by Linda Broday
Central Texas, Early Spring 1876
A month after Sam almost died, an ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled the windows and each unpainted board of the J.R. Simmons Mercantile. The ominous skies burst and rain pelted the ground in great sheets.
A handful of people scattered like buckshot along the Waco boardwalk in an effort to escape the thorough drenching of a spring gully-washer.
Texas Ranger Sam Legend paid the rain no mind. The storm barely registered, as few thing did these days. He could still feel the rope around his neck. The feeling was so overpowering, he reached to see if it was there, thankful not to find it.
More dead than alive, he moved toward his destination. When he reached the alley separating the two sections of boardwalk, he collided with a woman covered in a hooded cloak.
“Apologies, ma’am.” Sam stared into startling blue eyes.
She nodded and opened her mouth to speak. Before she could, a man took her arm and jerked her into the alleyway.
“Hey there! Ma’am, do you need help?” Sam called, startled.
He received no answer as her companion towed her toward a horse where a group of riders waited.
Intent on stopping whatever was happening, Sam hurried to question her. Mere steps away from the woman, he came up short when the men threw her onto a horse and rode away.
Sam stood in the driving rain, staring.
It had all happened so fast. Hell, maybe he imagined the whole thing. Maybe she never existed. Maybe the heavy downpour and gray gloom had messed with his mind…again. In fact, the longer he stood there, the more convinced he became that he had dreamed it all up. There was no sign that anyone had been there at all—just him, the rain, and his uncontrolled thoughts.
Ever since the hanging, he’d been seeing things that weren’t there. Twice, he’d yanked a man around, grabbing his hand, thinking he saw a black widow tattooed between his thumb and forefinger. The last time almost got Sam shot.
Folks claimed he was missing the top rung of his ladder. Now his captain was sending him home to find it.
Cold fear washing over him had nothing to do with the air temperature or rain. What if he never recovered?
Some never did.
His hand clenched. He’d fight like hell to be the vital man he once was. He had things to do—an outlaw to hunt down, a wrong to right…a promise to keep.
Squaring his jaw, Sam drew his coat tight against the wet chill, forcing himself to move on down the street toward the face-to-face with Captain O’Reilly. It stuck in his craw that they thought him too crazed to do his job.
Sam Legend had become a liability to the other rangers, and that one fact was what convinced him he needed a break. His heart couldn’t hurt any worse than if someone had stomped on it with a pair of hobnail boots. He was imagining threats everywhere now.
But one thing he knew he hadn’t imagined was the blurred figure of Luke Weston standing over him when he regained consciousness that fateful day. No mistaking those green eyes above the mask. They belonged to the outlaw he’d chased for over a year. He’d stake his life on it. And yet fellow rangers who’d ridden up told Sam he’d been alone, lying on the ground with the rope still around his neck.
So what the hell had happened? How did he get down? Why had they left his horse behind?
Those questions and others haunted him, and he wouldn’t rest until he got answers. Somehow he knew Weston held the answers.
At ranger headquarters, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He pushed a mite too hard, banging the knob against the wall.
Captain O’Reilly jerked up from his desk. “What the hell, Legend? Trying to wake the dead?”
“Sorry, Cap’n. It got away from me.” It seemed a good many things had.
The tall, slender captain waved him to the chair. “I haven’t heard this much racket since the shoot-out inside that silo with the Arnie brothers down in Sweetwater.”
“I hope I can talk you out of your decision.” Sam sat down.
O’Reilly sauntered to the potbellied stove in the corner and lifted the coffeepot. “What’s it been? A month?”
“An eternity,” Sam said quietly.
“Want a snort of coffee? Might improve your outlook.”
“I’ll take you up on your offer, but doubt it’ll improve anything. I need this job, sir. I need to work.”
“What you need is some time off to get your head on straight. I can’t have you seeing things that aren’t there.” O’Reilly sighed. “You’re gonna get yourself or someone else killed. I’m ordering you to go home for a while, then come back ready to catch outlaws.”
“Catching Luke Weston is my first priority.”
“That wily outlaw has been taunting you for years.” O’Reilly’s eyes hardened as he handed him a tin cup. “It seems personal.”
“Hell yes, it’s personal!”
Weston had been there with the rustlers. For all Sam knew, he’d helped somehow with the hanging. Why else would Sam have seen those green eyes that were burned into his memory?
In addition to that, and though it sounded rather trivial, a year ago Weston had taken his pocket watch during a stagecoach holdup where Sam tried to protect a payroll shipment. Odd thing though. The outlaw had only taken exactly one hundred dollars, a paltry sum, and left the passengers’ belongings untouched. But he had seemed to take particular delight in pocketing Sam’s prized timepiece. Memories of how Weston flipped it open and stared at the inscription before tucking it away drifted through Sam’s mind.
“Makes me mad enough to chew nails, him calling himself Luke Legend half the time. Next thing I know, he’ll lay claim to being my damn brother.” The thought filled Sam’s head with so many cusswords he feared it would burst open.
The captain leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the scarred desk that Noah must’ve brought over on the ark. “Sometimes we all get cases that sink their teeth into us and won’t let go.”
“I just about had him the last time.” And now the captain was forcing him to take time off. Sam would lose every bit of ground he’d gained.
Reaching for a poster that lay atop a pile on his desk, Captain O’Reilly passed it Sam. “Got this yesterday.”
Bold lettering at the top screamed: WANTED! Luke Weston a.k.a. Luke Legend: $1,000 reward for capture and conviction.
Below stated the crimes of robbery and murder.
The murder charge was new since the last poster Sam had seen with its two-hundred-dollar reward.
“Who did he kill?”
O’Reilly’s face darkened. “Federal judge. Edgar Percival.”
A jolt of surprise went through Sam. “Stands to reason Weston would turn to outright murder eventually. Seems every month he’s involved in a gunfight with someone, though folks say all were men who needed killing.”
Yet the new charge did shock Sam. He’d come to know Weston pretty well. A period of four months separated all the robberies with only one hundred dollars taken. And in each instance, Weston had never shot anyone.
“A bad seed.” The ranger captain’s chair squeaked when he leaned forward. “Some men are born killers.”
The line at the bottom of the poster, also in heavy bold print, read: Armed and Extremely Dangerous.
As with all the others, it didn’t bear a likeness, not even a crude drawing.
No physical features to go on.
Frustration boiled. Weston was his outlaw to catch. Instead he’d been ordered to go home.
Hell! Spending one week on the huge Lone Star Ranch was barely tolerable. A month would either kill him or he’d kill his big brother, Houston.
The thought had no more than formed before guilt pricked his conscience. In the final moments before the outlaw had hit his horse and left Sam dangling by his neck, regrets had filled his thoughts. He’d begged God for a second chance so he could make things right.
Now it looked like he’d get it. He’d make the time count. One thing Sam had learned—eac
h day was precious and once it was gone there was no getting it back.
Despite their better qualities, his father had caused problems for him. He’d had to work harder, be quicker and tougher to prove to everyone his father hadn’t bought his job.
Overcoming the big ranch, the money, and the power the Legend name evoked had been a continuing struggle.
Captain O’Reilly opened his desk drawer, uncorked a bottle of whiskey, and gave his coffee a generous dousing. “Want to doctor your coffee, Sam?”
“Don’t think it’ll help,” he replied with a tight smile.
“Suit yourself.” The hardened ranger who bore a white scar on his cheek from a skirmish with the Comanche put the bottle away.
Although Sam had intended to keep quiet about the woman he’d maybe or maybe not bumped into on the way over, he felt it his duty to say something. “Cap’n, I saw something that keeps nagging. I collided with a young woman a few minutes ago, but before I could question her, a man grabbed her arm and pushed her into the alley between the mercantile and telegraph office. When I followed, they got on horses and rode off. Can you send someone to check it out?”
Doubts filled O’Reilly’s eyes and Sam knew he wondered if this was another instance of his break with reality.
O’Reilly twirled his empty cup. “After the bank robbery a few weeks ago, we don’t need more trouble. I’ll look into it.”
“Thanks. I hope it was nothing, but you never know.” Relieved, Sam took a sip of coffee, wishing it would warm the cold deep in his bones.
“When’s the train due to arrive, Legend?”
“Within the hour.” Sam would obey his orders, but the second the month was up, he’d hit the ground running. He’d dog Luke Weston’s trail until there wouldn’t be a safe place in all of Texas to even get a slug of whiskey. He’d heard the gunslinging outlaw spent time down around Galveston and San Antone. That would be a good starting point, Sam reckoned.
O’Reilly removed his boots from the desk and sat up. “I seem to recall your family ranch being northwest of here on the Red River.”
“That’s right.”
“Ever hear of Lost Point?”
Sam nodded. “The town is west of us. Pretty lawless place by all accounts.”
“It’s become a no-man’s land. Outlaws moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. Nothing north of it but Indian Territory. Jonathan Doan is requesting a ranger to the area. Seems he’s struggling to get a trading post going on the Red River just west of Lost Point and outlaws are threatening.”
“I’ll take a ride over there while I’m home. Weston would fit right in.”
“No hurry. Give yourself a few weeks.”
“Sure thing, Cap’n.” The clock on the town square chimed the half hour, reminding him he’d best get moving. Relieved that O’Reilly had softened and allowed him to still work, Sam set down his cup. “Appears I’ve got a train to catch.”
O’Reilly shook his hand. “Get well, Sam. You’re a good lawman. Come back stronger than ever.”
“I will, sir.”
At the livery, Sam hired a boy to fetch his bags from the hotel and take them to the station.
After settling with the owner and collecting his buckskin gelding, Sam rode to meet the train. He shivered in the cold, steady downpour. The gloomy day reflected his mood as he moved toward an uncertain future.
Amid plumes of hissing white steam, the Houston and Texas Central Railway train pulled up next to the loading platform on time.
Sam quickly loaded Trooper into the livestock car and paid the boy for bringing his bags. After making sure the kerchief around his neck hid the scar, he swung aboard. Passengers had just started to enter so he had his pick of seats. He chose one two strides from the door. Shrugging from his coat, he sat down and got comfortable.
A movement across the narrow aisle a few minutes later drew his attention. A tall passenger wearing a low-slung gun belt slid into the seat.
Sam studied the black leather vest and frock coat of the same color.
Gunslinger, bounty hunter, or maybe a gambler?
Bounty hunter seemed farfetched. He’d never seen one dressed in anything as fine. Such men wasted no time with fancy clothing.
Definitely a gunslinger. Few others tied their holster down to their leg. No one else required speed when drawing.
Likely a gambler too. Usually the two went hand in hand.
His skin spoke of Mexican descent, though judging by the shade, he had one white parent.
Lines around the traveler’s mouth and a gray hair or two in his dark hair put him somewhere around the near side of thirty. Though he wore his black Stetson low on his forehead, he tugged it even lower as he settled back against the cushion.
The fine hairs on Sam’s arm twitched. He knew this man.
But from where? For the life of him, he couldn’t recall. He leaned over. “Pardon me, but have we met?”
Without meeting Sam’s gaze, the man allowed a tight smile. “Nope.”
Darn the hat that kept his eyes in dusky shadows. “Guess I made a mistake. I’m Sam Legend.”
“Appears so, Ranger.”
How did he know Sam was a ranger? He wore no badge. Perhaps he’d seen Sam leave O’Reilly office.
“My apologies,” Sam mumbled.
The train engineer blew the whistle and the mighty iron wheels began to slowly turn.
Sam swung his attention back to the gunslinger, determined to make him talk. “Would you have the time, Mr…?” Sam asked.
“Andrew. Andrew Evan.” The man flipped open his timepiece. “It’s 10:45.”
“Obliged.” Finally a name. Not that it proved helpful. Sam was sure he’d left his real one at the Texas border as men with something to hide tended to do.
The longer he sat near Evan, the stronger the feeling of familiarity became. And that was something Sam’s brain had not conjured up. He glanced out the window at the passing scenery, trying to make sense of the thoughts clunking around in his head.
As Sam turned back to stare at Evan’s hands, searching for the tattoo, a woman rushed down the aisle. When she got even, the train took a curve and she tumbled headlong into his lap. He found himself holding soft, warm curves encased in dark wool.
Stark fear darkened the blue eyes staring up at him and her bottom lip quivered.
A jolt went through him. For a moment, he mistook her for Lucinda Howard, a woman who’d betrayed him. She had the same dark hair and blue eyes framed by thick, sooty lashes. His body responded against his will as he struggled with the memory. Hell!
At last, he realized she was not the faithless lover he’d once known. But she was the woman he’d collided with on his way to the ranger headquarters—and she was very real.
“Are you all right, miss?”
“I…I’m so sorry,” she murmured.
Through the fabric of his shirt, he felt her icy hand splayed against his chest where it landed in breaking her fall.
“Are you in trouble? I can help.”
“They’re…I’ve got to—” The mystery woman pushed away, extricating herself from his lap. Then with a strangled sob, ran toward the door leading into the next car.
Sam looked down. Prickles rose on the back of his neck.
A bloody handprint stained his shirt.
About the Author
Linda Broday resides in the Panhandle of Texas on the Llano Estacado. At a young age, she discovered a love for storytelling, history, and anything pertaining to the Old West. There’s something about Stetsons, boots, and tall rugged cowboys that get her fired up! A New York Times and USA Today bestselling author, Linda has won many awards, including the prestigious National Readers’ Choice Award and the Texas Gold Award. Visit her at www.LindaBroday.com.
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