The Mavericks
Page 1
CRITICS ARE RAVING ABOUT
LEIGH GREENWOOD!
“Leigh Greenwood continues to be a shining star of the genre!”
—The Literary Times
“Leigh Greenwood NEVER disappoints. The characters are finely drawn . . . always, always, a guaranteed good read!”
—Heartland Critiques
“Leigh Greenwood remains one of the forces to be reckoned with in the Americana romance sub-genre.”
—Affaire de Coeur
“Greenwood’s books are bound to become classics.”
—Rendezvous
THE RELUCTANT BRIDE
“Leigh Greenwood always provides one of the year’s best western romances, but his latest tale may be the best in an illustrious career. . . . Once again Mr. Greenwood will have one of the sub-genre top guns of 2005.”
—Harriet Klausner
THE INDEPENDENT BRIDE
“Leigh Greenwood unfolds his Westerns like an artist. . . . Like his other books, The Independent Bride should be placed among the western classics.”
—Rendezvous
BORN TO LOVE
“The characters are complex and add a rich element to this western romance.”
—Romantic Times
TEXAS HOMECOMING
“Leigh Greenwood raises the heat and tension with Texas Homecoming. Few authors provide a vivid descriptive Americana romance filled with realistic angst-laden protagonists as this author can.”
—The Midwest Book Review
HIGH PRAISE FOR
THE COWBOYS SERIES!
JAKE
“Only a master craftsman can create so many strong characters and keep them completely individualized.”
—Rendezvous
WARD
“Few authors write with the fervor of Leigh Greenwood. Once again [Greenwood] has created a tale well worth opening again and again!”
—Heartland Critiques
BUCK
“Buck is a wonderful Americana Romance!”
—Affaire de Coeur
CHET
“Chet has it all! Romance and rustlers, gunfighters and greed . . . romance doesn’t get any better than this!”
—The Literary Times
SEAN
“This book rivals the best this author has written so far, and readers will want to make space on their keeper shelves for Sean. Western romance at its finest!”
—The Literary Times
PETE
“Pete is another stroke on Leigh Greenwood’s colorful canvas of the Old West. The plotting is brilliant and the conflict strong.”
—Rendezvous
DREW
“Sexual tension and endless conflict make for a fast-paced adventure readers will long remember.”
—Rendezvous
LUKE
“Another winner by Leigh Greenwood!”
—Romantic Times
FLOOD OF PASSION
Kissing Hawk was like being caught up in a flash flood, unexpected and overpowering.
She was ecstatic. Jubilant. Exultant. Hawk wanted her as much as she wanted him. She had to calm down before she did something to drive him away. “I came here tonight hoping you liked me well enough to let me stay. I never dreamed you liked me that much.” She was petrified she wouldn’t be able to control her feelings for him but was determined she wouldn’t let this opportunity to experience something close to love slip from her grasp.
“I never dreamed you’d want to stay with me,” Hawk said.
“I can’t imagine why any woman wouldn’t want to spend the night in your arms.”
“I’ve never wanted just any woman.”
But he wanted her. She could see it in his eyes and hear it in his voice. She could practically feel his heat despite the cooling of the night air around her. The scent of the river and sagebrush weren’t nearly as strong as the scent of a man burning up with his need for a woman.
Other books by Leigh Greenwood:
THE RELUCTANT BRIDE
THE INDEPENDENT BRIDE
SEDUCTIVE WAGER
SWEET TEMPTATION
WICKED WYOMING NIGHTS
WYOMING WILDFIRE
SCARLET SUNSET, SILVER NIGHTS
THE CAPTAIN’S CARESS
ARIZONA EMBRACE
The Night Riders series:
TEXAS HOMECOMING
TEXAS BRIDE
BORN TO LOVE
The Cowboys series:
JAKE
WARD
BUCK
DREW
SEAN
CHET
MATT
PETE
LUKE
The Seven Brides series:
ROSE
FERN
IRIS
LAUREL
DAISY
VIOLET
LILY
The
Mavericks
LEIGH GREENWOOD
DORCHESTER PUBLISHING
Published by
Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
200 Madison Avenue
New York, NY 10016
Copyright © 2005 by Leigh Greenwood
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law. The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either 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.
Trade ISBN: 978-1-4285-1701-1
E-book ISBN: 978-1-4285-1702-8
First Dorchester Publishing, Co., Inc. edition: December 2005
The “DP” logo is the property of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.
Printed in the United States of America.
Visit us online at www.dorchesterpub.com.
CONTENTS
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
The Family of Jake Maxwell and Isabelle Davenport
(m. 1866)
Eden Maxwell b. 1868
Ward Dillon m. Marina Scott 1861
Tanner b. 1862
Mason b. 1869
Lee b. 1872
Conway b. 1874
Webb b. 1875
Buck Hobson (Maxwell) m. Hannah Grossek 1872
Wesley b. 1874
Elsa b. 1877
Drew Townsend m. Cole Benton 1874
Celeste b. 1879
Christine b. 1881
Clair b. 1884
Sean O’Ryan m. Pearl Belladonna (Agnes Satterwaite) 1876
Elise b. 1866 (Pearl’s daughter by previous marriage)
Kevin b. 1877
Flint b. 1878
Jason b. 1880
Chet Attmore (Maxwell) m. Melod
y Jordan 1880
Jake Maxwell II (Max) b. 1882
Nick b. 1884
Matt Haskins m. Ellen Donovan 1883
Toby b. 1868 (adopted)
Hank Hollender b. 1870 (adopted)
Orin b. 1872 (adopted)
Noah b. 1878 (adopted)
Tess b. 1881 (adopted)
Pete Jernigan m. Anne Thompson 1886
Luke Attmore m. Valeria Badenburg 1887
Hawk Maxwell m. Suzette Chatingy 1888
Zeke Maxwell m. Josie Morgan 1888
Bret Nolan
Will Haskins
Chapter One
Arizona Territory, 1888
The small but powerfully built bay mare walked with surefooted confidence along the rock-strewn trail, her head swaying from side to side with each stride, her gaze sweeping the ground ahead for obstacles to be avoided by her unshod hooves. Her bulging sides bore evidence that it would soon be time to drop her foal. Without warning, she stopped, threw her head up, and whinnied softly.
“What’s wrong, girl?” Hawk Maxwell’s hand drifted to his rifle stock as his gaze swept the rocky hills in the distance. “You looking for a place to have your baby?”
The mare whinnied again, shook her head vigorously. Behind her, eight mares halted, their tails busy driving away flies, their heads hanging low as they patiently waited for their leader.
“You talk to that mare like she was your woman,” Zeke Maxwell shouted from his position at the rear of the small band of horses.
“She’s more faithful than any woman I ever had,” Hawk said.
“She’s certainly prettier than the last one.” Zeke would like to see what had upset Dusky Lady, but they were following a narrow game trail along the San Pedro River through a thicket of willow and cottonwood saplings. Pulling out to look ahead was virtually impossible.
“Well, you’re too old to have a kid,” Zeke said. “Even a four-legged one.”
“I’m only thirty-six,” Hawk said, “two years younger than you.”
“We’re both too old for kids or wives. I guess that limits us to a shady lady now and then.”
“I’m sticking with Dusky Lady. She hasn’t deserted me yet.”
With her Morgan blood, the mare was the most costly horse they’d ever bought. They hoped she’d be the linchpin of their plan to breed quality stock. They already had twenty-one horses, mares, new foals, and yearlings, at a run-down ranch they’d bought about twenty miles from Tombstone. Now they were trying to get this last and most expensive group of mares to the ranch as quickly and safely as possible.
“Wait until she gets a look at that stud horse Hen Randolph sold us. You won’t even be a distant memory.”
The mare started forward, but this time she kept her head high and sniffed the wind. The horses negotiated the rocky ground closest to the riverbed cautiously, taking care not to set their feet down on a stone that could strain a ligament or bow a tendon. As the trail turned away from the river and the land rose, rocks gave way to sandy soil, making the footing easier, but the navigation more difficult. The horses were forced to push their way through banks covered with tamarisk thickets interspersed with mesquite, ironwood, and several kinds of cactus. The bright yellow flowers of the senna plant helped compensate for the unpleasant odor of the creosote bush, which had been intensified by recent rains.
“What do you think she scented?” Zeke called to Hawk.
“I’ll ride ahead and have a look.” Hawk spurred his horse forward. “The old girl is better than a watchdog, but scent can’t tell her whether what’s up ahead is friendly or not.”
Over the years, Hawk and Zeke had roamed most of the West together, gradually drifting into a relationship that was closer than most married couples. They practically operated from the same mind. It was an advantage on the trail, but a real handicap when it came to women.
While Hawk rode ahead, Zeke scanned the countryside for clues as to what might have startled the mare. They had passed through the rough landscape of the Salt River—an easy place for rustlers to waylay them—into the relatively open and flat desert. Due to unusually heavy and lingering winter rains, a trickle of water meandered along the often dry bed of the upper San Pedro River. Despite the danger of exposure to attack, they had decided to follow the river because it offered water and forage for the horses.
The horses were too calm for there to be a dangerous wild animal in the vicinity. But then, the most dangerous animal in the West was man. Zeke and Hawk had survived without serious injury because they were always ready to back each other up, whether fighting with fists or guns. They’d established a reputation as a tough combination, one most men were reluctant to tackle, but there was always someone who didn’t know anything about them or was young and foolish enough to want to build a reputation by taking on somebody other men stayed away from. As Zeke often said, he hadn’t reached the age of thirty-eight by relaxing his guard.
Zeke was glad they’d finally decided it was time to settle down and stop wandering from place to place. They planned to raise quality horses to sell to wealthy ranchers who—
A rifle shot broke the silence.
Zeke jerked his rifle from its scabbard, dug his heels into his mount’s sides, and shouted, “Watch the horses!” to Dusky Lady as he galloped past. He and Hawk had expected that someone would try to steal their horses. Blooded mares were worth a small fortune in Arizona. He found Hawk crouched behind a clump of cholla cactus and bailed out of the saddle to join him.
“Who is it? Where are they?”
“They’re women,” Hawk said, “and they’re camped on a sandbar on the other side of the bend in the creek.” Zeke stood, trying without success to see through a tangle of blossoming paloverde.
“Women! What the hell are they doing out here, and why are they shooting at you?”
“They didn’t. Just one mighty pretty black woman. The rest of them were hiding under the wagon.”
“What did you say to them?”
“I didn’t get a chance. She took one look at me and opened fire.”
Zeke laughed. “I told you to stop wearing that damned feather. You look like some white man playing at being an Indian.” Despite Zeke’s constant ridicule—and complaints—Hawk liked to wear a single feather as a headdress.
“I’m not a white man.”
“You’re not a Comanche, either.” It was an old argument. “Let me talk to her. Maybe she won’t shoot at me.”
When he was around Hawk, Zeke found it easy to forget he was an ex-slave. But whenever he met a stranger, he was certain to be reminded of the color of his skin.
“I’ll go back to the horses and let the lady’s man take over,” Hawk said.
That was another bone of contention. Zeke refused to have anything more to do with women than buying drinks or buying sex. As a boy he’d been a slave to a woman who’d abused him. More than twenty-five years later, he still hadn’t forgiven her sex.
Returning his rifle to its scabbard, Zeke dismounted. “Take my horse,” he said to Hawk. “Give me about five minutes, then ride in.”
“You think they’re gonna let a big, ugly black man walk right into their camp?”
“I don’t plan on asking,” Zeke replied.
“Watch out. That woman knows how to use a rifle.”
Holding his hands well away from his sides and dragging his feet to make as much noise as possible, Zeke started toward the bend in the creek that flowed into the San Pedro River. The shallow streambed would normally have been dry this time of year, but Arizona was green this spring. He just needed to get these women moving so he and Hawk could go on their way before anybody with an itching to own fine horseflesh figured out where they were.
Zeke pushed his way through a thicket of tamarisk. A nonnative plant that probably came to Mexico in hay from Spain, the bushes grew in dense thickets. Several stalks branched out from the base of the plant and towered over his head. Dense growth and thousands of tiny leaves made it impossib
le to see where he was going. Pushing limbs aside as he walked, he felt like he was moving blindly toward an unknown reception. The moment he pushed aside the last branch and stepped into the shade of an ancient and twisted cottonwood, a woman’s voice rang out.
“Hold it right there.”
“We’re not here to cause trouble.” Zeke didn’t stop, but he did slow down. “We just want to move our horses past you, and we’ll be on our way.”
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
He couldn’t see the speaker. Her voice seemed to be coming from an area choked with mesquite.
“If you’ll wait a few minutes, my partner will bring the horses up.”
“Is that Indian your partner?”
“He’s only half Indian.”
“I don’t trust him.”
“If you’ll hitch up your wagon and move on, you won’t have to trust him.”
Moving closer to the stream, Zeke rounded the mesquite thicket and came face to face with the most beautiful black woman he’d ever seen. Even as his brain registered that she couldn’t be more than half black, his body registered its instantaneous response to a vision that would have caused a more worldweary man than Zeke to be rendered breathless.
“We can’t move on,” she said. “A wheel came off our wagon.”
Zeke fought to force his brain to focus on what she was saying. He was too old to allow a beautiful woman to befuddle his wits. He was also well acquainted with what such beautiful women wanted from a man, and he knew he didn’t have it. Yet this woman had the kind of beauty that could cause even the most sensible male to betray himself.
“I’ll take a look,” Zeke said, forcing himself to remember that this woman was an obstacle to his and Hawk’s goal—getting their horses safely to their ranch. “Maybe Hawk and I can fix it.”
For a moment she looked as though she wasn’t going to let him pass. “Our camp is just ahead,” she said before turning to lead the way.
Though she looked like the kind of woman who’d never been more than twenty feet from a mirror, she walked across the rock-strewn ground with a confident gait. Her tan skirt hugged her hips suggestively before flaring out to accommodate her stride. Though the sleeves of her blouse reached her wrists and the collar brushed her chin, any attempt at modesty was foiled by the way it fitted snugly across her breasts and tapered down to her slim waist.