Once a Maverick

by Raine Cantrell

  Once a Maverick

  The Kincaids, Book 1

  Raine Cantrell

  Copyright

  Diversion Books

  A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.

  443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008

  New York, NY 10016

  www.DiversionBooks.com

  Copyright © 1995 by Theresa DiBenedetto

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  For more information, email info@diversionbooks.com

  First Diversion Books edition November 2016

  ISBN: 978-1-68230-943-8

  Also by Raine Cantrell

  A Corner of Heaven

  Calico

  Darling Annie

  Desert Sunrise

  Gifts of Love

  Silver Mist

  Tarnished Hearts

  The Homecoming

  Western Winds

  Whisper My Name

  The Kincaids

  Once a Maverick

  Once an Outlaw

  Once a Lawman

  Once a Hero

  Clan Gunn

  Fire and Sword

  Silk and Steel

  Magic and Mist

  The Merry Widows

  Mary

  Catherine

  Sarah

  Novellas

  A Time for Giving

  Apache Fire

  Miss Delwin’s Delights

  More than a Miracle

  The Bride’s Gift

  The Secret Ingredient

  For Susan, a friend who endows me with her wit and wisdom, joy and laughter…WRITE ON!

  Chapter One

  Warm. Wet. Woman.

  Tyrel Kincaid listed his needs in that order. He was standing at the end of the planked bar of a miner’s saloon in a back-of-nowhere camp, losing the chill of the drizzle that had started hours ago. He was too far from the potbellied stove to feel its heat, but the pack of bodies warmed him. The single room was smoky, stinging his eyes.

  The rotgut was wet and he relished the liquor’s bite as it wiped the dust from his throat when he tossed back his second drink.

  And the woman…well, she was here, not that anyone else would think of her in that term, though.

  There were those who drifted through the Arizona Territory who claimed that Ty had maverick’s luck. If asked, Ty offered a cocky grin in answer.

  Luck was not how he described what followed him.

  Trouble was the word.

  And trouble was what he smelled brewing after his horse broke his leg and Ty was forced to shoot him. Hauling his saddle gear through the drizzle had done little to ease the flutters of tension that trouble sent walking up his spine.

  On intimate terms with trouble, Ty named the types that he sensed. Sometimes it was as elusive a scent as water in the desert. Other times, trouble smelled like a storm gathering, wicked and wild, striking out of nowhere. Or trouble drifted in on the fragrance of a woman.

  This night, Ty had all three aromas warning him. This was a special kind of trouble. The kind bred in a miners’ saloon that was as cheap and plentiful as the whiskey he ordered to help him mourn the death of a damn fine horse. With his third drink, a quick scan of the smoke-filled room brought his gaze to rest on the most powerful potential source of trouble. The woman.

  Dixie Rawlins.

  He knew that angel’s smile beneath the shadowed brim of a hat as battered as any miner’s. He had sat across a poker table from her a few times in the past year or so, and pondered that smile of hers as she raked in a winning pot. The woman had no mercy when gold was in the kitty. Twice now, she had cleaned him out of a fresh stake.

  Since he had time on his hands, Ty recalled that Dixie never stayed around. She’d pick up her winnings after a game, refuse to have a drink with any who offered to buy, refuse to buy a round herself.

  Just like she refused to admit the sparks that flared between them each time they met.

  Nursing his drink, Ty watched her. She wasn’t hard on the eyes despite the rough garb. But then he had another memory of how Dixie looked, and right now that image was what he was seeing.

  It didn’t take him long to realize that Dixie had an animal-like awareness of everything that was going on. Each rise and fall of men’s voices brought a quick, sharp gaze around the room, as did the comings and goings of the miners. Her gaze touched upon him, briefly, hotly, but without a hint of acknowledgment that she was aware of him.

  Ty was aware. Too damn aware.

  He topped off his glass, feeling the tightened pull of the tension that rode his lean body. He was stuck here until he could buy another horse. If the drunk at what had passed for a livery was to be believed, he might have that opportunity tomorrow. The thought crossed his mind that the owner could name a price that would beggar him. It wasn’t unheard-of to charge triple the going price for decent horseflesh this far from what passed for civilization in the territory.

  The table where Dixie sat dealing out a fresh hand began to have an irresistible appeal despite his own warning. Ty couldn’t help but think of the other times he had crossed trails with her.

  What drove a woman to follow the strikes from camp to camp? He had never thought about her reasons before, but then a strange mood was on him tonight. Dixie wasn’t just moving from camp to camp gambling for a night or two, then drifting on. She hung around long enough to ask questions about a man. Something about a scar…He dug deep in his memory to recall what it was.

  When the description escaped him, he shrugged and sipped his drink. If Dixie had once asked his advice, he would have told her to stop wasting her time.

  The territory offered plenty of places to remain hidden until a man wanted to be found. Unwritten law in the lands opened to settlers and drifters alike said that no one questioned a man about where he came from, where he was going, or what he was doing in a place. If a man volunteered the information, even his name, smart folks kept their curiosity under lock and key.

  But Dixie puzzled him. The more he thought about her, the more he understood that, like him, she was a loner. He had to respect that.

  Just as he owed a little respect to the promise he had made himself never to gamble with her again. Her fingers moved like quicksilver, shuffling then dealing the cards. But he couldn’t deny that watching her delicately shaped hands was a pleasure as she made those cards do all she wanted but sit up and sing for her.

  He rather fancied those hands of hers, and from the looks on other men’s faces he was not alone. He found himself annoyed that others might speculate, as he did, on how she would use those hands on a man.

  Like tinder to dry brush, his memory supplied a very womanly image of Dixie sitting by her camp fire, brushing out a wealth of long, thick brown hair. He didn’t even close his eyes to bring the image into sharp focus. He could see the glint of golden strands melding into shadows where the fire’s light hadn’t reached. Each brush stroke had pulled taut the man-style shirt she wore, revealing sweet feminine curves that she kept hidden.

  He had almost hailed her that night, almost ridden up to ask to share her fire, but she had turned as if she sensed someone near and he had seen the sparkle of tears. Ty had few rules that he lived by, but one was steering clear of crying women. And everyone had a right to privacy.

  He lit out. But he was left with the haunting image, and the odd moment of wondering what would have happened if he had stayed. The night was going to be long and lonely. He was war
m. His thirst had been quenched. Now, he needed a woman.

  But Ty wasn’t about to be careless. Dixie knew which end was the business end of a gun.

  Dixie Rawlins didn’t like to cheat. She had broken her own rule and stayed in Wobe camp for two nights now. She knew the value of the gold pokes she had already won, knew how much more she needed to move on, for information was as scarce as the aces the men she gambled with were counting on. There wouldn’t be any dealt to them this hand. Dixie already held three of them.

  She had little need to watch as she dealt. Her gaze constantly roamed the room, searching for the man with the scar.

  The past eighteen months of hunting had taken their toll on her. She had accepted as truth that if a man wanted to hide in the territory even the shadow he cast could be lost.

  Gone were the feminine trappings she had taken pride in wearing. Her long hair was the only female vanity she allowed herself. And even that had become a danger to her.

  She still had a small skinned patch on her scalp where a big Irishman had wrapped her hair around his fist and yanked when she refused his offer to share his tent. Lights had exploded behind her eyes as he used his grip on her hair to bring her to her knees. But Dixie had sworn a vow never to be helpless with a man again. The Irishman had learned to take no for an answer.

  But the night had cost her, not only in pain and fear, but in being cold and filthy.

  Dixie hated being dirty. She hated wearing clothes that reeked of weeks spent on the trail. She had been forced to cultivate the knack of breathing through her mouth so she couldn’t smell herself, or the men she often gambled with. She would do anything to get the men who sat at a table with her, the men she questioned and sometimes paid for information, to forget that she was a woman. A delicate shudder slithered over her slender frame as she recalled some of the close brushes she had had when her ruse hadn’t worked.

  Like any animal scenting danger, Dixie looked up and saw that Kincaid watched her. It was not the first time. Nor was it the first time she had experienced a strange hitch to her breathing when he was around.

  She knew Ty Kincaid’s reputation. Men and women in the territory said his word was as binding as a hangman’s knot, and that he was a man to ride the rivers with anytime. Not that anyone dared to call him soft.

  His eyes could easily chill a fresh-skinned side of beef, and some claimed he could slice a body with words. Hard as a whetstone, there would be no angel’s wings waiting for Ty. The devil was more likely to roll out a welcome party to have his own back home.

  Dixie took a poke to her arm from a miner, and met the last raise. Like worrying a sore tooth, she couldn’t seem to get her thoughts away from Kincaid.

  There was a sense of strength about him that called to her. Ty wasn’t quite six feet tall—he lost out by a good two-inch measure—but there was a lethal quality to his lean frame that forced a comparison to the gun she wore to protect herself. A quality reinforced when her gaze clashed, over the miners’ heads, with his dark gunmetal blue eyes.

  He had watched her with those same eyes a few times before tonight, eyes framed with black lashes so thick a woman would have to be dead not to envy them.

  Tonight there was something different about the way he looked at her. Ty Kincaid made her aware that, despite the mud streaks on her face, despite the filthy clothes, he knew she was a woman.

  The thought was both exciting and a warning of danger.

  Dixie concentrated on her cards, dismissing it. She had no time for a man to clutter up her life, even if there were times she wished to have a man like Kincaid riding by her side. But she had learned a brutal lesson in the past months; men didn’t get involved in someone else’s trouble. All her thoughts, all her efforts were directed toward revenge.

  The mission she had set for herself at times seemed impossible, but she was committed to see it through to the end. Nothing and no one could be allowed to interfere.

  Drawn by some inexplicable force, Dixie looked up at Kincaid again. The moment their gazes met, she was alerted to the warning in his eyes.

  She suddenly became aware of the tension at her table. And the silence. Dixie slowly glanced down at her cards. The cards she had unknowingly fanned out to reveal the four aces she held.

  Her breath caught as each of the four men at the table began to shove their chairs back and stand. She sat frozen in place when their cards were spread on the table for all to see. And one by one, each man called out his hand.

  “King high flush.”

  “Four of a kind. Eights all.”

  “Seven over nines.” George McGurth hitched up his pants. “Elroy’s got three ladies and two knaves. Another full house. Every one a winning hand in an honest game.”

  “That’s right.” Elroy nodded, then pointed around the table. “Hands like these only happen when a deck is marked.”

  Dixie was no stranger to tight spots. She did not cheat often, but her trail was cold and she needed gold, a lot of gold to buy information.

  The ensuing silence was fraught with tension. The kind that could get a person killed. If she needed any confirmation that she wasn’t getting out of this saloon easily, the glaring, murderous looks each of the miners cast her way made sure she understood.

  Before anyone made a move, she scooped up her winnings and saddlebags, stood and kicked out the chair from behind her. Backing up against the wall, she drew her gun.

  There were too many men between her and the door.

  As odds went, she didn’t have any.

  Kincaid. His name whispered through her mind, but Dixie couldn’t spare a glance his way. She hadn’t asked for help when she started her hunt, and couldn’t start now.

  Ty sized up the odds against Dixie. Steal a man’s horse and you deserved hanging. Cheat a man at cards and get caught, there was a rope or a bullet waiting, or you were run out, depending on the crowd’s mood. The fact that Dixie was a woman complicated matters.

  He set his drink down and thought about another of the rules he tried to live by: don’t get involved in someone else’s fight.

  He caught the flash of panic in Dixie’s eyes before it was replaced by a calm acceptance as she too realized her chances of walking out were not the best.

  The very fact that she stood facing them, brazening it out, had Ty moving before he thought about what he was doing.

  “Hey, Rawlins,” Ty called out, taking it as his due that men stepped aside for him. “Finally caught up with you. The boys here won’t mind if I collect my winnings first. You welshed and that gives me first claim.”

  His reputation cleared the path for him. The underlying cold threat in his voice kept it cleared until he stood in front of Dixie. Ty ignored the mutterings about hanging her. He yanked the gold pokes she had snatched up from her hand and tossed them back onto the table.

  “What’d she lose, Kincaid?” someone called out.

  “A ride.” Ty looked over his shoulder at the men loosely clustered behind him. His grin invited laughter. His gaze demanded it. “A long ride.”

  Snickers and loud guffaws filled the room.

  “Takes a desperate man to bed a mud toad.”

  Ty didn’t turn around this time. But he answered. “Hey, a bet’s a bet.” He looked at Dixie. “Right?”

  Dixie thought herself hardened by months on the trail. But she felt heat steal into her cheeks, a melding of fury and embarrassment as Kincaid clamped his hand over her wrist.

  “Come quietly an’ maybe we’ll both keep our skins.” He caught her looking at the pokes on the table. “Don’t even dream about it—” Ty would have added to that warning, but he heard the whisper of metal sliding against leather. He slipped off the short rawhide thong that held his gun nestled in its handmade holster. With one hand locked around Dixie’s wrist and the other hand on the canted butt of his gun, he turned very slowly.

  “Not so fast, Kincaid.” George reached for the rifle leaning against his chair. “There’s the winnings she took fro
m us last night to divvy up. An’ I ain’t so sure she’s gonna walk without answerin’ for cheatin’ us.”

  Ty smiled. It wasn’t a smile to invite one back. “Then get sure. Get real sure before you touch that rifle.”

  “Kincaid!”

  The shout from the doorway distracted everyone. They all turned to view the newcomer. Ty didn’t allow his gaze to pick out who’d called his name until George turned his back on him. The barely dry-behind-the-ears kid wasn’t alone. Two other men crowded the doorway behind him. Rain dripped from their oilskin slickers and hat brims, but Ty sensed the kid was the one he had to watch. Trouble. It was dogging him tonight like a bitch wolf in heat and was of the same variety—mean.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Kincaid.”

  Tense and edgy, the kid’s voice rang out in the silent room.

  “Can’t figure why,” Ty answered. “Don’t know you. Like to keep it that way.”

  “Yella, Kincaid?”

  Ty thought about kicking the kid’s rump so far it would take a hound six weeks to find his scent. The aggressive stance, the cocky look as he tossed his hat aside, even the continual fingers-spreading-and-closing motion he made with his right hand warned Ty the kid was looking for another scallop on his gun. It didn’t take any courage to face a kid like this down, it took no more than a few moments. The low keening sound from Dixie almost made Ty turn around. Almost. But the kid, hungry to boast of taking him down, demanded his attention. Softly then, Ty began to talk.

  Dixie was surprised that Kincaid had come to help her. Even more so by his protective move to stand in front of her. She had heard the challenge in the young man’s voice and knew neither she nor Kincaid were walking out of here without a fight. But it was the other man, one of them behind the kid, who drew her gaze as he raised one hand to push up his hat brim. Dixie would never forget the scar on that man’s hand.

  She couldn’t forget it. She had put it there with a broken piece of glass when he had attacked her after he had killed her father.