by Linda Broday
Also by Linda Broday
Texas Redemption
Bachelors of Battle Creek
Texas Mail Order Bride
Twice a Texas Bride
Forever His Texas Bride
Men of Legend
To Love a Texas Ranger
The Heart of a Texas Cowboy
To Marry a Texas Outlaw
Texas Heroes
Knight on the Texas Plains
The Cowboy Who Came Calling
Thank you for purchasing this eBook.
At Sourcebooks we believe one thing:
BOOKS CHANGE LIVES.
We would love to invite you to receive exclusive rewards. Sign up now for VIP savings, bonus content, early access to new ideas we're developing, and sneak peeks at our hottest titles!
Happy reading!
SIGN UP NOW!
Copyright © 2017 by Linda Broday
Cover and internal design © 2017 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson
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.
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
(630) 961-3900
Fax: (630) 961-2168
sourcebooks.com
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
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Epilogue
A Sneak Peek of The Cowboy Who Came Calling
Two
Three
About the Author
Back Cover
I dedicate this book to all the forgotten and abused children in the world who have no voice, no one to stand up for them, no one to care. I put these children into all my stories because they lend such immense depth, emotion, and enrichment. I urge you not to close your eyes and hearts to those in need. Be their advocate. Each of us has an obligation to shine a light wherever and however we can.
One
North Texas
Spring 1879
Alone. Hunted. Bone-tired of running. Some days he almost welcomed death so he could rest.
Trouble stalked Luke Weston from one end of Texas to the other. Being a wanted man with a price on his head and a large target on his back stole any hope of going home.
The black gelding’s hooves struck the rocky floor of the narrow canyon, sounding like shots from a tracker’s gun. Luke shifted in the saddle and tried his best to pretend that the nervous jitters crawling up his spine weren’t whispering a warning. But he couldn’t afford to. Men in his profession who ignored their gut usually ended up as a meal for the coyotes or buzzards.
A large flock of nasty scavengers silently circled above him now, watching with their greedy eyes—they waited as well for the bullet that would end his life.
He tucked his long black duster outside his Colt and removed the narrow leather loop anchoring the weapon to the holster. The warning whispering in his ear, he rested his hand on the wooden grip into which he’d carved one word—Legend.
The trouble stalking him wasn’t anything new. Except this time, he knew one name.
Munroe O’Keefe.
The young jackass, desperate to make a name for himself, had bragged from Austin to Fort Worth that he would kill Luke Weston and that he’d be a hero for it.
Luke had broken camp as the sun rose and spotted the young gunslinger high up on a ridge. Since then, he’d thought he’d lost him in the rugged landscape littered with gullies, ravines, and desert mountains.
But had he? Was he underestimating his adversary?
“Stupid fool,” Luke muttered. O’Keefe didn’t have the brains of a stuffed goose, or he’d realize that killing Luke would only draw a wide target on his own back. Luke’s death wouldn’t bring the kid any fame, and for damn sure wouldn’t bring him glory. The only thing it would accomplish would be to put O’Keefe on the run for the rest of his life.
Knowing one name didn’t cover it all, though. Munroe O’Keefe was only one of many on his trail. Others included lawmen from Texas and beyond, bounty hunters anxious to collect the price on his head, outlaws wanting to recruit him.
And that was only a partial list.
A low, angry growl rumbled in Luke’s throat and he cussed a blue streak under his breath.
The sudden rustle of sagebrush that rimmed the rocks behind sent alarm rushing through him. His Colt cleared the holster as he swung around.
A coyote froze for a second, staring back at the gun pointed at him before loping off into the brush. Shadowed by the low brim of his Stetson, Luke’s gaze swept the narrow trail. Finding nothing, he finally holstered his Colt.
It took a minute to force his nerves to settle. He dragged the cool Texas air deep into his lungs. Such was the price he had to pay for past mistakes. Now, his face was plastered on every wanted poster across the state, and the reward was growing higher by the day.
Luke forced a bitter laugh and smoothed the withers of his mount. “Major John, you might find yourself in the company of a new owner soon. You’re a good friend, but another man might not take kindly to a beer-drinking horse, so try to refrain and mind your manners.”
Major John snorted and tossed his head high as though to say “you mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”
“Keep your attitude to yourself. I mean every word.” Sudden pain pierced Luke’s heart. One of the hardest moments of his life so far had come six months ago, when he’d had to bury his nameless black gelding. He’d searched high and low for one equal in looks and temperament, and the minute he’d gazed into Major John’s eyes and seen the animal’s heart, he’d plunked down the money. He hadn’t regretted it. So far.
A bead of sweat rolled into Luke’s eye and he swiped at it impatiently to stop the sting. Damn, he’d be glad to rise up out of the steep, narrow confines of this canyon. Only six horses wide, it reminded him too much
of a coffin. He longed for a breeze on his face. The morning was only a few hours old, but the moisture left by the sudden spring shower had already burned off. He’d have to remove his duster first chance he got. The sun’s heat would be relentless soon, bouncing off the rocks. He had important business in Dead Horse Creek, just south of the mighty Red River that separated Texas from Indian Territory. Dead Horse was known as a dangerous outlaw hideout.
Finally, he had his first real chance to find the man who’d framed him for a cold-blooded murder. The man who called himself Ned Sweeney was like some damn ghost. Even his name was stolen from a Beadle’s Dime Novel. Who knew what his real name was. Luke had heard rumors that Sweeney never stayed more than one night in the same place. If he didn’t catch him now, no telling when he’d surface again. Convincing a desperate man on the run to do the right thing might pose a problem. A tight smile curved Luke’s mouth.
If he could get his hands on the rotten bastard, he’d wring the truth out of him. The question of why Sweeney’d framed him had haunted Luke for two years.
Luke readily took responsibility for the things he’d done, but the blood of federal judge Edgar Percival was on Sweeney’s hands, not his. It was strange how many crimes landed at Luke’s door these days—another downside of having a reputation for a fast draw and a price on his head. It was easier to pin everything on a man already known as an outlaw than look for the real criminal.
Anger and frustration left a sour taste in his mouth.
Minutes ticked by slowly, until at last he exited the canyon. Dead Horse Creek wasn’t more than a half hour away. A friend, Brenner McCall, had given him the tip, assuring him that Sweeney would be there. He urged Major John into a trot.
Luke’s thoughts were still on Ned Sweeney and on clearing his name when he spied a lone wagon near the only tree of any size within miles. He drew his Colt.
Nothing moved, and he rode closer. No one would leave a wagon and team of horses in the middle of nowhere by choice. Then he spied tools on the ground that suggested someone had been fixing the wagon. But where had they gone? The hair tingling on the back of his neck was a warning. Could be an ambush.
Every nerve taut, he drew near and his mouth tightened in a thin line.
Bound and gagged, a woman slumped under the tree, her head sagging on her chest. She appeared to be dead. Her blue dress was covered with dried blood.
A noise alerted him and Luke swung around as two men scrambled toward cover.
“Stop where you are!” Luke ordered. When they kept running, he fired, but they jumped into a ravine, the bullet missing them.
Alert to the slightest movement and sound, he slowly dismounted with his gun drawn. The woman’s eyes suddenly flew open. She made muffled noises that he couldn’t make out through the gag in her mouth, but he did read her fear. As he strode toward her, she kicked her legs, defiance flashing from her eyes. She leaned her weight against the tree trunk, ready to kick the daylights out of him.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean you any harm.” He raised his hands as he advanced. Rage spread through him. Why would those men do this?
The bound woman showed no sign of calming.
“I only want to untie you. Nothing more.” He crept a little closer, and even though the two varmints were probably watching, he slid his Colt back into the holster. It was within easy reach. Maybe the woman would see him as no threat with it out of sight.
“If you’re going to hurt me, I won’t come closer. Nod if you agree not to kick.”
Several heartbeats passed. The woman finally nodded once, although fury flashed in her eyes as Luke knelt to remove the gag. Why level her wrath at him? He was trying to help.
When he took the obstruction from her mouth, she let loose. “Damn you! You better run, you bastard, because when I find my damn gun, I’m going to put a bullet right between your eyes.”
The language shocked him as much as the anger.
“Hey, lady, I don’t know what you think I’ve done—”
“What you’ve done? How about tying me up like a Christmas goose!” She released a string of cuss words.
“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. That wasn’t me. I’ve never seen you before.” Was she an escaped lunatic? Maybe he’d had it wrong and those two men he’d rode up on were taking her to the asylum. But then why would they run?
For a second, he was almost tempted to stuff the gag back into her mouth. Her withering glare could have stripped a layer of hide from his chest. “I was riding by, minding my own business, when I saw you,” he said hotly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all you got, lady.”
Unless he counted the two men who’d vanished into the ravine. Since he hadn’t seen any more of them, he figured they must’ve ridden away. He needed to decide what to do with her before they returned.
“I sure could use a drink of water, if you can spare some, handsome,” she said sweetly through gritted teeth. She blew a strand of hair the hue of a summer sun from her eyes.
The gesture reminded him that he hadn’t untied her. On second thought, he had some control leaving things as they were, but on the other hand, she could be hurt, in shock from blood loss. When he caught the quiver of her chin, he knew she wasn’t as rough as she appeared.
“I’ll get some water once I free you. Are you injured?”
“Everything hurts.” She stared down in a daze at her ruined skirt. “I don’t know where this blood came from.”
He quickly cut the ropes binding her arms and legs, then stalked to his horse, his long, black duster slapping against his legs, and jerked out his canteen. He returned and squatted next to her. “Take it slow.”
After drinking her fill, she handed it back. “Thanks.”
She looked at her hands with a stricken gaze, staring at a ring set with a small emerald. Then she glanced down at her dirty dress, paused at the long rip up one side, and began digging in the folds, probably for the gun she’d threatened him with before. Giving up her search, she leaned to touch her scuffed boots as though she’d never seen them before.
“My name’s Luke. What can I call you?”
“I’m…” She glanced up in anguish, putting a hand to her head. “My name is… It’s…” She stopped, her forehead wrinkling in clear confusion. She let out a sharp whimper. “I…I can’t remember. Oh God, I don’t know my name! Why can’t I remember? Wait. I have a ring. I’m married.” Her troubled eyes pierced him. “Are you my husband?”
If he was, he wouldn’t wait for her to shoot him; he’d do it himself. “No, ma’am. I’m one hundred percent certain you’re not my wife.” Correction. He upped the percent to a thousand.
Her lost, frightened look deepened. “Then you can’t…you can’t tell me who I am?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve never seen you before.” Luke had limited experience with lunatics. Not even the pretty kind with curves and long legs that could make a lonely man think about sultry nights and slow, rainy days.
Crazy or not, she was a looker. But then, lunacy didn’t always attack the ugly ones.
“I don’t know who I am.” Her voice was small and quiet, all the bluster gone.
It would be a hell of a thing to forget your name. Although he had—on purpose. Completely different.
“Maybe you can tell me how you got here and who those men were who tied you.”
“Men? I haven’t seen anyone except…” She frowned. “Once or twice, I sort of saw shadows in the darkness.”
“Two men ran from here when I rode up.”
Misery sharpened her features. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “I don’t know anything about them. I just don’t know anything about anything. I want to go home but I don’t know where that is. Where is my husband? Did he leave me here? Maybe…maybe I’m not married. Or…oh God, maybe…” A strangled sob rose as she clawed at the blood staining her dress, h
er eyes wild. “Maybe I killed him.”
After witnessing her scalding temper, the latter was entirely possible. Her dress bore witness to something bad. Luke touched her slender shoulder, wanting to offer some bit of comfort. With forced confidence, he stood. “I don’t believe you’re a killer and you shouldn’t either. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Who am I, then? Where did I come from? Maybe I’m a woman of ill repute.”
“Look at your clothes. They’re not the sort a loose woman would wear. Aside from the stains and rips on your dress, it’s nice—modest. I’d say you’ve been well cared for.”
Hearing a noise, Luke pulled his Colt and whirled. He scanned the area but saw no threat and returned the gun to his holster. “I’ve got to get you out of here, amiga, before those men come back. Can you walk to the tail end of the wagon?”
“I’m really woozy, but with your help I can.” But when she stood, she collapsed in his arms. “My legs are too numb. I can’t. And my head is splitting open.”
Luke lowered her back to the ground. “Just sit here a minute. I’ll keep watch.”
“Move, please,” she cried, hurling herself away from him.
He’d barely gotten clear before she spewed vomit. He reached for the canteen and wet his bandana, putting it on the back of her neck. He knelt, rubbing her back. At last, she emptied everything from her stomach and rose. Luke wet the bandana again and gently washed her face.
“Rinse your mouth, amiga.” He handed the canteen to the woman, who appeared at least five years younger than his thirty. “Do you mind if I feel your scalp for a lump? You have blood matted in your hair.”
A blow to the head appeared a logical conclusion. He’d once seen a man forget everything except how to pull on his boots after a wallop by a stout length of wood.
Though she felt poorly, the mystery lady rallied to shoot him a lethal stare. “Go ahead, but touch me anywhere else and you’ll regret it, mister.”
Lord, he already regretted a great many things where the morning was concerned.
“Not ‘mister.’ Luke,” he gently reminded her. “And you don’t have to worry.”
He slid his hand into the mass of honey-blond hair spilling onto her shoulders and down her back. He ignored the silk strands wrapping around his fingers and gently worked his way across her scalp.