ending too good to miss.”

“…a fast-paced, well-executed novel peopled with a fascinating palette of characters who far transcend their assigned roles.”




When a riverboat gambler’s daughter is rescued from unsavory gunfighters by a strong, handsome stranger, she never suspects the true reason for his heroics. Anne Cameron wants nothing more than to start over, to have a real home for the first time in her life. She makes the long, dangerous trip from Baton Rouge, Louisiana to Ubiquitous, Texas, only to find that yet again her dream has eluded her. Alone in a savage land, Anne soon realizes her only hope for the life she wants is a cache of Confederate gold hidden somewhere in Mexico, and the only man who can save her is the last man she should trust.

A renowned gunfighter, Rafe Montalvo lost everything in a devastating act of violence. For five years, he has roamed the West, a bounty hunter bent on revenge. Just when his goal is finally within reach, he is saddled with a spitfire woman who revives a part of him he’d thought long dead. And though he feels himself more and more drawn to her, he believes he can never be worthy of her love.

Will they have to forfeit their desires to turn the nightmares of the past into sweet desert dreams?




“Are you always this grumpy in the morning?” he asked as he enfolded her hand in his large calloused ones.

“What do you expect? I’ve lost everything—my clothes, my money, everything I own! And I feel like I’ve been run over by a freight wagon!”

She couldn’t tell if he was listening to her. He seemed intent on her hand, and then he released it and returned to his horse. He took something from a pouch he had tied around the saddle pommel. When he reached her, she could see it was some kind of plant and he was tearing it in pieces.

“What is that?” she asked suspiciously.

He didn’t answer, just put the plant pieces in the spilled coffee cup, then poured a small amount of hot coffee into the cup and stirred and mashed it with a clean spoon.

She didn’t want to give him back her hand, but he didn’t ask. He simply took it.

“What is it?” she repeated.

“Hold still.”

He pulled her hand closer to examine it, and she stopped struggling. Her skin was warm, her hand trembling so badly she knew he could hardly see the burn.

Except when he’d caught her when she’d almost fainted back in San Antonio, she had never been this close to him before, close enough to feel the heat of his breath on her wrist, close enough to hear the rich tone of his voice. Her breath turned shallow.

“Hold still,” he commanded again.

“I… I can’t.” She hated the way her voice shook and hated him for the way he smiled at her, as if he knew better than she did why she couldn’t still the tremors that assaulted her.

He dug his fingers into the cup and smoothed the paste he’d made on her wound. He repeated the process, and she surrendered to the feel of his calloused hands on hers.

“Your hands are cut pretty bad.”

She wasn’t listening. Her gaze was riveted on the white scars that encircled both his wrists like bands. They must have been there for quite some time, judging by their appearance, and she wondered, with a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, how he had gotten them. What could have caused such wounds? She wanted to ask but couldn’t find her voice.