by Sara Orwig
Texas Passion
Sara Orwig
Copyright
Diversion Books
A Division of Diversion Publishing Corp.
443 Park Avenue South, Suite 1008
New York, NY 10016
www.DiversionBooks.com
Copyright © 1994 by Sara Orwig
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 [email protected]
First Diversion Books edition April 2015
ISBN: 978-1-62681-768-5
Also by Sara Orwig
The Civil War Saga
Atlanta
Memphis
New Orleans
The Southwestern Saga
Albuquerque
Denver
San Antonio
The Comanche Series
Comanche Eagle
Comanche Passion
Oregon Brown
Heat Wave
The Goodies Case
Sweet Desire
Texas Passion
Tides of Passion
Warrior Moon
To the Rhoades, with very special thanks
Chapter 1
Fort Worth, Texas
August 1867
“I’ll take two balls of twine, one sack of flour—”
“Rae!” Her nine-year-old brother called to her, charging down the aisle of the general store, his shoes clattering on the dusty wooden boards.
“Josh, don’t run.” The last thing they needed was to draw attention to themselves. But one look into his green eyes, and her breath caught. “What’s wrong?”
“You gotta come quick! Some men are scaring Abigail. Pa tried to stop them, and one of them knocked Pa down.”
“Pa’s hurt?” Rachel felt as if her heart jumped to her throat.
Without waiting for an answer, she glanced at the clerk. They needed supplies, but it was more important to get to Pa.
“I’ll be back to get my things,” she told the clerk who stared at her through rimless spectacles. With her heart pounding, she ran out of the store. We don’t need more trouble. Dear God, please keep us out of trouble. It was blistering hot, but she didn’t dare shed the denim jacket. The only reason she passed for a boy in most towns was because no one paid any attention to her. The boyish clothing wouldn’t fool anyone. And until today, they had avoided anyone taking notice of them.
“Did Abigail get out of the wagon?”
“She got hot. She told me not to tell you.”
“I told her to stay out of sight!” Fear made Rachel’s pulse race. As she hurried along, she tucked a stray tendril of auburn hair beneath her broad-brimmed slouch hat.
“Whatcha’ gonna do?”
“I don’t know, Josh.” What could she do? She didn’t know how to shoot well enough to wade into a group of men. “Where’s Lissa?” she asked, wondering about their three-year-old cousin.
“She’s in the wagon.”
“Was Abigail talking to—” She broke off her words. “Pa!”
On the quiet, dusty street lined with stores and saloons, the lanky figure of her father was stretched on the ground beside a wheel of their covered wagon, his wrists tied to the wheel. Feeling fear deepen to terror for her father, she began to run.
“Pa!” She clenched her jaw closed. Their spare black gelding was tethered to the back of the wagon. There was no sign of a group of men or of her sixteen-year-old sister Abigail.
A man dressed all in black lounged in the shadowed doorway of a barber shop. With his hat pulled low over his forehead, his long, lean frame was relaxed, one knee bent and his booted foot propped on the wall behind him. As she passed him, he raised his head. She felt a shock as she looked into thickly lashed dark brown eyes, meeting a stare that was hard and cold. Rugged and handsome, the man exuded an aura of danger, and a chill ran down Rachel’s spine. Black hair showed below his hat, hanging on the back of his neck and touching his shoulders. His features, the hawk nose, the prominent cheekbones, gave him an arrogant air. He didn’t move or speak, only stared at her until his gaze flicked down to her feet and then up again.
The blatant assessment made her aware of herself as a woman, conscious of her dusty appearance and boyish clothing. As she stared into his dark eyes, she felt threatened.
Turning from the stranger, she knelt beside her father. Ebenezer Kearney’s mouth bled and a bruise was already darkening on his temple. His hands were tied to the wagon wheel.
“Pa! Untie him, Josh.”
Eb Kearney’s eyes fluttered. “They got Abigail,” he said in a harsh whisper. “I couldn’t stop them, Rachel. I couldn’t—”
“Pa, you tried. Don’t worry,” she said, hurting for him and feeling a rising panic over her sister.
“Mam—” A small child thrust her head out the back of the wagon. Auburn curls covered her head and wide green tearful eyes gazed at Rachel as she held out her arms.
Eb Kearney’s eyes filled with tears. “They took Abigail into a saloon.”
Rachel’s heart lurched, and the momentary chill of fear transformed to fury. “Which saloon?”
“Red Bear,” he said. “We have to get Abigail. Get the sheriff.”
Three-year-old Lissa’s wails became louder, tears streaking her plump, pink cheeks. Rachel scooped her up to hug her. “I’ll be right back, Lissa. You do what Josh tells you.” She squeezed the child and set her in the wagon. “Josh, untie Pa and get ready to go. We may have to leave in a hurry.” Anger boiled in her that men would beat her father and tie him and take Abigail. Pa didn’t need another bit of trouble.
Rachel yanked down his Winchester and cocked it, looking for the Red Bear and spotting a faded wooden sign across the street. Bullies and ruffians. “Get Pa into the wagon,” she told her brother, “and wait in the middle of the street. Get the pistol.”
“Whatcha’ gonna do?”
“I’m going to find Abigail.”
“Don’t do anything foolish, Rachel. Get the law.” Her father’s voice was a croak.
“Pa, don’t you worry. I have the Winchester.” Without waiting for his answer, she marched across the street, waves of anger rising in her like heat coming off the sun-baked street. Shouts and music came from the saloon. As she stepped inside the swinging doors, her eyes slowly adjusted to the smokey interior.
No one paid any attention to her, because men’s backs were turned. Their eyes were on sixteen-year-old Abigail who stood over them on the bar. Her blond hair tumbled down her back, and she clutched her blue muslin skirt while she cried. Men surrounded the long, scarred mahogany bar, laughing and calling ribald suggestions to Abigail.
“Sing, little bird. As long as you sing, you can stay up there where you’re safe.”
“Come on, sweetie, let’s see your purty legs.”
Tears streaked Abigail’s cheeks, and her voice quavered. All color had drained from her face. Enraged, Rachel wanted to squeeze the trigger of the rifle and blast away at the ruffians, but she held her temper and tried to think what to do.
“Do a little dance, honey!”
One of the men scrambled up on the bar with her and caught Abigail’s blue muslin skirts, lifting them to her knees. “Show us your legs!”
Crying, she twisted away from him. The neck of her dress was torn at her throat. Shaking with anger, Rachel moved so her back was against the wall near the door. No one was within ten yards of her, or seemed to even noticed she was there.
A tall, br
oad-shouldered man entered and moved around the room, leaning back against a wall and looking at Abigail. Surprised, Rachel recognized him as the same man who had lounged in the doorway by the Kearney wagon. She gripped the Winchester tightly as she turned from the man’s impassive stare.
Trying to decide what to do, she glanced around. Hanging by ropes from the ceiling were three chandeliers made from wagon wheels. One hung above the men crowded in front of the bar. Since fleeing from Vicksburg, Rachel had practiced shooting daily and now she prayed she could hit the rope holding the fixture.
A man grabbed Abigail’s ankle and yanked her off her feet. She toppled on the bar, her skirts flying up, causing loud guffaws and cheers. Shoving down her skirts, she scrambled to her feet.
“Come on, sweetie, show us some fun.”
Rachel raised the rifle and aimed, taking time because no one was looking her way. With a deep breath she peered along the barrel and squeezed the trigger. The blast was deafening.
The rope snapped. The chandelier fell, dropping straight down with a crash of glass, brass chimneys knocked awry. Men fell beneath it as the lamps shattered. The other men spun around to face her and the piano player stopped playing, his mouth hanging open while he stared at her. For a moment silence prevailed while everyone stood still.
“Get back out of the way,” she ordered in a low voice. “The next shots go into you men. Get down, Abigail.”
Sobbing, Abigail scrambled off the bar and ran out the door. Rachel’s heart pounded, knowing how easily they could catch her and her family. There had to be thirty men in the saloon.
“Look what we’ve got here—a little lady dressed like a man,” said a tall man. His hat was pushed back, showing blond curls and his shoulders were broad, his blue eyes raking over her as a smile flitted on his handsome face. He edged toward her. “We’re just funnin’—” he said in a deep, raspy voice.
“Stop right there.”
“I’m not hurting anything,” he said, inching toward her, the crowd seeming to surge closer behind him. “Aren’t you the brave one, green eyes. I wouldn’t hurt a pretty gal—”
She lowered the rifle and fired, the shot ripping up wood next to his foot. He paused to stare at her, looking amused. If he was afraid, she couldn’t detect it. She aimed the rifle at his chest. “Don’t come any closer.” She didn’t want to wait to see how he accepted the challenge. Her rage was evaporating, fear returning as she faced so many men. “I’m covered by my pa in the wagon. Don’t come after us.”
Backing out the door, she glanced around the room again and felt a shock. The stranger in black held a revolver in his hand, but he wasn’t watching her. His attention was on the crowd. He flicked one glance at her, and she met his cold gaze. Drawing her breath, her heart missed a beat as she looked at him, because he looked tougher than the others. Then his attention shifted to the men, and she looked away. With a pounding heart, she edged across the boardwalk and down into the dusty street, turning to run to the wagon.
“Go, Pa!” she cried as she climbed onto the seat. He sat holding the reins with Josh beside him. Josh held a pistol with both hands.
Eb Kearney flicked the reins, cracked the whip, and the wagon lurched forward. She thought of the bundle of supplies she wanted in the general store. They would have to wait now until the next town. Thank heaven they had already purchased salt and bacon and beef. Terrified the crowd would spill out of the saloon and overtake them, she crawled into the wagon. Picking up Lissa, Rachel pushed past a sobbing Abigail to look out the back as the wagon swayed and bounced on the dusty hard-packed street.
Inside the saloon the blond man stepped forward. “Let’s go get them. We can have ourselves some fun.”
The blast of Dan Overton’s Colt brought instant silence as the men looked at him. He held the revolver drawn on them. “Leave them alone. Everyone back to the bar,” he said in a quiet voice, meeting the blue-eyed stare of the blond man, thinking he had crossed paths with the man before, unable to remember where or when.
Grumbling, the men stared at him a moment and turned to the bar. In minutes the piano player was pounding out a song and card games were back in play.
Keeping his back to the wall and his Colt in hand, Dan edged around the room to the door. The blond man turned his head to look into Dan’s eyes again, and Dan felt a stirring of memory. He knew the man, but where? When? Then a swift stab of anger came as memory stirred. In his mind he saw the blond in a Confederate uniform at Sabine Cross Roads when the Confederates had taken Yankee prisoners and were herding them together to ship them to prison. He could see the tall blond Confederate lieutenant hit the Sioux prisoner with his rifle butt. As the man crumpled, the lieutenant had raised the rifle.
“Dirty redskin bastard! We’re not taking Injuns prisoners.”
“Sir!” A soldier strode toward the lieutenant. The soldier reached beneath his jacket and produced a paper, holding it out. “Lieutenant McKissick? A message, sir.”
McKissick returned the soldier’s salute and yanked up the paper to read. Prisoners milled about, shuffling the injured man back into their ranks.
“Move along!” Dan yelled, not caring that the Lieutenant outranked him. Dan motioned to the prisoners to move toward the waiting wagons.
“Dammit!” McKissick snapped, jamming the paper into his pocket. “Tell the major I’m on my way.”
“Yes, sir,” the private snapped, saluting and turning away.
“Where the hell is that Injun?” McKissick shouted.
“He’s already in a wagon,” Dan answered flatly.
As McKissick stared at him, Dan felt anger pulse between them. Swearing, McKissick turned and strode toward his horse.
Dan glanced at the wagon. He had talked to the Sioux who had been a scout before the war and enlisted with the Union. Dan looked over his shoulder and saw McKissick holding the reins, sitting astride a bay. They exchanged another glance and again he felt hostility flare between them.
Now, years later, as Dan looked into McKissick’s eyes, he wanted to slam his fist into the blond man’s face, but it would mean trouble he didn’t need. Did McKissick remember him? At the Sabine Cross Roads encounter, Dan had a mustache and beard. All through the war, he had worked for Pinkerton’s Detective Agency, often posing as a Confederate while he spied and gained information for the Union Army. He stared back at McKissick, anger still churning. Abruptly Dan pushed through the swinging doors and stepped outside.
At the end of the street a cloud of dust still hung from the wagon’s wake. Dan stared at it, figuring they had only a few minute’s start ahead of him. His gaze circled the town until he spotted the telegraph office. He strode across the street. In minutes he handed the clerk a slip of paper.
“Send this telegram, will you?”
The clerk took the paper and placed it on the counter between them, running his finger under the words to read:
“To: A. Pinkerton. I am on right trail. Will contact when I have Peter Benton. D.O.”
“That’s correct.”
“Very well, sir. I’ll send the telegram now.”
Dan waited until it was sent, paid the clerk, and left the office, striding back to his sorrel tethered to a hitching rail. His spurs jingled as he mounted and turned west out of town after the wagon. He glanced back at the saloon and didn’t see any men leaving. He urged his horse to a trot, waiting to get out of town before he broke into a run after the wagon.
As the Kearneys’ wagon turned south, Lissa wrapped her arms around Rachel and clung to her while Rachel peered outside. No one had come out of the saloon. Amazed, Rachel stared at the empty street as they raced west out of Fort Worth along the Wells Fargo Overland Stage trail. Where were the men? Why weren’t they coming in pursuit? Was it because of the stranger in black with pistols in his hands? Could she have stirred his sympathy? The look in his dark eyes hadn’t been sympathetic. It had been hard and cold. Was he the reason no one was coming out after them, or had the men had their laugh and
now they were drinking, forgetting Abigail?
“Abby’s crying,” Lissa said softly, her eyes round.
“She’s all right,” Rachel said, smoothing a mass of ringlets away from Lissa’s face and setting her down. She shifted to a crate to sit beside Abigail and stroke her head. “You weren’t really hurt, were you?”
“I was so scared! I got out of the wagon because it was hot and a group of men came over to talk—” Crying, she pulled out a balled handkerchief to wipe her eyes. “I’m sorry, Rachel. I know you told me not to get out of the wagon.”
Rachel felt sorry for Abigail and the fright she just had. She stroked her sister’s head, pushing blond hair off her forehead. “It’s over now and we’re all right. Just remember, Abby, that we’re on the frontier and the towns are rough. There aren’t many women. It isn’t like home.”
“I want to go home!”
“We can’t,” Rachel said flatly. She squeezed past Abigail again to the back of the wagon to look out through a cloud of dust. Still no sign of anyone. Along the edge of the wide road, houses now were farther apart. Then they passed pens of cattle.
Leaving the Wells Fargo trail, they turned south along a wide trail used by cattlemen who drove their herds north to Fort Worth and on to Kansas. Feeling relieved to get away from town, she looked at the crowded wagon. All the belongings they could carry were crammed inside. On hooks driven into the curving staves that supported the canvas wagon cover, pans and tools swayed overhead. A thick layer of dust was on crates and furniture. Moving past Abigail, Rachel climbed up on the plank seat between her father and Josh. “No one is following us.”
“You were brave, Rachel. You’re too quick to wade into danger without help. If anything happens again, get the sheriff.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, trying to avoid giving him an extra worry, but someone had to face trouble, and she was the only one in the family to do it.
“We shouldn’t be out here alone.”