by Linda Broday
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Copyright © 2005, 2017 by Linda Broday
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art by Jon Paul
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Originally published as Redemption in 2005 in the United States of America by Leisure Books, an imprint of Dorchester Publishing.
Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek at The Heart of a Texas Cowboy
About the Author
Back Cover
To Mom, who instilled the love of reading and taught me to dream big. I miss you.
“When we cannot find contentment in ourselves, it is useless to seek it elsewhere.”
—François de La Rochefoucauld (1613–1680)
One
East Texas, 1869
When a man loses his soul, he has little choice except to try to find it again. Unless he wants to stay lost. An old Chinese proverb claims the journey of a thousand miles begins with the first step. Lord knows he’d found plenty of reasons of one kind or another to avoid taking that first one.
Brodie straightened in the saddle at the edge of town. He squinted into the noonday sun and let his gaze drift to the wooden sign declaring the name as Redemption, then to the row of establishments lining the main street.
White egrets flew overhead. In the distance, giant cypress stood in silence. Spanish moss draping them gave added ghostly tears. They cried in silent harmony—an army of unheard voices in the face of more death and destruction than he dared number.
He’d come home.
They say to become whole, a person must return to the beginning, to the place where his soul was born.
Redemption?
A one in a million chance of that.
He sighed. He’d had worse odds, he reckoned. A click of his tongue moved the big Appaloosa forward.
The town had doubled in his absence. That meant a lot of new folks. Old acquaintances likely wouldn’t recognize him anyway. Eight years had a way of changing a man. War could do things to make him unrecognizable…even to himself. The musket ball, compliments of a Yankee soldier, had only shredded his leg. Other scars lay hidden, never to see the light of day.
Those he’d nurture until his dying breath.
The aroma of fresh-baked bread drifted past his nose, assuring the moment of leaving this vale of tears had yet to arrive. Mingling smells of home cooking originated from an untidy little restaurant that, according to best recollection, hadn’t stood there years ago. Rumbles in his belly reminded him it hadn’t gotten anything in a while.
Besides, he needed to plan what to say before he visited the house on State Street…if such words existed. In response to an unspoken command, Smokey turned and stopped at the hitching post in front of Ollie’s Café.
A quick glance through the window revealed wall-to-wall patrons. The steamer tied at the pier probably accounted for a good many, he reckoned. He didn’t miss the cluster of men in front of the barbershop who openly stared.
Brodie climbed from the horse and looped the reins over the wooden rail. He’d come to expect rude welcomes.
Maybe it was the devil’s scorn that shadowed him or the deadly hiss of rattles from his hat that created such aversion. Or perhaps they spied the apparition that insisted on sharing his saddle—the kind that belonged in graveyards and tombs.
Still, unwanted attention roused pinpricks. He adjusted the thin rawhide strip around his thigh that secured the holster and let his palm rest for a second on the polished walnut grip of his Army-issue Navy Colt.
The gawkers gasped when he nodded toward them, but they didn’t turn politely away. They never did.
He held the door for the couple who came out, stepped inside, and removed his Stetson that had seen better days. A quick glance located the table the man and woman had probably vacated.
It hugged a wall in the far corner, perfect for needs requiring an unhindered view of the premises—where a man could blend in easily. This suited both counts. His movements were unhurried as he swept the room for trouble. He breathed a sight easier when he slid into the seat and dropped the hat at his elbow.
A woman well past the mourning of her youth jostled him as she cleared away dirty dishes left by the previous occupants. “What’ll you have, mister?”
Before he could reply, a man yelled from the far side, “Hey, Ollie, where’s my lunch? Did you hafta go butcher it first?”
“Son of a bluejacket. It’ll be ready when it’s ready and not a goldarn minute before.” The rough talk put a grown boy to shame. Judging by unfazed customers, they’d likely gotten an earful on any given weekday.
“Can I count on that anytime soon?” the man persisted.
“If’n you don’t like it, go home and cook your own.”
She was a most peculiar female, both in name and appearance. She’d evidently made someone mad as hell when they took a hatchet to the faded russet hair. What remained stood in short uneven porky-spines all over her head. The good Lord must’ve squeezed in her nose and mouth at the last minute or she’d have wound up nothing but large eyes. Smoke curled from the corncob pipe clamped between her teeth. Except for the smoking apparatus, she could’ve passed for an organ grinder’s monkey he’d seen in San Francisco.
Short wiry females had a way of making him tread extra lightly. He’d rather tangle with a hardened mountain man.
The skinny termagant never spared him a glance. Her gaze flitted over the crowd the whole time she worked as though expecting them to
toss coins her way and wanted to make sure she didn’t miss one if they should.
Yep, just like that trained monkey.
“Well, mister, I don’t have all day.”
He assumed she spoke to him, although he based that merely on the lower volume with which she spoke, nothing more. Her arms full of dishes, she turned toward the back.
“I’ll have a steak. Biggest you’ve got.” Brodie didn’t know if she heard him. She didn’t acknowledge the fact.
The monkey impersonator faded into the dark interior. He contemplated leaving…until a younger woman strolled from the kitchen.
Sweet Jesus. Of all the luck.
Her image haunted his dreams much too frequently for forgetting. He’d lost count of the nights when memories jerked him from a sound sleep. And days when familiar yearning pulled deep in his gut, leaving a chest full of misery and bleary eyes.
From across the crowded café the violet-eyed beauty still made him pray for impossible things, promising each desire could come true despite the meager coins in his pocket.
Strange how she wound up here in Texas. He’d never thought to see her again after leaving St. Louis.
She blew away a strand of fallen hair, struggling under the load of plates piled with food. She concentrated on her footing and aimed for the complaining patron’s table. With their griping satisfied, she went back for more. She carried armload after another without noticing him. He doubted she’d recognize him anyway after so long.
The years had treated her kindly. She’d changed in small ways—all of them favorable. A mature woman with rounded curves stood in place of the slender young girl he’d known.
His throat clogged when she came close enough to touch.
Tiny lines hugged the lush mouth that once invited, daring him to resist. A block of stone might’ve. But he bore no kinship with rock. In him she found a randy soldier who liked to taste.
Ahh, those kisses. More an angel’s than flesh and blood.
Brodie would stake good money she could make him believe he held the key to her heart even now.
He wouldn’t make that mistake twice. Still…
A crooked smile formed when he considered his good fortune.
* * *
Laurel sent the clock a silent cussing. She swore it hadn’t moved in the last hour. Her feet and back paid no heed that impatient customers waited for their lunch.
She lifted a plate containing a large cut of beef and strode for the dining room of Ollie’s Café ever mindful of her purpose. Marriage to Murphy Yates offered answers to her dream.
The devil take anyone who stood in the way. She clenched her jaw. She’d worked too hard.
Miles of ground lay between Missouri and Texas. Trouble wouldn’t find this town at the swamp’s edge.
“Let the last day of your past be the first day of your future.” Olivia, or Ollie as she preferred, had given the first of much advice the night she sprang Laurel from that hellhole.
The dear woman had seen something worth saving. The chance to make a new life would come just once. Laurel gripped the plate tighter. She meant to grab hold and ride until someone pulled her, kicking and screaming, from the saddle.
A dull ache between her shoulder blades reminded her what she stood to lose. She weaved between the tables, sidestepping sweaty cowboys and their heavy boots.
She’d do whatever necessary to keep her secret buried.
In the midst of noon madness, someone grabbed her arm, sending the plate crashing to the floor. “Spit and thunder. Now look what you’ve done.”
“Don’t worry none about that, sweet thing.”
A man pulled her onto his buckskin lap. She found herself staring into the cold disdain of young Jeb Prater.
“What do you think you’re doing? Let me go.” Dear God, she’d thought to rid herself of bold hands and heavy breathing. Pounding in her head reminded her of things she tried to blot out.
“When I get good an’ ready.” Jeb squeezed her waist. Lust glittered in his stare.
“I think you’re ready now, boy.” The dark warning tore through the room like scattershot, instantly muting clanking forks, conversation, and noisy chewing.
Laurel struggled to see the owner of the steely voice.
“What’s good for you is letting her go,” the stranger spoke again, a threat in his low drawl making the gooseflesh rise on her arm. She strained for a better view.
The shadowed corner beyond reach of lamplight hid his face. But not the long, lean legs propped out before him. The way he lounged so easily in the chair stirred the embers in her mind of someone she’d known long ago. Like this one, his quiet bearing had carried much weight.
Jeb shot to his feet, upending her. His mouth flew open, then snapped shut in disbelief. Laurel scrambled to safer territory, clutching the back of a spindly chair.
“You’re not from these parts so I reckon you don’t rightly know who you’re dealin’ with, stranger.”
“I recognize a mealy-mouthed swamp rat when I see one.” The man straightened, lifting his black felt hat from the table. The deadly hiss of snake rattles filled the silence. Slowly, he angled it on his head. “I’ve crossed paths with far too many.”
Only one man wore a hat banded with snakeskin from which diamondback rattlers dangled off the back. He leaned forward into the lamp’s glow. Someone stole all the air.
Shenandoah.
Laurel’s gaze traveled to the tall loner’s features. Her dry mouth fought for moisture. Creases beneath his high cheekbones had deepened into valleys, underscoring the grim set of his mouth. And the dark hair sported a few streaks of gray at the temples.
She sidled toward the obscurity of a group who had jumped to their feet. Trouble had a way of making folks edgy. Some already headed for the door, their stomachs forgotten.
“I give you three seconds to apologize for that name-calling.” The young bully shifted, a bit of the swagger fading.
“And I’ll give you two to scrape that steak off the floor.” Shenandoah rose lazily. “I believe it’s mine, and I haven’t eaten in two days.”
“What’ll you do if’n I don’t?”
“Choice is yours.” The icy glare never faltered. “The easy way or the hard. Make it light on yourself, boy.”
The Colt weighting Shenandoah’s hip apparently gave Jeb plenty of concern. He flung an angry scowl about the room. If hoping for support, none came. Color drained from his face when he slapped holster leather and found empty air, realizing Ollie had confiscated his revolver at the door. Laurel wouldn’t sympathize. Jeb had dealt out plenty of misery.
“What’s all the goldarned commotion?” Ollie propelled her petite frame between the towering men.
Shenandoah continued to hold Jeb in his stare. “This boy owes me a steak. Mine’s on the floor. We’re settling up.”
Ollie lobbed a questioning glance her way. Laurel cringed but answered, “Jeb made me drop the plate.”
The wiry woman swung back, directing a pointed stare to Shenandoah’s hand resting on the butt of his Colt. “Shootin’ irons ain’t allowed in here. No exceptions. Didn’t you see the sign that said to leave ’em on the counter?”
“I saw it.”
Though he spoke to Ollie, his granite gaze never wavered from Jeb. Laurel knew if the overgrown boy twitched he’d shake hands with St. Peter.
“Means what it says. That’s my rule.” Wiggling the pipe between her teeth, Ollie stood on tiptoe to get a better look. Furious puffing sent plumes of smoke toward the ceiling. “Don’t I know you, mister?”
“Might.”
“Ever been to Missouri?”
“Among a few hundred other places.”
“I never forget a face.” Ollie rubbed her chin. “Might you be the fellow they call Shenandoah?”
“Depends on who’s asking.�
�
Laurel’s stomach churned. When she could take a breath, she wondered how Ollie knew him since Shenandoah left years before the woman arrived at Taft’s establishment.
Ollie swung back to Jeb. “You chuckle-headed shavetail. You don’t have the sense God gave a pissant. Here’s a man you don’t wanna mess with. You’re mighty lucky he hasn’t already filled you so full of holes your own mama would mistake you for a flour sifter.”
Jeb bristled. “Gimme my forty-four an’ we’ll see who’s able to see daylight through.”
The pipe flew from her mouth. Ollie slapped Jeb’s arm. If she thought to jar his feeble brain, she needn’t have bothered.
“Pick up the man’s lunch.”
“I won’t. He called me a mealy-mouthed swamp rat.”
“I’d call that awfully kind. Now pick it up, I said.” Few would’ve ordered such. The brash woman didn’t frighten easily.
Red-faced, Jeb plucked the meat from shards of earthenware. He juggled the hot steak as though auditioning for a traveling circus act before shoving it at the newcomer. “Here.”
Tense quiet stretched. Shenandoah didn’t move. A tic in his jaw spoke of supreme effort to curb his anger.
Finally, Ollie snatched the slab of beef. “Never mind. You’re buying him another. Laurel girl, go throw one on.”
A growl rumbled in Shenandoah’s throat. “We’re not finished. He owes the lady an apology.”
“Boy, whatever you done, better own up to it before it gets you killed. And next time you come in here, bring some manners, dadgum it. Else you’re not welcome.”
While the majority of folk kowtowed to the young bully, Olivia Applejack b’Dam didn’t let her short stature or the fact of her gender tie her tongue in knots. Over the months, Laurel had witnessed that courage many times. Most learned too late the folly of going toe to toe with Ollie. Still, one day her friend’s ornery nature could earn her a one-way ticket to the other side.
Jeb turned beet-red. Shenandoah had dethroned him in front of fidgeting patrons he’d lorded over. The protective confines of the kitchen would take scant seconds to reach.
If not? Laurel could despair of saving her new life.