“Poignant, dramatic, and packed with action and mystery.” —Addicted to Romance
One
Central Texas
Early Spring 1877
Deep in the Texas Hill Country, wind sighing through the draw whispered against his face, sharpening his senses to a fine edge. A warning skittered along his spine before it settled in his chest.
Texas Ranger Sam Legend had learned to listen to his gut. Right now it said the suffocating sense of danger that crowded him had killing in mind. He brought the spyglass up to his eye and focused on the rustlers below. All fifteen had covered their faces, leaving only their eyes showing.
Every crisp sound swept up the steep incline where he crouched in a stand of cedar to the right of an old gnarled oak. He’d hidden his horse a short distance away and prayed the animal stayed put.
“Hurry up with those beeves! We’ve gotta get the hell out of here. Rangers are so close I can smell ’em!” a rustler yelled.
Where were the other rangers? They hadn’t been separated long and should’ve caught up by now.
Letting the outlaws escape took everything he had. But there were too many for one man, and this bunch was far more ruthless than most.
He peered closer as they tried to drive the bawling cattle up the draw. But the ornery bovines seemed to be smarter. They broke away from the group, scattering this way and that. Sam allowed a grin. These rustlers were definitely no cattlemen.
A lawman learned to adjust quickly. His mind whirled as he searched for some kind of plan. One shot fired in the air would alert the other rangers to his position if they were near. But would they arrive before the outlaws got to him?
Or…no one would fault Sam for sitting quietly until the lawless group cleared out.
Except Sam. A Legend never ran from a fight. It wasn’t in his blood. He would ride straight through hell and come out the other side whenever a situation warranted. As a Texas Ranger, he’d made that ride many times over.
From his hiding place, he could start picking off the rustlers. With luck, Sam might get a handful before they surrounded him. Still, a few beat none. Maybe the rest would bolt. Slowly, he drew his Colt and prepared for the fight.
Though winter had just given way to spring, the hot sun bore down. Sweat trickled into his eyes, making them sting. He wiped away the sweat with an impatient hand.
“Make this count,” he whispered. He had only one chance. It was all or nothing.
The first shot ripped into a man’s shoulder. As the outlaw screamed, Sam quickly swung to the next target and caught the rider’s thigh. A third shot grazed another’s head.
Damn! The next man leaned from the saddle just as he’d squeezed the trigger.
Before he could discharge again, cold steel jabbed into his back, and a hand reached for his rifle and Colt. “Turn around real slow, mister.”
The order grated along Sam’s nerve endings and settled in his clenched stomach. He listened for any sounds to indicate his fellow rangers were nearby. If not, he was dead. He heard nothing except bawling steers and men yelling.
Sam slowly turned his head. Cold, dead eyes glared over the top of the rustler’s bandana.
“Well, whaddya know. Got me a bona-fide ranger.”
Though Sam couldn’t see the outlaw’s mouth, the words told him he wore a smile. “I’m not here alone. You won’t get away with this.”
“I call your bluff. No one’s firing at us but you.” The gun barrel poked harder into Sam’s back. “Down the hill.”
Sam could’ve managed without the shove. The soles of his worn boots provided no traction. Slipping and sliding down the steep embankment, he glanced for anything to suggest help had arrived, but saw nothing.
At the bottom, riders on horseback immediately surrounded him.
“Good job, Smith.” The outlaw pushing to the front had to be the ringleader. He dressed all in black, from his hat to his boots. “Let’s teach this Texas Ranger not to mess with us. I’ve got a special treat in mind. One of you, find his horse and get me a rope. Smith, march him back up the hill. The rest of you drive those damn cattle to the makeshift corral.”
The spit dried in Sam’s mouth as the man holding him bound his hands and pushed him up the steep incline, back toward the gnarled oak high on the ridge.
Any minute, the rangers would swoop in. Just a matter of time. Sam refused to believe that his life was going to end this way. Somehow, he had to stall until help arrived.
“Smith, do you know the punishment for killing a lawman?” Sam asked.
“Stop talkin’ and get movin’.”
“Are you willing to throw your life away for a man who doesn’t give two cents about you?”
“You don’t know nothin’ about nothin’, so shut up. One more word, an’ I’ll shoot you in the damn knee and drag you the rest of the way.”
Sam lapsed into silence. He could see Smith had closed his mind against anything he said. If he ran, he’d be lucky to make two strides before hot lead slammed into him. Even if he made it to the cover of a cedar, what then? He had no gun. No horse.
His best chance was to spin around and take Smith’s weapon.
But just as he started to make a move, the ringleader rode up beside on his horse and shouted, “Hurry up. Don’t have all day.”
Sharp disappointment flared, trapping Sam’s breath in his chest. His fate lay at the mercy of these outlaws.
They grew closer and closer to the twisted, bent oak branches that resembled witch’s fingers. Those limbs would reach for a man’s soul and snatch it at the moment of death.
Thick bitter gall climbed into his throat, choking him. The devil would soon find Sam had lost his soul a long time ago.
The steep angle of the hill made his breathing harsh. The climb hurt as much as his looming fate. He’d always thought a bullet would get him one day, but to die swinging from a tree had never crossed his mind.
As they reached the top, an outlaw appeared with Sam’s horse. The buckskin nickered softly, nuzzling Sam as though offering sympathy or maybe a last good-bye. He stroked the face of his faithful friend, murmuring a few quiet words of comfort. He’d raised Trooper from a foal and turned him into a lawman’s mount. Would it be too much to pray these rustlers treated Trooper well? The horse deserved kindness.
“Enough,” rasped the ringleader with an impatient motion of his .45. “Put him on the horse.”
Sam noticed a crude drawing between the man’s thumb and wrist—a black widow spider. Not that he could do anything with the information where he was going.
One last time, he scanned the landscape anxiously, hoping to glimpse riders, but saw only the branches of cedar, oak, and cottonwood trees swaying gently in the breeze. He strained against the ropes binding him, but they wouldn’t budge.
Panic so thick he could taste it lodged in his throat as they jerked him into the saddle. His heart pounded against his ribs. He sat straight and tall, not allowing so much as an eye twitch. These outlaws who thrived on violence would never earn the right to see the turmoil and fear twisting behind his stone face.
Advice his father had once given him sounded in his ears: When trouble comes, stand proud. You are a Legend. Inside you beats the heart of a survivor.
Sam Legend stared into the distance, a muscle working in his jaw.
The ringleader threw the rope up and over one of the gnarled branches.
Bitter regret rose. Sam had never told his father he loved him. The times they’d butted heads seemed trivial now. So did the fights with big brother Houston over things that didn’t make a hill of beans.
Yes, he was going to die with a heart full of regret, broken dreams, and empty promises.
The rope scratched, digging into his tender flesh as the outlaw settled the noose around Sam’s neck.
“You better find a hole and cli
mb into it, mister,” Sam said. “Every ranger and lawman in the state of Texas will be after you.”
A chuckle filled the air. “They won’t find us.”
“That wager’s going to cost you.” Sam steeled himself, wondering how long it took a man to die this way. He prayed it would be quick. He wondered if his mother would be waiting in heaven to soothe the pain.
“Say hello to the devil, Ranger.”
With those words, he slapped the horse’s flank. Trooper bolted, leaving Sam dangling in the air. The rope violently yanked his neck back and to the side as his body jerked.
Choking and fighting to breathe, Sam Legend counted his heartbeats until blackness claimed him. As he whirled away into nothingness, only one thing filled his mind—the vivid tattoo of a black widow spider on his killer’s hand.
Two
A month after Texas Ranger Sam Legend almost died, an ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled the windows and each unpainted board of the J. R. Simmons Mercantile. The ominous skies burst open, and rain pelted the ground in great sheets. A handful of people scattered like buckshot along the Waco boardwalk in an effort to escape the thorough drenching of a spring gully washer.
Sam paid the rain no mind. The storm barely registered—few things did, these days. The feeling of the rope around his neck was still overpowering. He reached to see if it was there, thankful not to find it.
The nightmare had him in its grip, refusing to let go. More dead than alive, he moved toward his destination. When he reached the alley separating the two sections of boardwalk, he collided with a woman covered in a hooded cloak.
“Apologies, ma’am.” He glanced down by rote, then blinked. All at once, the world and its color came rushing back as Sam stared into blue eyes so vivid they stole his breath.
A pocket of fog drifted between them. Was she just a dream? He could barely see her.
She nodded and gave him a smile for only a brief second. He reached out to touch her, to see if she was real, but only cold damp air met his fingertips.
The man beside her took her arm and jerked her into the alleyway.
“Hey there!” Sam called, startled. He’d been so focused on those blue eyes he hadn’t realized anyone else was there. “Ma’am, do you need help?”
He received no answer. Through the dense fog, he watched her companion force her toward a horse at the other end of the alley where a group of mounted riders waited. The hair on the back of his neck rose.
Intent on stopping whatever was happening, Sam lengthened his strides. Before he could reach them, the man threw her onto a horse, then swung up behind her. Within seconds, they disappeared, ghostly riders in the mist.
Sam stood in the driving rain, staring at the empty alley. It had all happened so fast he could hardly believe it.
Hell, maybe he’d imagined the whole thing. Maybe she’d never existed. Maybe the heavy downpour and gray gloom had messed with his mind…again. Ever since the hanging, he’d been seeing things that weren’t there. Twice now he’d yanked men around and grabbed for their hands, thinking he saw a black widow spider between their thumbs and forefingers. The last time almost got Sam shot. Folks claimed he was missing the top rung of his ladder and now, his captain was sending him home to find it.
Crippled. The word clanked around in his head, refusing to settle. But even though he had full use of his legs, that’s what he was at present. The cold fear washing over him had nothing to do with the air temperature or rain. What if he never recovered? Some never did.
His hand clenched. He’d fight like hell to be the whole man he once was. He had things to do—an outlaw to hunt down, a wrong to right—a promise to keep.
Sam squared his jaw and drew his coat tight against the wet chill, forcing himself to move on down the street toward the face-to-face with Captain O’Reilly. Again. It stuck in his craw that they thought him too crazed to do his job. The captain thought him a liability, a danger to the other rangers. Wanted him to take a break.
His heart couldn’t hurt any worse than if someone had stomped on it with a pair of hobnail boots. Maybe the captain was right. If he’d imagined that woman just now—and he really couldn’t be certain he hadn’t—then maybe he needed the break. Sam Legend, who had brought in notorious killers, bank robbers, prison escapees, and the like, had become a liability.
But one thing he knew he hadn’t imagined, and that was the blurred figure of Luke Weston standing over him when he’d regained consciousness that fateful day. There had been no mistaking those pale green eyes above the mask. They belonged to the outlaw he’d chased for over a year—he’d have staked his life on it.
When his fellow rangers had ridden up, Weston disappeared into the brush, leaving Sam with questions. Had Weston cut him down from the tree? Was he with the rustlers? And why had the outlaws left Trooper behind? Awful considerate of them.
So what the hell had happened, dammit?
Rangers who’d ridden up told Sam they’d seen no one. He’d laid on the ground with the rope loosened around his neck, drifting in and out of consciousness.
Those questions and others haunted him, and he wouldn’t rest until he got answers. Somehow he knew Weston was the key.
At ranger headquarters, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He pushed a mite too hard, banging the knob against the wall. Captain O’Reilly jerked up from his desk. “What the hell, Legend? Trying to wake the dead?”
“Sorry, Cap’n. It got away from me.” It seemed a good many things had, recently.
The tall, slender captain waved him to a chair. “I haven’t heard this much racket since the shoot-out inside that silo with the Arnie brothers down in Sweetwater.”
Sam removed his drenched hat, lowered into the chair, and stretched his long legs out in front of him. “I hope I can talk you out of your decision.”
O’Reilly sauntered to the potbellied stove in the corner and lifted the coffeepot. “What’s it been? A month?”
“An eternity,” Sam said quietly.
“Want a snort of coffee? Might improve your outlook.”
“I’ll take you up on your offer but doubt it’ll improve anything. I need this job, sir. I need to work.” Revenge burned hot. He’d not rest until he found the men who’d hung him, and when he did, they’d pay with their blood.
“What you need is some time off to get your head on straight. I can’t have you seeing things that aren’t there.” O’Reilly sighed. “You’re gonna get yourself or someone else killed. I’m ordering you to go home. Rest up, then come back ready to catch outlaws.”
“Finding the rustlers and catching Luke Weston is my first priority.”
“That wily outlaw has been taunting you for the last year.” O’Reilly’s eyes hardened as he handed Sam a tin cup. “It seems personal.”
“Hell yeah, it’s personal!”
Weston had been there. That much he knew for damn certain. The outlaw could have strung him up himself. Why else would Sam remember those green eyes, so pale they appeared silver?
In addition to that, and though it sounded rather trivial when compared to a hanging, Weston had taken Sam’s pocket watch during a stagecoach holdup a year ago. Sam tried to protect a payroll shipment, but Weston did the oddest thing. The outlaw took exactly fifty dollars, a paltry sum compared to what remained in the strongbox, and left the passengers’ belongings untouched. He did, however, seem to take particular delight in pocketing Sam’s prized timepiece. The way the wily outlaw singled Sam out was downright eerie. Weston knew exactly where to find the treasured keepsake. No rifling his pockets. No fumbling. No uncertainty. Memories of how Weston had flipped it open and stared intently at the inscription for almost a full minute before tucking it away drifted through Sam’s mind.
“Makes me mad enough to chew nails.” The thought filled Sam’s head with so many cuss words he feared it would burst open.
“I just about had him the last time.” And now the captain was forcing him to take time off. Sam would lose every bit of ground he’d gained.
Luke Weston had led him on a chase this past year from one end of Texas to the other. To this day, other than a vague outline of his figure, Sam had yet to glimpse anything solid except a pair of cold, pale green eyes glaring over the top of a bandana. Eyes that only held contempt and anger. Except for this last time, when they’d seemed to hold concern. But maybe he’d imagined that.
Damn! He really didn’t know what was real and what wasn’t anymore.
Maybe the captain was right.
Reaching for a poster that lay atop a pile on his desk, Captain O’Reilly passed it to Sam. “Got this yesterday.” Bold lettering at the top of the page screamed: WANTED! $1,000 reward for capture and conviction of notorious outlaw Luke Weston. Sought for robbery and murder. Armed and considered extremely dangerous.
The murder charge was new since the last poster Sam had seen. The reward had been only two hundred dollars then. He stared at the thick paper and narrowed his eyes, wondering whose fate had intersected with Luke Weston’s.
“Who did he kill?”
O’Reilly’s face darkened. “Federal judge. Edgar Percival.”
“Stands to reason Weston would turn to outright murder eventually. Seems every month he’s involved in a gunfight with someone, though folks say they were all men who needed killing.”
And yet the new charge did shock Sam. He’d come to know Weston pretty well. A period of four months separated all of the outlaw’s robberies, with only fifty dollars taken each time. And in every single instance, Weston had never shot anyone. Maybe he robbed out of boredom…or to taunt Sam.
“A bad seed.” The ranger captain’s chair squeaked when he leaned forward. “Some men are born killers.”
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