by Candace Camp
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Epilogue
Satan’s Angel
Candace Camp
Copyright © 1988 by Candace Camp
All rights reserved.
Clutch Books LLC Edition
This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places, are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, or events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Many thanks to the Austin History Center of the Austin Public Library, for their wonderful collection of photos, books, and articles, on the history of Austin, Texas.
I could not have written this book (or any other) without the assistance of wonderful editors. I appreciate so much the help and guidance of Leslie Wainger, who edited the original edition of Satan’s Angel.
I also want to thank Anastasia Hopcus, not only for editing the re-release of Satan’s Angel, but also for her great assistance in writing and editing a new epilogue to give readers a glimpse of the characters after the story ended.
FOREWORD
Hello, Dear Readers!
Satan’s Angel, previously published under the pseudonym Kristin James, has long been a favorite of mine. The chase-centered book is so exciting and the two relationships are filled with drama in the best possible way. Not to mention the fact that Sam Brody might be the most captivating love interest of all time! He is my favorite type of bad boy—one with a good heart that’s been buried by a lifetime of doing whatever it takes to survive.
My only complaint with the original version of the story was that I wanted to see even more of these two couples’ futures. And my avid and insistent questions to Candace about what else happened between them is how the brand-new epilogue to this old favorite was born. I love the new addition and I’m sure those who’ve read the original story and new readers alike will enjoy getting this extra time with these wonderful characters as much as I did!
Happy Reading,
Anastasia Hopcus
Prologue
1875
Inside the bank it was as quiet as the grave. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. Slater wasn’t one for talking, and the others were too scared.
The sheriff sweated profusely under the weight of the long duster he wore to conceal his shotgun. The deputy behind the counter, dressed like a teller, shifted from one foot to the other, his gaze going first to the window, then to the large clock on the wall. The other deputy, seated behind the desk, fidgeted with the heavy pistol in his lap.
Only Slater was still and cool. He was used to it, Sheriff Clayton guessed, unable to refrain from casting a bitter, envious glance at him. No doubt a Texas Ranger like Captain Slater had stood waiting for Death to ride in and meet him many times before. It wasn’t true for the sheriff and deputies of the little town of Santa Clara, who were more used to jailing rowdy drunks than capturing the notorious Brody gang.
The sheriff glanced at the clock for the fourth time in two minutes. “Gettin’ awful late, ain’t it? Almost closin’ time.”
Slater didn’t even waste a look at the clock. “Brody likes to wait until closing. He figures it means more money and more distraction.”
Sheriff Clayton wet his lips, then turned away, hoping Slater hadn’t noticed the nervous gesture. His heart was thumping a mile a minute, and his nerves were wound up as tight as a watch spring. He wondered if Slater felt even a twinge of fear or excitement. He couldn’t tell from the man’s face.
In fact, had he but known the signs, he would have seen the anticipation in Slater—the tight set of his jaw and the rigid stance, the clenching of his hand. There was eagerness and excitement in him, and there was fear—but it was less fear of possible death than fear that his information would prove to be false, or that Brody would change his mind and decide not to rob the bank today. Slater had been waiting two years for this.
He had tracked Brody and tricked him. He had offered good money for information. He’d chased down every lead. But he had never been able to locate Brody’s hideout or set a trap for him. Brody was crafty and elusive, and it galled Slater that he, the best tracker in the Rangers, had been bested by Brody every time.
But his time had finally come. Slater knew it in his bones. When Dave Vance came to him three days ago, saying Brody was planning to rob the First State Bank in Santa Clara, Slater knew the man spoke the truth. Vance claimed he’d played cards with Brody in a saloon in Austin, and everything he said about Brody rang true. Unlike some other outlaws whose image was emblazoned across wanted posters, Brody was so elusive that few knew what he looked like. Slater, however, had gotten close enough once to see him, and the informant’s description was accurate. Moreover, what he said about the plans for the robbery fit Brody’s usual pattern. Brody like to ride with six men, and he was short one. For some reason he had trusted Vance and invited him to join them.
Dave Vance was a petty thief, but he was more interested in the reward for Brody’s capture than in the cash split he would take from the bank, so he had come to Slater.
This time he would get him, Slater promised himself.
He stiffened, sensing the difference in the town more than hearing or seeing anything. He moved to the window, peered out, then stepped back quickly.
“Get ready. They’re coming.”
Seven men rode into town on the west road, then turned onto Main Street and headed north. They moved quickly, quietly, steadily, and there was something frightening in the concentration and silence of their movements. They were dusty from the road; Sam Brody didn’t believe in wearing dusters—they impeded his gun hand.
Their clothes were dark and nondescript, as were their horses. But a close observer would have noticed that the mounts were all prime horseflesh and the men were fully armed, with rifles strapped to their saddles and revolvers holstered to their thighs.
They rode in two rows of three, with Brody in front on the left. It was where he always rode, for his gun hand was his left one. He was silent, and he barely turned his head, but his gaze went everywhere, missing nothing. A feeling of danger stirred in him, different from the usual jitters, faint and indefinable.
The men pulled up in front of the bank, and even as they stopped, Brody was sliding from his horse. Another thing he believed in was moving quickly, and he was always the first one in. The others dismounted behind him. Brody reached for the doorknob. As he pushed it open, the danger-feeling sizzled up his backbone. He caught a movement out of the corner of his eye—the new man, Vance sidling away from the others toward the alley. Metal glinted in the room he was about to enter. It all came together in a rush, more an instinct than a thought. Brody jumped back. “It’s a trap!”
He dived off the sidewalk just as the pane of glass in the bank door shattered under a hail of shotgun pellets. A shard of glass sliced open Brody’s arm, and another cut his cheek, but he noticed neither the pain nor the blood. The only thought in his mind was to get to his horse.
The animals shifted nervously at the blast of gunfire, but it was a sound they were accustomed to, a
nd they stood their ground. Four of the men, still beside their mounts, swung back into their saddles. The man right behind Brody was not so lucky. He turned and ran down the steps, but the next blast of gunfire from the bank caught him, and he fell.
Brody hit the dirt and came up in a crouching run, pulling his gun and twisting to return the fire from the bank as he ran. A bullet buzzed past his ear, and another grazed his thigh with a red-hot sting. He heard an oath from one of his men and a gasp of pain, and then the thunder of hooves as they raced away.
On the sidewalk, Stanton, who had been shot, staggered up, firing and cursing profusely. He went down again, his face a mass of blood. Brody grabbed the reins of his horse, but the rattle of gunfire was too much for the creature, and it twisted, then reared. Brody yanked down hard on the reins and grabbed the saddle horn. The horse squealed and jerked under the impact of a bullet, then bolted. Brody clung desperately to the saddle and was dragged along for a few yards. There was another shot, and his horse fell hard to its knees.
Brody was flung to the ground, and his Colt flew from his hand. He crawled across the ground to his horse, reaching for the rifle on his saddle and pulling it free. The street had fallen silent. Brody whirled toward the bank, intending to rest the gun on the barrier of his dead mount and continue the fight, but as he turned a man came flying off the sidewalk at him.
He was too late. Brody knew it even as he raised the rifle. The other man kicked the rifle aside and stuck a Colt revolver in Brody’s face.
Brody froze, waiting for the blast of death.
But the other man just stood, staring down at him with cold green eyes like glass. His lips drew back over his teeth in something like a smile, and he said, “I’m Slater, and I finally got you, you son of a bitch.”
Chapter One
Everyone knew that the two young women were the light of Ed Stafford’s life. He cherished them both, though in different ways, for no two people could have been more unalike than Victoria and Amy.
Victoria, his daughter, was as wild as the west wind, headstrong, willful and utterly competent. She was an excellent rider and could handle a gun with the best of them, and there was no one except the foreman and Ed himself who knew more about the ranch’s workings. Ed had no qualms about leaving his land in Victoria’s hands when he died—provided, of course, that she hadn’t already gotten herself killed pulling some damn-fool stunt.
On the other hand, Amy, his niece, was a sweet, biddable woman, shy around anyone outside the family and never one to get into scrapes. She had been raised with Victoria and, like her, had learned how to ride well—indeed, she was very fond of the horses, and most other animals, as well. But she had no interest in the running of the ranch. She hated figures and had never so much as picked up one of the big black accounts books in Ed’s office; branding the calves made her sick; and she wouldn’t even touch a gun. While Victoria like to ride with her father and the men, learning every aspect of the business, Amy preferred simply to ride for pleasure, looking at the world around her, or to stay home tending to a sick animal or sitting in the swing beneath the big live oak tree, swaying and dreaming.
Even in looks the girls—they would always be his girls to Ed, no matter what their age—were opposites. Amy was small and delicate, with a sweet, heart-shaped face, pale blue eyes, and fine white-blond hair, as lovely and ethereal as a fairy princess. And although she was the older of the two—twenty-seven to Victoria’s twenty-six years—she seemed younger. Amy had never thought much about whether men were interested in her, but she knew they were interested in Victoria. Victoria’s carriage was straight and tall, her figure voluptuous, with full breasts and a waist so narrow it beckoned a man’s hands. Her hair was as black as midnight, thick and silky, and her eyes were a vivid, startling blue. Victoria was beautiful, but not in the sweetly feminine way Amy was. Her features were vibrant and compelling, from the crow-black slash of her eyebrows to her sensually full mouth.
Ed Stafford smiled down the length of the breakfast table at the two young women, thinking how fortunate he was to have such fine daughters—for that was how he had thought of Amy since the day she had been brought to his house, pale and trembling, twenty years ago. Her father was Stafford’s brother. He, his wife and the rest of their children had been killed in a Comanche raid on their farm, and only little Amy, whom her mother had hidden in the root cellar, had escaped death. A neighbor had found Amy two days later, hungry, weeping and speechless. Thankfully, he had met Amy’s uncle many times and brought her to Ed. The Staffords had taken Amy to their hearts, and she had returned their love in full measure.
“I’m going to miss you two,” Stafford said, his manner joking, but his voice tinged with real regret. “Why’d I ever agree to let you go to San Antonio, anyway?”
“Because you’re a wonderful man,” Victoria replied with that flashing smile that had melted more hearts than her father’s.
Amy smiled too, and added with a childlike honesty, “And because you said you’d be glad to have us out of your hair during the round-up.”
Victoria chuckled. “She has you there, Daddy.”
“Well, I should at least have decided to escort you there myself, instead of entrusting you to that softheaded Mrs. Childers.”
“Mrs. Childers is a perfectly proper chaperone.”
“You can be perfectly proper and still have fluff for brains, which is what I think that woman has.”
Victoria stifled a laugh. “What could happen to us between here and San Antonio? We’ll be on the stagecoach practically the whole time. Amy and I could go by ourselves without a bit of trouble.”
Her father snorted. “With you along, I hate to think what could happen between here and San Antonio.”
Amy smiled and said nothing. Victoria and her father often engaged in this sort of affectionate bickering, but she never entered into it. She just listened, hearing what was communicated by the tones of their voices more than what was said in words.
Victoria made a face at her father and rose from the table. “Well, if you’ll excuse me, I’d better see to the packing, or we won’t even reach the stagecoach stop, let alone San Antonio.”
Her father nodded, and Victoria left the room. As she climbed the stairs to the second floor, she could hear the rising sound of excited voices. It was obvious that the housekeeper was already engaged in a wrangle with the maids.
Victoria found the three women standing beside the bed in her room, surrounded by open trunks, carpetbags, and a profusion of dresses, petticoats, shoes and lacy underthings. They were all talking heatedly and at the same time.
“Mrs. Donnelly, what is going on here?”
The small, gray-haired Irishwoman swung around to face Victoria. “The saints be praised, ye’re here. Look what I found them packin’.” She pointed to the open leather trunk, where Victoria’s riding skirt lay folded on top. The housekeeper waggled her finger, her face flushing with displeasure. “Them horrid, haythen ridin’ trousers. Ye can’t be meanin’ to take them with ye to the city.”
Victoria’s jaw set. “I can be meaning to, and I am.” She nodded at the other two women. “Go ahead and pack them.”
“Miss Tory, child, think! ‘Tisn’t daycent for a girl like you to be flittin’ about in—in pants!”
“They’re not pants. It’s a split skirt. When I’m off the horse, it looks like any other skirt.”
“Any other skirt without petticoats! Faith, an’ that’s not the worst of it—ye sit a horse like a man when ye wear it. If yer poor mither, God rest her soul, could see ye wearin’—”
“She wouldn’t be able to stop me, either,” Victoria said mulishly. This was an argument she had had repeatedly with her housekeeper.
“An’ what’ll ye be needin’ a ridin’ skirt for in the city, anyway? Ye’ll not be ridin’ all over there like ye do here.”
“Well, I might get a chance to ride, and I’m not going to risk having to turn it down becaus
e I don’t have my riding clothes. I’m taking my boots, too.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s lips thinned. It was obvious that she wouldn’t win this argument, and it galled her. “Ye’re a hoyden, an’ it’s glad I am that yer poor mither’s not alive to see ye ruinin’ yer name.”
Victoria glowered. She regarded herself as a grown woman and was sure that she could handle the ranch, the men and almost anything else that came along, but when Mrs. Donnelly scolded her she felt like a child again, stubborn, angry and proud. “Amy wears exactly the same kind of riding skirt as I do, and I never hear you say anything to her about it.”
The other woman’s face softened, and she made a dismissive gesture. “Ah, that one—she’s different. She was touched by the fairies.”
Victoria would have liked to make a biting retort, but she couldn’t. Mrs. Donnelly always excused Amy; everyone who was close to her did. But Victoria herself was Amy’s first and foremost defender. She had taken Amy under her wing when she had first come to them, so scared she couldn’t talk, Victoria had been her protector ever since. It was Victoria who had wrapped her arms around Amy when she had awakened at night, screaming and crying from dreams she couldn’t remember. It was Victoria who had held Amy’s hand when they walked to school. And Victoria who had bloodied Ben Hartwell’s nose for saying Amy was crazy. No one since ever said a word about Amy where Victoria could hear it. Whatever it took to save Amy from hurt, Victoria did.
Victoria sighed. “You’re right. She’s special.” She straightened her shoulders and looked Mrs. Donnelly in the eye. “But I’m a grown woman now, and you know I’m going to do what I want. I have since I was sixteen.”
Mrs. Donnelly’s mouth twitched in a movement of combined irritation and amusement. “Sure, now, and before that, too.”
Victoria smiled. “You’re right. Now, this isn’t getting us packed any sooner, is it?”