RIDE THE WIND
"Ms. O'Banyon's story is well written with welldeveloped characters."
TYKOTA'S WOMAN
"Constance O'Banyon delivers a gripping and emotionally charged tale of love, honor and betrayal."
TEXAS PROUD
"Texas Proud is another good read from Ms. O'Banyon. With its excellent characters and strong plot, readers will find enough action and surprises to fill an evening."
LA FLAMME
"Constance O'Banyon tells a tale replete with actionadventure and glorious romance."
SONG OF THE NIGHTINGALE
"Mesmerizing, engrossing, passionate yet tender and richly romantic."
DESERT SONG
"Constance O'Banyon is dynamic. Wonderful characters. She is] one of the best writers of romantic adventure."
Jonah arched to remove bullets from his belt, and his body ground against her. She caught her breath as he loaded the pistol, suddenly feeling the heat of his body. She felt the wall she had erected around her feelings begin to crack and crumble. She moved her head the merest bit to rest her cheek against the roughness of his jacket. "I've never had anyone shoot at me before," she managed to say.
"I have." Jonah released the hammer of his gun and rested his chin on the top of her head, his arms going around her. "Don't be frightened. I won't let anyone hurt you."
When she tilted her head and looked into his eyes, the rifleman was forgotten, and all she could think of was the male body pressed against hers. Sweetness, raw and deep, wound its way through her, and she wanted to hold on to the moment forever.
THE AGREEMENT (SECRET FIRES)
RIDE THE WIND
TYKOTA'S WOMAN
SAN ANTONIO ROSE
TEXAS PROUD
CONSTANCE O'BANYON
Cameron Melton, this is your book, my sweet granddaughter. You may have had to wait longer than the others because you are the youngest, but last is not least, and you are so much in my heart. This proud grandmother cherishes you every day.
Randal Henderson, has anyone ever told you how wonderful you are? If they should want to know, let them ask your Aunt Constance.
To the real Navidad, Christmas, who touched my family's life in ways he can't imagine. You are an angel who came along when we needed you the most. Your kindness could not be captured on the pages of this book, but I had to give you a voice, and my family's deep gratitude.
Texas, 1870
The wind was cold and damp as it whipped Abigail Hunter's tangled hair across her face. Her body was still and her small hands were twisted into tight knots at her sides until her brother Brent took them and held them firmly in his strong grip.
For eight-year-old Abby the last two days had been confusing and devastating. Tragedy had struck their family at its very heart, and she wondered how it was possible to hurt so badly and still live.
Through blinding tears she stared at the simple pine box that held her mother's remains. Since there were no flowers to be had this time of year, Abby had woven her pink hair ribbons through a branch of live oak, and Quince had placed it on the coffin for her-a pitiful tribute to a woman who had so dearly loved flowers.
The men who worked for the Half-Moon Ranch were gathered near the family, their hats removed, their heads bowed. The foreman, Buck, met Abby's eyes sadly and nodded slightly. Charley Herbert, the barber and undertaker, was there, standing off to the side, but still a grim reminder to the young girl that he was the one who had brought the coffin to the ranch.
Reverend Crawford was praising Beth Hunter's virtues. Although the preacher was sincere, his words meant nothing to Abby. He didn't know how gentle their mother's touch had been, or how it had comforted Abby through so many illnesses-he couldn't tell the mourners how soothing her mother's voice had been, or the patience she had used when Abby had needed guidance-and Abby was always needing guidance. All that was her mother was gone forever, stilled by death's hateful hand.
The reverend was assuring Abby and her brothers that their mother had gone to a better place. But wouldn't it have been better for all of them if she had remained with the family on the Half-Moon Ranch? So many dilemmas tore at her mind, and questions nagged at her that only her mother could answer.
The young girl glanced, in turn, at each of her three older brothers and saw the same grief she felt reflected in their eyes. Brent was now gripping her hand so tightly it hurt, but the discomfort helped her think about something other than the anguish that tore at her heart. She watched her brother Quince's hand tremble from the effort he was making not to cry. Her brother Matt stood alone, stoic and silent, solitary in his grief. She knew he had cut himself off from the rest of them so he could better control his sorrow.
Conspicuously absent from the grieving family grouped around the grave site was Abby's father, Jack Hunter. Abby glanced slowly up at Brent to find him watching her with concern. At twenty, he was the eldest, and it would probably fall to him to keep the family together. A sob escaped her throat, and Quince touched her on the shoulder and patted it several times. She suddenly felt her stomach chum; she was sickened and shaken to the very core of her being.
It was difficult to understand the horror of what her father had done. How could he shoot and kill her mother, when to Abby's knowledge he had never even raised his hand to her in anger? Brent said it was because he was drunk, but Abby couldn't imagine that drinking would make a man want to kill someone he loved.
Reluctantly her eyes strayed back to the coffin. Then she glanced at the crowd of people that stretched all the way to the road. Matt had earlier declared that they had come only to stare at a murderer's family, but Abby was sure they were there to pay their respects to her mother.
She met Iona Montgomery's gaze and saw the sadness and compassion in the older woman's eyes. Mrs. Montgomery had been her mother's best friend, and it was comforting to have her there. Her daughter, Juliana, gave Abby a sympathetic smile, and Abby managed to smile slightly in return. Then her attention was drawn to Edmund Montgomery, Juliana's stepfather, who owned the only bank in Diablo. He nodded at Abby and held her gaze for a moment. She stepped closer to Brent and lowered her head. She always felt uneasy around Mr. Montgomery, even though she didn't understand why.
The reverend had finished the eulogy and was talking in a quiet voice with Brent, but Abby wasn't listening. She was watching their friends and neighbors walking to their buggies, some of them already leaving without speaking to the family. The wind kicked up more, and Abby shivered.
Matt knelt down beside her and wrapped his coat about her shoulders, then held her close to his body to get her warm. Finally he took one of Abby's hands, and Quince took the other.
Abby was unaware that people were whispering and gossiping about her family, their heads nodding, their mouths pursed in disapproval. She was too young to realize that, in the years to come, the cruelty of those same people would surround her and exclude her from their inner circles. She saw only the three men with shovels standing off to the side, and she shuddered with dread as Charley Herbert gave them instructions. She shook her head in horrorthose men were going to lower her mother's body into the ground and cover it with dirt!
She felt desperate. Jerking free of her brothers, she ran toward her mother's coffin, determined to stop the men. It was Quince who caught up with her and went down on his knees, holding her close.
"You have to let her go, darlin'." There were tears in his green eyes, eyes that looked so much like their mother's. "We all have to let her go."
Quince held her, speaking comforting words until she stopped trembling. Finally she wiped her tears on the back of her hand, and he led her back to the others.
Matt pulled her aside and bent down to her. "Abby, I won't be going back to the
house with you. I've already told Brent and Quince, and I wanted you to know, too-I'm leaving. It'll be a long time before I come back."
Her eyes filled with fresh tears. "Mama's gone, and now you're leaving, too? Please don't go away!"
There was incredible sadness in his eyes. "You are so young and may not understand this, but if I stay, I'll probably do something I'll regret."
She touched his face, then slid her arms around his neck. "I understand better than you thinkyou're afraid you'd do something to hurt Papa for what he did to Mama, aren't you?"
He hesitated for a moment, then nodded.
"Will you write me?"
He eased her arms from around his neck and stood. "I'm not much for letters, Abby."
When she would have given him back his coat, he shook his head and buttoned it at her throat. "Take care of yourself, sweetheart. I know it seems like your world has turned upside down. Time passes, and wounds heal. Trust me."
She watched Matt walk away and mount his horse; she didn't take her gaze off him until he disappeared from sight. She already missed him, and she wondered if she would ever see him again.
Brent put his arm around Abby while Quince walked beside them toward the ranch house, their grief too deep, their hurt too new to put into words. The day was gray, and her heart was empty... cold... broken.
Her attention was drawn to the ranch hands ambling toward the house. The Montgomerys and a few other friends walked behind them. She wiped her eyes and closed them, but tears still seeped between her lids and ran down her cheeks. She wanted the comfort that only her mother could give her.
Matt had told her to give it time, but time would not bring her mother back, and time would never wash the blood off her father's hands.
Hill Country of Texas, 1880
"Abigail Hunter, where are you?"
The housekeeper's high-pitched voice reached Abby just as she opened the front door, so she quickly stepped outside, taking pains not to let the screen door slam behind her. Although she tried to move silently, her boots clomped across the wooden planks of the porch, and she groaned.
"I'm out here," she answered in a fatalistic tone, knowing nothing short of death would stop Frances from having her say.
While waiting for the housekeeper, Abby braced her hands on the railing and breathed in the heat of the early-morning air. There wasn't enough breeze to stir the leaves on the oak tree near the barn. The thin, ragged clouds showed no evidence of the rainstorm that had struck with such force around midnight.
Thinking about the troubles that faced her family, she gripped the railing until her fingernails dug into the wood. Matt was still in England, and no one knew when he would come home, or if he ever would. Brent and Quince were married and had moved out of the house, leaving her alone to contend with their father, now that he'd come home from prison.
She had tried to forgive him for what he had done to her mother, but it was hard. Abby wanted to love him, but Jack Hunter was not an easy man to love. And in truth, she resented the way he had moved back into their lives, demanding that they do things his way. While he had been in prison they had managed to scrape by just fine without him. Recently he had borrowed money from the bank to buy land they didn't need and horses that they couldn't afford. None of them knew what their father would do next to throw their lives into chaos.
She drew in a cleansing breath, her mind moving on to other matters the tension between Brent and Quince had lessened a bit, and she was glad of that. Both of them worked hard to keep the bank from foreclosing on the Half-Moon, but they had different opinions on how that should be accomplished.
Abby looked toward the paddock, where two blooded foals sired by her stallion, Moon Racer, frolicked through the high grass along with the cow ponies that were Brent's dream for the future. Wild mustangs grazed in the pasture just beyond the barn, Quince's contribution to the ranch.
She sighed. Stubbornness ran deep in the Hunter family-she had a wide streak of it herself. As a result of Brent's dedicated management and the army contract Quince had acquired because of his friendship with one of the officers at Fort Griffin, they had been able to make the last two bank payments. She glanced down at her trousers with a pragmatic frown. Even if she was a girl, there were a few things she could do to help her brothers. Without the encumbrance of modesty, she knew that she could train cutting horses as well as any man, probably better than most. She had broken her first of many horses at the age of twelve, and she was about to break another.
The screen door whooshed open, jarred against the house, then slammed shut, and Frances appeared. Aggressively wiping her hands on her stained apron, the middle-aged, sturdily built woman looked formidable until Abby saw the concern reflected in her faded blue eyes. The housekeeper never failed to speak her mind and to give the family her opinion on any given subject. And from the frown of disapproval Abby saw on Frances's face, she knew she was about to receive the benefit of that advice.
"I see where your mind's taking you, young lady. I knew when I told you about Nate Johnson's horse, you was gonna try and break him. Were you listening when I told you he'd already throwed Curly and Red? Brent says the animal can't be broke, and he's sending him back to the Circle J with his regrets."
"Brent also says that I shouldn't argue with a mule, a skunk, or with you, Frances."
"Abby!"
She had never been able to get around Frances with flattery, but she always made the attempt. Cunningly, she tried to smile, but the best she could manage was a slight curve of her lower lip. "Your biscuits were delicious, as usual, and your grape preserves were the best I ever tasted. Is that the same recipe you used last year?"
Frances's hands went immediately to her hips. "Don't think I don't know your tactics by now, Abigail! Never you mind about my preserves-you aren't gonna ride that horse if I have any say about it."
Abby's mouth settled into a firm line before she said, "Mr. Johnson will pay good money if we break that horse. Brent gave up too easily."
"Lord have mercy, Abby, you're eighteen years old! You've gotta quit strutting 'round in britches and acting like you could stand toe-to-toe with the menfolk. Don't you think it's time to start acting like a lady?"
Abby had a vague memory of her mother's gentle instructions. Mama had urged her to sit straight with her hands folded in her lap, to stand tall and not allow her shoulders to slump. She remembered her mother saying how important it was for a lady to always have a lace handkerchief with her. There were other instructions her mother had given her on proper behavior, but Abby just could not remember them all, and she certainly had no use for a lace handkerchief. Her brothers needed her help around the ranch, and she had no time for such niceties anyway.
"You'll never catch a husband behaving the way you do. When a man's looking for a wife, he wants someone who is soft and sweet and kinda humble."
Abby raised her chin stubbornly. "I wouldn't give you that," she declared, snapping her fingers, "for a man who would require me to be sweet and witless." She smiled guilefully. "Besides, why would I need a husband telling me what to do when I have you for that, Frances?"
"Harrumph. I blame Brent for the way you turned out. He let you run wild, doing whatever pleased you. He used a light hand with you 'cause you lost your ma."
"I didn't lose my mama; Papa killed her," she said bleakly.
Frances shook her head. "Have a care what you say, miss-your pa's done his time."
"Papa may have served his time according to the law, but how can I forgive him for what he did?"
The housekeeper's eyes softened when she reflected on all Abby had endured during her young life. Although Frances had not worked for the family until after Beth Hunter's death, she knew the way people hereabouts treated the young girl-they refused to let their daughters befriend her, and they certainly wouldn't allow their sons anywhere near her. Frances had watched Abby pull further into herself each time someone in town snubbed her. She had buried her anguish deep so her br
others wouldn't notice how hurt she was by the rejections of their neighbors. Now, as if Abby's life hadn't been complicated enough, her father had been released from prison, giving their neighbors another reason to turn their backs on her. Frances suspected that Abby chose to wear trousers to play down the fact that she was a woman. It was no wonder she didn't realize that she was on the verge of being beautiful; there was no one around to admire her. But Frances was determined to guide the young, motherless woman, if she could get through to her.
"Look at how happy Brent and Quince are now that they're married, and Brent about to be a father. Don't you want that same kind of life for yourself, Abby?"
"I'd rather be like my brother Matt, who has no responsibilities and will probably never come home, and why should he? At least he doesn't have to worry about foreclosures in England."
Frances touched Abby's shoulder. "Someday a man will come along who'll be worthy of you, and you'll want to change to please him."
"I like horses better than men you feed them, water them, give them a good rubdown, and in return they give you all their affection."
"That's not far off from what a husband would do for you if you rubbed him down."
"I don't want to talk about this anymore," Abby said crisply.
The housekeeper looked at her suspiciously. "You aren't gonna try and ride that horse, are you?"
Abby stepped off the porch, adjusting her battered hat at just the right angle to protect her eyes from the sun. "I haven't made up my mind yet. But if I do, he won't throw me like he did Curly and Red."
She didn't need to see Frances's face to know she was scowling at her. She did hear the loud huff as the housekeeper stomped back into the house, letting the screen door snap shut behind her.
The high-pitched cry of a hawk penetrated the silence of the land as the winged predator rode the wind currents on a quest for small game. Moments later the hawk's cry was muffled by the thundering hooves of three horses, ridden by uniformed soldiers who wore the insignia of the Sixth Cavalry.
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