Summer Chaparral

by Genevieve Turner

  “When? I would have told you how foolish such a promise was, if I’d heard you make it.”

  “It was a silent one,” he admitted. “I just wanted to prove to you—to all of you—that I wasn’t like them. My uncle, my grandfather—”

  She tapped his belly to stop him. “You already proved that by searching so hard for this outlaw. Among other things—such as apologizing to my father, my mother—and to me.”

  His swallow echoed as his arms tightened around her. “I still wish I could have found him. But I’m no lawman, I’ve no idea of these…”

  “What?” she asked after a few moments.

  “I’m not a lawman,” he said slowly, “but my father is.”

  She raised up on elbow to frown down at him. “What could he do?”

  “As a judge,” he said musingly, “he could send a marshal.”

  A federal marshal. That was certainly a cut above a county sheriff. “But would he?” The judge might not stir himself for a wounded greaser sheriff.

  Jace raised his eyebrows in a kind of shrug. “Just have to ask and find out.”

  “You mean, write a letter?” she said wryly.

  His mouth twisted. “I don’t even know what I would write.”

  She set her hand on his wrist, the bones there thick, strong. “I’ll help you.”

  When he nodded, her heart swelled until it ached, so full of pride was she that he was finally setting aside his own pride. She knew how difficult such a thing could be.

  She went for her lap desk and settled it across his legs. He fiddled with the drawers for a few moments. “I’ll make you a nicer one than this,” he said.

  “Later.” She tapped the desk to bring him back to his task. “Now you have a letter to write.”

  His blue gaze met hers. “I won’t mention your mother. Not ever.”

  “I already knew that.”

  He frowned down at the paper. “I… How do I start?”

  She searched for the words—it must be conciliatory, but not supplicating, a proper representation of the man writing now—not the boy he’d been. “‘Dear Father, I regret the estrangement that has led to this letter being so long in coming.’”

  He cocked an eyebrow.

  “Well, sometimes you have to be the first to apologize,” she said, “even if you don’t mean it. To start things rolling.”

  He grew solemn. “I am sorry—for lying to you, for the awful word, for not… for not being the husband you wanted.”

  Ah, that ache… if her husband kept at this, her heart might split down the middle. She pressed her lips against his. “I forgive you. And I apologize for my own mistakes. I should have worked harder at getting my family to welcome you. They…” She shook her head. “It will take time, but they’re coming around. You’re one of us now.”

  His eyes were hesitant. “And you? Are you coming around?”

  She stilled. It was one thing to admit that her family’s affection for him was growing—but what she felt went far beyond affection. If she offered him her heart and he did not give his in return… Her vanity hissed in her ear to stop this, to put on one of her familiar masks: the flirt, the drudge, the dutiful wife, anything but to risk herself.

  She told her vanity to quiet down.

  He’s writing that letter. Searched for your sister’s attacker. Apologized to you.

  He is yours and you are his—and you must tell him so.

  “I love you.” Clear and strong.

  She waited for his response, his face so still, and then he said something she’d never expected.

  “Te amo.”

  “¿Qué?” she blurted out unthinkingly.

  His cheeks went the most charming shade of red. “Te amo,” he mumbled again.

  She threw her arms around him, laughing as she chanted back, “I love you, I love you, I love you,” her heart keeping time with it. She rubbed her face into that dear neck. “I thought you didn’t speak Spanish,” she teased.

  “Felipe taught me some. When I asked.”

  With his red cheeks and sheepish tone, she had to laugh again. “Lord, the conversations the two of you must have had.” She pushed herself into a sitting position. “But you need to finish this letter.”

  They went back and forth, devising lines, thinking up phrases, as Jace asked after his father’s health, his sisters’ health, and told of his ranch. And his wife.

  Finally, they came to the assault on Isabel.

  Jace tapped the pen against his lips. “My sister-in-law,” he read, “and her fiancé were attacked by a man named… What was his name again?”

  She raised her eyes to the ceiling as she tried to recall. “Mmm, Cole McCade, I think it was.”

  Her husband set that down, closed the letter by wishing his father well—but not inviting him for a visit—then folded it and slid it into the envelope. He stared at it for a moment. “This wasn’t the letter I wanted to send.” He tapped a forefinger against it, a dark spot of ink marking his finger.

  She rummaged in her sodden clothes and found his handkerchief, the blue initials bright in the still-damp linen. She rubbed at the spot on his finger, washing away the black. “This is better than the one you wanted to send. Writing to him doesn’t mean you’re like the rest of them or that they’ve won.” She dabbed one last time. “It simply means you’re the better man.”

  He caught her hand, rubbed his thumb over her wrist. “I thought that to escape them, I’d have to leave them behind forever. To always remain on my own. But I can’t do this without you.”

  And that was it—her heart must have split, so full was it. She kissed him then, slow and deep, the lap desk with its letter still between them. “I can’t do this without you either. And I wouldn’t want to.”

  He set the desk aside, then pulled her into the circle of his arms.

  The rain continued outside, but less fierce. A gentle shower, rather than a battering storm.

  His fingertips trailed along her arm, as if a map were written on her skin and he were tracing out a long-dreamed-of journey.

  “We’ll have to tell the family that I found you safe and sound,” she said after a time.

  “Mmm,” he said. “And mail that letter.”

  “When the rain stops,” she said. “And the dawn comes.”

  “Yes,” he answered. “When the dawn comes.”

  Epilogue

  “I don’t understand,” his wife said to Jace. “Coming down that road has never made me sick before.”

  He peered closely at her, sitting next to him on the wagon seat as they rode into the valley. She was less green now, but still a little peaked. “Well, there’s a first time for everything. Hopefully you won’t be sick on the way back.”

  She pressed her hands to her cheeks before adjusting her hat. “It’s so odd. I hope I haven’t caught a cold. Do you think the mercantile will have any oranges?”

  His heart sank. “It’s too soon for oranges. Did you dream about them last night?”

  “Yes. And the night before that.”

  Queerest damn thing, for her to crave oranges so badly she dreamed of them. He didn’t understand it at all.

  They split up to accomplish their errands, meeting an hour later in front of the post office.

  “I got you this,” he called to her when she appeared from around the corner.

  She snatched it out of his hands, giving a happy gasp. “Oh, a Burpee’s catalog. I can plan next year’s garden with this.”

  It had been the impulse of a moment to snatch the catalog. He ought to listen to his impulses more often, given her pleased response.

  As she thumbed through her prize, he set his hat back on his head. “It’s too hot down here.”

  “Yes,” she said absently, lost among the vegetables. “I’ll be glad to get back home.”

  Home. Yes, he’d be glad to get back as well. He was grateful for every endless switchback of that road, now that he knew where it led.

  “Merrill!”


  Jace turned and saw John Gries, Marcus’s brother, raising his hand in greeting.

  He raised his own, then clasped John’s hand warmly. He’d met the man two weeks ago when he’d come to visit the Gries’s newest addition. Jace would be giving John a few head of cattle come spring in exchange for some seedlings for Catarina’s orchard.

  “How are you, John? Keeping cool in this heat?”

  John laughed heartily. “You’ve been on that mountain too long,” he boomed. “It’s plenty cool for October.”

  “John,” Catarina said fondly, holding out her hand. “I’m so happy we could see you.”

  “How is everyone on the hill?” John asked.

  “Oh, Laura and Marcus brought by the baby last week,” Catarina said. “She’s simply the most beautiful creature I’ve ever seen.”

  “We Gries can make some fine children. And this business with Isabel and Obregon?”

  Catarina’s smile dropped. “Isabel is at home. Obregon’s improving, or so I hear. He’s at the sanatorium now, so we don’t get much news of him.”

  “Thank God he’s improving,” John replied with fervor. “No man wants to be crippled up like that. And what of the bastard that did it? Any sign of him?”

  Jace clenched his jaw and shook his head. For all that Catarina kept insisting it didn’t matter, this loose outlaw still rankled him. “I don’t think we’re ever going to find the son of a bitch. Every man on that hill’s been searching when he can, but we’ve all of us got to prepare for winter. We can’t let our families and stock starve because we’ve been chasing a ghost from one end of the ranges to the other. There’s a new sheriff, but he doesn’t seem too interested in finding the man.”

  John raised an eyebrow in commiseration. “I don’t think anyone’s happy with our new sheriff.”

  The whistle of the train sliding into the depot had them all turning to stare.

  “Train from Los Angeles,” John murmured.

  “I wonder if the mail’s coming in with it,” Jace said. It’d been three weeks since he’d sent that letter, asking his pa for help. Three weeks without an answer. He knew the old man would be angry with him, but he didn’t think he’d ignore an appeal for justice. Apparently, his pa had changed in the last thirteen years.

  The last, best chance Jace had to keep his promise wasn’t so promising now.

  “I’m going to head over and see if the mail’s come in,” he said to John, shaking his hand. “It was good seeing you.”

  Catarina waved a farewell. “We’ll let Marcus know you’re well.”

  The soft scream of metal on metal slowly faded as the train halted. No one would bother to get off; this stop wasn’t too popular with the sightseers from Los Angeles. He looked down the line of carriages. No mail car either.

  Damn.

  But surprisingly enough, someone did get off the train. A man, dressed in a well-fitting black suit, his elegance entirely at odds with the dusty little depot, made his way down the steps to the depot platform. A wide-brimmed black hat shaded his face from view, but the steady power in his step, along with the gun strapped to his thigh, marked him as a man not to be trifled with. Given he was almost a full head taller than Jace, he wouldn’t have been quick to cross him anyway.

  The man assessed his surroundings. His gaze stopped on the two of them for a moment, then continued to take in the entire town. Once he’d seen everything he wanted to, his gaze swung back to Jace and he headed over. Sunlight caught at something pinned to his chest.

  “Mr. Bannister?” His voice was cultured, but Jace sensed a hint of savagery under it. Something about that voice made a memory ring deep within him.

  “It’s Merrill now, actually. Who wants to know?”

  Catarina crowded closer to him. Jace didn’t think they were in any danger, but it was reassuring to have her near.

  “Ah, Mr. Merrill.” He betrayed no reaction beyond a single blink. “You don’t remember me, then.” He held out his hand. “I’m Sebastian Spencer.”

  Sebastian Spencer. Now he placed him; Spencer’s pa was another judge in Los Angeles. Jace had crossed paths with him a few times when they were boys.

  He shook hands. “What brings you here?”

  “Your father didn’t tell you?”

  The metal on his chest flashed again, and Jace finally saw what it was.

  A US Marshal’s badge.

  “Your father sent me,” Spencer continued. “I’m here to find your outlaw.”

  Thank You!

  Thanks for reading Summer Chaparral—I hoped you enjoyed it! If you’re so inclined, please leave a review. Reviews help other readers find books.

  * * *

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  For a sneak peek at Autumn Sage, turn the page!

  Autumn Sage

  * * *

  This marshal will protect his witness from everything—including his own wounded soul.

  * * *

  US Marshal Sebastian Spencer is as coldly determined as the criminals he tracks. He’s spent years perfecting his iron control because when he unbends, things break and people bleed. But no one has ever tempted him to unbend as much as the witness in his latest case: a woman he could never think of having.

  * * *

  Isabel Moreno wants her life back, though that’s impossible when the outlaw who attacked her remains on the loose. She agrees to help with the hunt for the fugitive, even though the marshal is the most unsettling, and intriguing, man she’s ever met.

  * * *

  When more than just one outlaw threatens Isabel, Sebastian must keep her closer than ever, closer than he’s let any woman come—and the most dangerous threat of all might be to their hearts.

  * * *

  Autumn Sage is now available!

  Excerpt from Autumn Sage

  San Jacinto Mountains, California

  Autumn, 1898

  Seeing the place again wasn’t quite as horrid as Isabel thought it would be.

  Lead settled in her stomach at the sight of those sickeningly familiar pines. Her skin went clammy, but the shivers she feared might take hold she kept at bay. For now.

  Those pines. They came from behind those pines, closer and closer, hands set on their pistols…

  She shook off the images—or tried to. Perhaps she couldn’t keep from remembering, but she was still upright. A small victory.

  Marshal Spencer stood looking around him, his black suit once again completely untouched by the dust and grime that surrounded everyone else. He looked like an illustration come to life—Modern Urban Man.

  He stuck his hands on his hips. Her stomach dropped at the sight of his hands so close to those pistols.

  He’s not here to hurt you.

  “So this is the place.” He didn’t seem to expect an answer, so she kept silent. He slowly turned round and round, eyes narrow as he took in the road and the brush and the pines.

  It really was a very ordinary stretch of road.

  But to tell the story here, all those memories pressing hard upon her…

  Lord, it would be like flaying herself to tell it here.

  “They came from behind those trees?” Marshal Spencer gestured to the stand of pines.

  She straightened and drew a deep breath. “Yes.”

  “McCade fires,” the marshal said to himself, “but he misses.”

  “No, he hit the horse.”

  He turned a gimlet stare upon her. “You didn’t mention the horse last time.”

  No, she hadn’t. When she’d told the sheriff, he’d gasped at the death of the horse, but had barely flinched when she told of Joaquin’s wounding.

  She hadn’t mentioned the horse again.

  And now she must recite all those piercing details, the ones she’d been able to avoid before.

  She jerked her gaze away and began to stride down the road, unconcerned with his reaction. She dragged deep breaths into her lungs. In,
out. In, out. The tide of her breath began to slowly erode the panic within.

  She kept walking. Just a few more feet and she’d turn back, once she’d regained complete command of herself.

  Something down the road caught her attention. A thin ribbon of red, growing larger, coming as fast as a man ran.

  Her breath arrested in her chest.

  The snake stopped. Its red length was half as long as herself, the gray head raised to study her.

  She held still as could be, fear soaking her as she willed the snake to turn back.

  A large arm curled around her waist, an electric shock running through her. Caught between that arm and a hard wall of chest, with warm breath brushing her ear.

  “Is that snake poisonous?”

  She gave an abrupt shake of her head, bumping against his chin. A red racer’s bite wasn’t fatal, but they were famed for their aggression. From the edge of her vision, she saw him slowly lower the pistol she hadn’t realized he’d drawn.

  “We’ll simply wait him out.” His arm around her never slackened.

  The snake’s head weaved as it assessed them with flat black eyes.

  Suddenly she saw his eyes again—McCade’s. Not black like the snake’s, but just as flat and pitiless. Saw the buckwheat blossoms explode into a cloud of blood red when his hands brushed past them, reaching for her throat…

  The tremors broke free, shaking her like a dog did a rabbit. She gritted her teeth and wrapped her arms around her ribs, trying to push the quaking back inside, but it was too late.

  The tremors had hold of her, and she could only ride them out.

  Marshal Spencer pulled her tight against him, absorbing the violence as if it were nothing. As if he could take in all her fear and pain, swallow it whole, and leave her free and intact again.