Northern Renegade

Northern Renegade
JENNIFER LABRECQUE

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ALASKA—THE LAST FRONTIER

The nights are long. The days are cold.

And the men are really, really HOT!

Can you think of a better excuse for a trip up north?

Come on back to the unorthodox

and unforgettable town of Good Riddance and

experience some

Alaskan Heat!

Dear Reader,

Here we are, back in Good Riddance, Alaska, where folks get to leave behind what ails them.

And former marine sniper Liam Reinhardt really needs to move on. Behind him, he’s left a career, a wife and a sense of purpose. And he’s mad as hell.

Tansy Wellington needs a new start too. She’s leaving behind a cheating fiancé and a job she’s not sure she can do anymore. Needless to say, she’s none too happy either.

For both Liam and Tansy, Good Riddance starts off as a sanctuary… and then turns into much, much more.

What they both quickly learn is that sometimes people have to discover their own path in life before thinking about moving forward with a partner. Sometimes even the best-laid plans get derailed. When one door closes, another one opens—all we have to do is notice it. Lucky for us, Tansy and Liam soon notice that other door… and delight in the fact that it leads to the bedroom!

I hope you enjoy the sparks that fly between this hotheaded (and hot-blooded) couple. And remember, always keep an eye out for that open door. You never know what you might find…

I’d love to hear from you. Please drop me a note at Jennifer@jenniferlabrecque.com. And, as always, happy reading!

Jennifer LaBrecque

About the Author

After a varied career path that included barbecue-joint waitress, corporate number-cruncher and bug-business maven, JENNIFER LABRECQUE has found her true calling writing contemporary romance. Named 2001 Notable New Author of the Year and 2002 winner of a prestigious Maggie Award for Excellence, she is also a two-time RITA

Award finalist. Jennifer lives in suburban Atlanta with a Chihuahua who runs the whole show.

Northern

Renegade

Jennifer LaBrecque

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

Many thanks to Gervais Cranston for sharing his

expertise, passion and respect for weapons…

and the time and instruction at the firing range.

1

GUNNERY SERGEANT LIAM Reinhardt, former United States Marines sharpshooter, veered his motorcycle to the left, avoiding another pothole in the pockmarked gravel road. It wasn’t much better than the goat trails leading from one remote Afghani village to the next. Except, this wasn’t Afghanistan and he wasn’t tracking some insurgent leader through dusty mountains.

Nope, he was back in the U.S. of A. Afghanistan, Iraq and some places he couldn’t divulge were his past. As was his ex-wife and an honorable discharge based on some faulty heart valve that had shown up when he was being patched up from that last mission. That assignment had been the pinnacle of his career. It was right up there with the SEALs taking out bin Laden back in 2011, only Liam’s mission had had a lower profile.

Growing up, hunting in the woods of Minnesota and Wisconsin, he’d known early on he wanted to be a sharpshooter. The irony wasn’t lost on him that while he’d been fully prepared that enemy fire might take him out at any time, he’d never expected to lose his life, as he knew it, due to a personal plumbing defect.

Neither had he planned on Natalie bailing on their marriage two years ago because she couldn’t handle his deployments. What the hell? She’d known his career path when she married him. Now it was time to regroup because all of that was history. At thirty-one, he was starting all over. Starting what? Doing what? He’d be damned if he knew.

Rolling to a stop, he pushed up his helmet’s bug-spattered visor and surveyed his immediate future. Good Riddance, Alaska, spread before him. A single road cut through the collection of buildings flanked at the rear by evergreens.

Over the throb of his bike, he heard the drone of a plane. Bush plane. It was a far cry from the sound of F-15s and recon drones or the fractured chop-chop-chop of a Chinook. Sure enough, a bush plane, coming in low, touched down on the landing strip to the right of the town.

A breeze carried the scent of spruce and the odor of bear. While the trees were everywhere, bears would remain scarce. For the most part, they avoided people. He knew the feeling. He wanted to be left the hell alone.

Back home in Minnesota, that had been damn near impossible with his mom hovering over him. He and she operated on different planes, and after his dad died, their differences had seemed more marked than ever.

Liam craved the solitude he remembered from when he’d visited Good Riddance as a teenager. And his uncle, Bull Swenson, a tough-as-nails vet who’d spent some time in a Vietcong hellhole back in ‘Nam, had found a new start and a new life here. Liam had followed in Bull’s footsteps joining the military. He figured he might as well follow Bull’s lead afterward, as well. Good Riddance seemed like an all-around good decision—or at least a decent enough option to make it worth checking out.

Flipping his visor back into place, Liam rolled out once again. Within minutes and a mile or so, the piece of crap road had widened. It was certainly no mystery as to why the bush pilots had plenty of business.

On the outskirts of town, a group of kids played baseball in a clearing. Not the Little League stuff his ex-wife’s nephews had played with tricked-out uniforms, brow-knitted coaches and overbearing, yelling parents. There hadn’t been a thing fun about it for the kids as far as he could tell the couple of times Natalie had dragged him along to watch. Nah. He grinned. This was good old “sandlot” ball.

He caught a couple of curious glances as he parked his bike in front of the long log building on the edge of town that was both the air center, bed-and-breakfast and the only joint that sold a hot meal and a cold drink. Chances were Bull was in either the restaurant or the airstrip office instead of his hardware company.

Liam stood, feeling the stretch in his legs and back, although maintaining one position for hours was old hat to him. It was what he’d trained for and had done for a long time.

He pulled off his helmet and hung it on the handlebars, the breeze feeling good against his head. Two kids, a boy and a girl, both blond and freckled, with a sled dog at their side, sans sled, stopped on the sidewalk and eyed Liam’s motorcycle with a mix of admiration and envy.

“That’s a sweet ride,” the boy said. Liam figured they were about seven or eight.

Liam smiled at the kid’s terminology. That was one thing he’d learned—boys were boys and they liked boy toys whether it was the Middle East or suburban Minnesota or the Alaskan bush. Boss Black, as he called his Benelli, was damn sweet with an 1131 cc engine, matte black paint and plenty of chrome. “Thanks. I like it.”

The girl piped up. “I like your helmet.”

The boy rolled his eyes. “Girls.”