In the Arms of a Cowboy

by Pam Crooks

  Broken Blossoms is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in these works of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by, the trademark owners.

  Rave Reviews for Pam Crooks!

  Broken Blossoms

  “Riveting, fast-paced and action-packed. Pam Crooks has done it again!”

  -New York Times Bestselling Author Bobbi Smith

  Hannah’s Vow

  “Emotionally powerful and crafted around a plot with a fresh twist, Hannah’s Vow is a nonstop read. This is one author whose star is rising fast.”

  -Romantic Times

  Lady Gypsy

  “Pam Crooks has written another fascinating tale of the Old West. Lady Gypsy will steal your heart.”

  -Romance Reviews Today

  Wyoming Wildflower

  “Powerful emotions boil over in this gripping epic. Lyrical prose, complex characters, and clever plot twists combine for a perfect blend of romance and adventure… Ms. Crooks is a writer of immense talent.”

  -Rendezvous

  Brief Excerpt

  HEALING THE HURTS

  Trig’s head lifted. “It’s just us tonight, Carleigh. You and me in this room,” he said huskily. Her eyes closed and she inhaled the rugged scent of him. “You’re far away from your father’s house. Tell me to stop and--”

  At his words, she froze. Abruptly, she stepped away. “Do not speak to me of my father.”

  Trig’s eyes narrowed.

  “In my mind, he no longer exists,” she said, not sure why she was telling him so. “The love I’ve always had for him has died. My heart is empty.”

  “He really hurt you, didn’t he?” he said, his voice low. Rough.

  She swallowed hard. A sudden irrational yearning to feel Trig’s strong arms around her again surfaced with a pathetic vengeance. “Yes.”

  Memory of Papa’s deceit surged forth, ugly and vivid. Seeds of rebellion sprouted.

  She didn’t want to be Carleigh Chandler, prim and proper daughter of the Honorable Judge Reginald P. Chandler, anymore. She wanted to be just Carleigh. A woman alone in Visalia, California, with the handsome stranger she’d met only a few hours ago.

  She wanted Trig.

  With Special Thanks to:

  Marie Huggins, Kim Louise, Patti Lynn, and Elaine Miller,

  for the Tuesday night sisterhood.

  And Sally Vinson, for showing me the way.

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

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  “O just, subtle, and all-conquering opium!

  thou hast the keys of Paradise.”

  Thomas De Quincey

  Prologue

  San Francisco, 1895

  Opium, like a beguiling lover with its fragrant fumes and promise of euphoria, called to him.

  Nathaniel Mathison rode hard into the California night to answer the cry, to fill the need in him to succumb to her seduction. It mattered little his body had fallen victim to her mastery; she had become the enchantress and he her paramour. Within her comforting arms, he would be woven into her spell; with her magic, she would help him forget.

  And he was powerless to deny her.

  He’d fought with Pa again tonight, and the argument hung bitter and heavy in his memory. It seemed life with Seth Mathison, difficult enough in the weeks since Ma died, had only gotten worse now that Trig had returned.

  Nathaniel’s lip curled. Big brother Trig. The infamous bounty hunter who’d hung up his gun belt to come home and help them on their pathetic little farm.

  Trig could do no wrong in their father’s eyes. With Pa’s rheumatism acting up again, making him more cantankerous than ever, it seemed there was nothing Nathaniel could do to please him. And he was getting plenty tired of forever being compared to Trig, fearless and justice-minded and oh-so-perfect.

  Well, damn it all, he wasn’t Trig. Never was and never could be. Trig was a younger version of Pa, strong, tall, whip-cord-lean, while he took more after their mother. Nathaniel wasn’t ashamed of his slighter build or gentler nature, of his love for music and books, of the dreams that showed no hope of fruition. He would never be as hard as Trig, nor, he decided on a wave of renewed rebellion, did he want to be.

  At seventeen years of age, he was a man. Already, he’d learned of some of the pleasures life could offer him, some of them exciting and forbidden . . ..

  He didn’t slow his horse until the lights of the city appeared on the San Francisco horizon. Chinatown loomed, and his pulse quickened in anticipation of the sweet euphoria he would find there. He rode deep into the bowels of the community and found Jackson Street with unerring accuracy. He drew up in front of the deteriorating Palace Hotel and reined his horse to a stop.

  The squalid neighborhood filled him with unease, and he stabbed wary glances into the night shadows that seemed to swallow him whole. Low-lifes lurked in unseen corners, thieves and murderers who would stop at nothing to steal his money to feed their own addictions. He dismounted, tied the reins to a hitching post, and entered the hotel.

  The reeking stench of the opium den slammed into him, clawing at his lungs as it always did, a disgusting mix of raw sewage, filth and vermin. Literally hundreds of people crowded the floors and rooms of the decrepit building, each of them poverty-stricken, their thin, unwashed bodies victims of the allure of the poppy.

  It mattered little he would soon be part of it all himself, that he’d be adding his own smoke to the heavy, opiatic air.

  No, it wouldn’t matter at all.

  He didn’t care he’d become a pipe-fiend, a hop-head, that he’d begun to spend far too much time in this lay-down joint. He wanted to be on the hip, to smoke and feel no pain.

  He’d learned the slang of the opium-addict, and no matter the names anyone in the underground world used, the drug helped him forget.

  Out of the shadows, a Chinese girl appeared, and Nathaniel released a breath of relief. Even in the dim recesses of the hall, he could see Mai Wen’s beauty. Sloe-eyed and petite, with waist-length, jet-black hair and velvet smooth skin, she was the same age as he, and he’d never known a girl more exotic. He took comfort in her silence, in her meekness, in the way she seemed to wait for him every night. She took care of him, and he took comfort in that, too.

  Mai bowed in greeting, but in her usual, mysterious way, she said nothing. With her eyes downcast, she turned, leading him from the doorway, her mincing tread hushed and sure. Nathaniel followed, and his gaze drew down the length of her slim body, to the sway of her hips beneath the silk, embroidered kimono.

  They entered one of the small, windowless rooms which opened off the main hall and stepped carefully around the tangle of legs and bodies scattered throughout. Here, the fumes were even stronger, and the nameless, faceless occupants showed no interest in their arrival. Some were naked; some only half-dressed. Most stared dully at the ceiling as if they were corpses; others, trance-like and heavy-lidded, drew on their pipes.

  Mai gestured toward an empty cot pushed against the wall. Nathaniel knew she had saved the spot for him, and he removed his hat, tossing it onto the crimson-colored mat covering the mattress. He eased downward and reclined onto his si
de. His head lowered onto a straw-filled pillow.

  She produced a wooden tray laid out with a bamboo pipe, two feet in length and outfitted with a clay bowl, enclosed but for a small hole upon its top. In addition, the tray held a lamp, a long, blunt needle, and a pair of ivory, cylindrical-shaped boxes.

  She set the tray next to him. The lamp was already lit, as if in readiness for his arrival. Kneeling beside him, using the end of the nine-inch needle, Mai removed a dark brown, pea-size pill from the ivory container and held it over the lamp’s flame. Fascinated, Nathaniel watched the opium bubble and rise up. The pill caught fire, and she blew the flame out. Snagging the drug on the pipe bowl’s rim, she stretched the gummy mass into long strings, over and over again, then quickly rolled it back into its original pea shape and pushed the pill into the bowl’s hole.

  He marveled at her skill in cooking the opium, knowing she took extra care to please him. She handed him the pipe, and he leaned toward the lamp, keeping the clay bowl close to the flame. He took deep pulls on the pipe and smoked away the opium. When the bamboo cooled, Mai repeated the process, again and again.

  The fumes bathed over him. Not vile or repulsive as some claimed, but fruity and not unpleasant. The sweet euphoria began to build, higher and higher, filling him, carrying him away as if he lived in a wonderful dream, leaving him languid and at peace. He felt boneless, as if he floated in the sky on puffy, incredibly soft clouds. He could barely move, nor did he want to, and he thrilled to the escalating power the poppy wielded over him.

  With great effort, he extended an arm toward Mai, a silent invitation for her to lay with him on his tiny cot and drape her petite body over his. He craved her companionship. Her loyalty. He would share his pipe in their drugged euphoria, a coupling Pa or Trig would never comprehend.

  At his wordless plea, a sad smile touched her lips, and she shook her head in refusal. He peered at her through the fog of smoke in front of him; his mouth tried to form words to coax her but failed.

  Suddenly, her head lifted. Two men burst into the crowded room, their weapons drawn, their hats pulled low over their faces. Both kicked at the lethargic bodies littered over the dirty floor. Their harsh gazes raked over them, as if there was one in particular they hunted.

  In unison, they found Mai. Her face drained of blood, and she leapt to her feet, nearly upsetting the wooden tray in her haste. In a few quick strides, they reached her.

  A struggle ensued. How could Mai defend herself against two stalwart men? Nathaniel couldn’t shake the nightmare that gripped him, this awful dream where he couldn’t move, couldn’t act fast enough to save her. His sluggish mind failed to follow the perplexing sequence of events that had erupted.

  And then, in the doorway, Trig appeared. A grateful sob wrenched from Nathaniel. Oh, God. Trig was here, he was here, his strong and powerful brother, and he’d never been so glad to see him in his entire life.

  Trig would help, and Nathaniel would help, too. He heaved his wobbling body off the cot. Trig whipped the revolver from his holster and yelled. One of the men separated from Mai and spun toward him. The other still held her, his fist pulling at her hair--her long, beautiful black hair--and Nathaniel leapt to free her. She screamed and squirmed, and his eyes struggled to focus, his brain fought to comprehend, but he could barely fathom the blur of bodies about him.

  A shot exploded. His body jerked at the impact of the bullet hitting his chest. Blood spurted and spread, darkening the front of his shirt. Eyes wide in numbed, stunned surprise, he crumpled.

  A blackness gripped him, and with his brother’s name slipping past his lips, he breathed his last.

  Chapter 1

  Two weeks later

  Trig tred across the plush Oriental carpet in grim silence, his step defiant, his stride yanked short by the heavy iron chains that manacled each ankle.

  Another set bound his wrists behind his back. Their cold, oppressive weight scraped his skin raw and stoked the fury of his captivity inside him.

  An ominous quiet shrouded the interior of the Honorable Judge Reginald P. Chandler’s mansion. Only the chink-chink of the chain links penetrated the gloom of the long hall leading to his office.

  Beside him, Police Chief Frank Kenner gripped his elbow hard, forcing him to stop in front of the polished door. A narrow beam of light shown along the floor, an indication the judge waited for them on the other side.

  “I’m warning you, Mathison,” Kenner said. “Try anything fancy, and you’re a dead man.”

  Trig eyed him coldly. He’d make no promises. Judge Chandler had falsified charges of back taxes to strip Trig of his home and land, a modest spread where he once scratched out a living with his father and younger brother.

  He could still see the devastation on Pa’s face when he brought Trig the news. The hopelessness and despair. Worse, unforgivably worse, Chandler was responsible for Nathaniel’s death.

  Abruptly, the door opened. The judge loomed before them, his stature tall, lean, oppressive. Power emanated from him, an all-encompassing power he wielded over those helpless to defy him.

  “You’re late, Frank,” he snapped. “You should’ve been here twenty minutes ago.”

  “Not my fault,” the police chief said. “Mathison took his own sweet time getting dressed.” He shot Trig an accusing glare. “I should’ve brought him buck-naked. Would’ve served him right to freeze his ass off outside.”

  The stately Wellington clock on the desk inside the office chimed once, twice. The judge had summoned Trig from his jail cell at two o’clock in the morning.

  Tension coiled within him. He contained the fury simmering inside him, controlled it with a fierce grip. Chandler raked him with a razor-sharp glance, as if to cut him wide open and make him bleed right there on his expensive carpet.

  But a rawness was there, too. A desperation. Trig sensed it the moment their gazes clashed.

  He could feel it.

  Chandler stepped back, opened the door wider. The police chief directed Trig forward with a rough push. He stumbled into the office and halted near a brocade chair positioned in front of the desk.

  The room oozed wealth. Heavy velvet drapes hung over long windows. Mica satin draped the walls in deep shades of claret and gold, and oil paintings in elaborate gilded frames hung from their wires in perfect precision.

  Trig took it all in with one sweeping, contemptuous glance. Nothing in his father’s house could compare to this. The room was worth as much as Seth Mathison’s entire farm.

  Kenner took a guarded stance near the door. Chandler reached for a decanter on the bar and poured whiskey into a crystal glass, then strode toward his desk. He indicated the chair in front of Trig. “Sit down, Mathison.”

  Trig didn’t move, and the judge’s eyes narrowed at his disobedience. He eased into his leather chair, leaned back and took a gulp of whiskey. He dragged the cuff of his shirtsleeve across his mouth, a primitive gesture for a man of Judge Chandler’s caliber and power. His eyes, blue as ice, met Trig’s.

  “Please,” he said.

  The word hung in the air. Suspicion surfaced inside Trig. The son of a bitch wanted something.

  He needed it.

  The knowledge stunned Trig, infused him with a power of his own. He held the judge’s hard gaze.

  “Take off the chains,” he said.

  The judge hesitated for a moment; in the next, he gestured to the police chief. “Do as he says, Frank.”

  Kenner stiffened and sputtered a protest.

  “Do it!”

  The command cracked through the air like a pistol shot. The lawman bolted forward, a key in his hand, and the chains fell to the carpet with muted clinks.

  Trig flexed the muscles in his shoulders and wrists; he pinned the judge with a cold stare. “What do you want, Chandler?”

  “I need your help.”

  Trig showed no reaction and waited. He knew it galled the judge to admit the words, to swallow his pride and power and fall from his throne to stoop to Tr
ig Mathison’s mercy.

  After all, Trig was branded as Nathaniel’s murderer, accused and convicted in the judge’s court, and Chandler held his life in the palm of his hand.

  Help him. Christ. Chandler was a fool to think it.

  The justice threw back another healthy swallow of whiskey, flung open a desk drawer and withdrew a folded paper. He tossed the letter onto the desktop.

  “My daughter is missing,” he said. “You’re the only man I know who can find her.”

  Trig glanced down at the precise penmanship but didn’t bother to read the contents of the letter. The judge had amassed an army of enemies over the years. Trig had no interest in this one. His lip curled. “Too bad she’s been kidnapped.”

  “My daughter has not been kidnapped, Mathison. She has run away, damn it, and I want her brought back again.”

  “Maybe she doesn’t want to be found,” he taunted.

  “I don’t care what the hell she wants or doesn’t want.” He rose from his chair and braced both hands on the desktop. Again, Trig sensed his desperation. “She is my only child.” He spoke slowly, succinctly, as if it were imperative Trig understand every word. “She has led a very sheltered existence up to now, and she has never traveled alone anywhere in her entire life.”

  “What makes you think she’s alone now?”

  “There is no one she could’ve turned to. No one would’ve helped her leave and defy me in the process.”

  In that, Trig believed him. The judge had controlled the lives of too many people for too long. He struck heartache and despair into those unfortunate enough to be confronted by him or his henchmen.

  Trig knew too well the heartache. The gut-wrenching despair. The hopelessness. Even worse, his father had lived it. And Nathaniel.

  Especially Nathaniel.

  The familiar hate rose up within Trig. He nurtured it, stoked it strong and high and relished the burn.