To Love a Texas Ranger

by Linda Broday

  “Nope, but I intend to find out.” He sighed. “My father took charge as usual.”

  “He seems to have a good heart. I think he only tries to do what’s best.”

  “That’s the problem. What’s best for Stoker might not be right for me. Or Luke.”

  Hector looked up and said something in Spanish.

  Sam grinned. “The boy needs to take care of personal needs. I’ll show him where to go, then bring him to your room. How’s that?”

  Those rows of white teeth set off in his tanned face made her stomach flutter wildly. Unable to speak, she simply nodded.

  Throwing his arms around Sierra, Hector smiled up at her and said something. She glanced at Sam.

  “I think he said not to go anywhere.”

  As though she could. She bent to kiss the boy’s forehead.

  In the hallway, Sam and Hector headed to the water closet at the end. Sierra stood for a moment, watching the man with a horrible scar around his neck take the hand of the frightened little orphan. The way Sam held those small fingers spoke of great tenderness. Her eyes misted.

  For a moment, she wasn’t sure who was helping whom.

  * * *

  Sam searched all the obvious places but found no sign of Luke. Nor could anyone shed light on who had taken charge of the outlaw, or where they’d taken him.

  Luke Weston seemed to have vanished. Hell and be damned!

  The outlaw’s words echoed in Sam’s head. This may not turn out the way you expect, Legend. It appeared he’d made good on the thinly veiled warning. Sam muttered an oath. He must’ve walked several miles, scouring the buildings around the compound.

  Just dandy! What else?

  The talk with his father loomed. They had things to get out into the open. Sam’s broken promise to only serve as a ranger for two years for starters. How could he make his father finally see that he could never, ever be the rancher son Stoker wanted? That being a Texas Ranger was the only thing that fulfilled him and brought peace to his soul?

  Then, the hanging. Dear God, how was he supposed to tell his father about that?

  With a knot in his gut, he swung toward the house. When he spied Sierra coming from one of the group’s new lodgings, he stopped in his tracks. Hector skipped happily beside her. Sam stepped into the deep shadows.

  Caught in the sun’s dying rays, the white light arcing around her, she looked like an angel in blue.

  An angel with a broken wing.

  Though she’d claimed to have been holding back a sneeze, he recognized a sob when he heard one. She’d been a million miles away. Back in the mountains, he’d guess, reliving a horror of some sort. Over their days on the trail, he’d seen something powerful bad eating at her. Whatever it was went beyond fear of water. The mention of her father saying that everyone she touched died…

  A woman wouldn’t get that sort of thing out of her head.

  Sierra’s angry response that no one could fix her had come from a deep, dark place inside.

  His admiring gaze followed her trim figure and the easy motion in which she strolled. He’d forgotten to tell her earlier how pretty she looked in the new blue dress. Or how her hair shone all clean, smelling of a field of daisies in the morning dew.

  Her lips and the memory of kisses he still hungered for had erased the words from his head. Just as well, because no words had yet been thought of that could do justice to her.

  Once she went inside the big house, Sam moved from the shadows. He might as well give up. It was only thirty minutes until supper, and Stoker would expect him at the table whether he wished to be or not.

  Houston caught him minutes later as he went through the door. “How about a drink before supper? You can tell me about this Ford gang.”

  “I can use a shot of something strong.” Sam followed his brother into their father’s study and lowered himself onto a sofa upholstered in cowhide.

  “How’s your arm?” Houston flung over his shoulder.

  “Sore. It’s nothing.”

  Houston filled a tumbler with two fingers of whiskey and handed it to Sam. “How long has this Ford bunch been trailing you?”

  “From the moment we got off the train.” Sam took a sip, hoping the liquid fire would burn away the ache inside.

  “They seem mighty determined to get Sierra.”

  “Yep. But then they also have six hundred and fifty other reasons. Something tells me if they don’t get that loot back, they’re dead.” Sam told him about the telegram they found with the money. Ford was a desperate man, and he was out there waiting for them to make a mistake.

  Houston poured a generous amount in another glass and sat next to Sam. “Why do they want Sierra so badly?”

  “The crazy fools think she has some sort of map that doesn’t exist. It’s only a matter of time before they try to take her from here.”

  “Let ’em come. Be the biggest mistake they ever made.” Houston tossed back his drink. “Who the hell tried to hang you?”

  “Rather not talk about it.” Sam turned his glass up and didn’t flinch as the amber liquid burned all the way down. “Having enough nightmares.”

  Some so strong they strangled him just like that rope. He hadn’t gotten a full night’s sleep since it happened. He’d jerk awake, drenched with sweat, fighting the vomit in his throat. No, he didn’t want to talk about that.

  “You know Pa will force the issue.”

  Sam glanced up. “Time enough then to do the telling.”

  Standing, Houston walked to the huge oak desk and slammed down his glass. “Damn it, Sam. I can’t imagine what that was like.” He turned. “You’re a lot tougher than me. Always were.”

  Forcing a careless shrug, Sam said quietly, “You taught me everything I know, big brother.”

  Stoker stuck his head in the doorway. “Thought I’d find you two in here. Time to eat. I feel like celebrating.”

  Sam didn’t rise until his father’s footsteps continued on to the dining room. Maybe it was out of rebellion, to prove to himself he wasn’t at his father’s beck and call. He was too tired to figure it out.

  Finally he glanced at Houston. “The prodigal has returned. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.”

  “Yep.”

  Shoulder to shoulder, they strode from the room—two brothers who’d fought hard side by side all their lives. And would do so again. No matter what trouble the wind blew their way, they’d face it as they always had—head-on and warning it to take its best shot.

  Sam froze when he stepped through the double doors. Shock, then anger swept through him.

  Looking spit-shined and very pleased with himself sat Luke Weston.

  Twenty-two

  When Sam pried his back teeth loose, he roared, “What the hell, Weston? When I said you couldn’t leave, I wasn’t inviting you to our table. Why are you sitting there like you belong?”

  Luke lifted one eyebrow and gave him a lazy grin.

  “I invited him,” Stoker’s voice boomed as he rose from his seat, daring Sam to usurp his authority.

  That piercing stare sharpened to a jagged knifepoint, and meeting it took everything Sam had. But he didn’t back down. Not this time. This concerned his job, his livelihood, his right to arrest lawbreakers and hold them accountable. “Do you know the price he has on his head?”

  “I do. Take a seat, son. In this house, we behave in a civilized manner.” Stoker dropped into his chair and took a large platter of meat from Cook. “For tonight, Mr. Weston is a guest. My thanks for helping you get here. And from what I heard, it took you both.”

  Houston leaned closer. “Smile, it won’t be that bad.”

  His brother sat down at the end while Sam took the place directly opposite the wanted man. He propped his elbows on the table and met Luke’s glare. No telling what he’d told Stoker. Anyth
ing to gain his father’s favor, he was sure.

  “Luke was shot trying to protect us, sir,” Sierra said. “He almost died.”

  For the first time, Sam realized she sat at his right. Still seething, he swung his attention her way and immediately forgot about Weston. His heart leaped at the sight. Her upswept hair lent quiet elegance and left her slender neck bare. A neck he’d nuzzled and left a trail of kisses down while on his way to other places.

  The blue of her dress provided a contrast to her dark beauty. The woman who’d come from the mountains with nothing could easily fit into high society if she chose. Or beside a campfire next to the swollen Brazos.

  She could fit anywhere but in his heart.

  No—he rephrased that. She already occupied that place. It was his life that seemed to be the problem.

  “You’re quite a sight, Miss Sierra. Don’t think I’ve seen a prettier woman.” He lifted her hand to his mouth.

  With the scent of her brushing against him like a whispered caress, he had trouble getting words to his brain. It was all he could do to keep from scooping her into his arms and carrying her upstairs to his bed.

  A pretty blush colored her cheeks. “Thank you, Sam. You look quite different as well.”

  “You mean clothes free of blood?”

  “That too, but what I meant was how they fit…so well.”

  When he released her hand, she folded it in her lap and sent an anxious glance around. He realized she didn’t know what to do. She’d probably never dined in such a setting with so much silverware.

  He leaned close to whisper, “Watch me.” He put his napkin in his lap.

  Color crawled up her neck. “Thanks.”

  Stoker forked a slab of meat onto his plate and held the platter while Luke got a piece.

  The help made sense with the injury limiting the weight the outlaw could lift, but the way Stoker treated the common criminal like royalty ate at Sam. He seemed intent to throw Luke Weston in Sam’s face.

  Stoker handed the platter off to Sierra on his left. “Doc Jenkins looked at Weston’s wound. He reports you did an excellent job of getting that bullet out and keeping the wound clean, Miss Sierra.”

  “Thank you, sir.” She laughed. “He wasn’t the easiest patient. Sam helped, of course, and told me about the gunpowder for a poultice. I think that might’ve saved Luke.”

  “I’d vouch for you any day, dulce,” Luke said with a grin.

  Houston drank from his wine glass. “You can’t beat a ringing testament. We’re glad to have you with us, Miss Sierra. My Becky would love to meet you. I’ll bet you two will become fast friends.”

  Sierra smiled. “I’m not sure how long I’ll be here, but I’d love to meet her.”

  “Weston, is that steak to your liking?” Stoker leaned forward. “If not, Cook can char up another one.”

  “It’s perfect.” The gloating look Luke shot Sam made his blood boil.

  The meal seemed to be turning into a welcome for the outlaw hero. And if Stoker were to learn that Luke Weston saved Sam’s life at the hanging, no telling how big of an affair he’d throw. Sam spied a glass of dark wine in front of him, lifted it, and came near to draining the thing before he realized the spectacle he made.

  Lost in reflection, Sam glanced up when silverware tapped the side of a glass. Stoker stood, lifting his glass high. “To my son. You make me proud. The name Legend stands for toughness, loyalty, and cussed stubbornness. You have all three in spades, Sam.” His father’s voice broke. “Everyone eat up.”

  “Before you do, I second everything Pa said.” Houston lifted his glass. “To Sam, the best brother I could ever have.”

  Overcome, Sam couldn’t swallow. When his eyes met his brother’s, Houston nodded. Damn, he was glad to be home.

  When he set down his glass, he noticed Luke’s grim expression. The outlaw wore a look of deep sadness and longing. Sam wondered if he was thinking about his family, maybe missing them. He was ashamed that he hadn’t taken time to find out more about Weston’s mother or where his father was. Maybe he had uncles and aunts somewhere. He realized he knew very little about the man he’d chased for so long.

  “That was real nice, Sam,” Sierra said softly, covering his hand with hers. “Your father loves you, no doubt about that.”

  Sam looked up to see Stoker disappearing with Cook—some matter in the kitchen no doubt.

  “So it does appear.” He took the platter of meat, stabbed his fork into a thick steak, and selected a smaller one for Sierra. “You got your wish, Weston.”

  “Not by a long shot. But you’ll have to tell me which one you’re talking about.”

  “You got to meet the king. What do you think of Stoker Legend?”

  “Is this a trick question, Ranger? Off to the dungeon if I answer wrong?”

  “Nope.”

  “He’s big. Powerful. I can see why some might get tongue-tied coming face-to-face with him.”

  “You’d be surprised how many do,” Houston said, laughing.

  Sam reached for a bowl of potatoes. “But not you, I take it, Weston?”

  Weston’s eyes became hooded, blocking Sam from seeing his thoughts. “He might have more than most by half, but he’s just a man. He bleeds like the rest of us.”

  The door opened, and Stoker reemerged with a bottle of his best bourbon that he reserved for special occasions. He started around the table, filling glasses.

  A glance at the baffling man—a constant surprise these days—filled Sam with pride. “Yes, he does. What about your father, Weston?”

  Luke forked a bite of meat into his mouth. “Never knew him. Didn’t even know his name until two years ago. I always figured I was a spawn of the devil. At least that’s what folks used to claim.”

  “How mean,” Sierra exclaimed. “Your life apparently wasn’t easy either.”

  With a shrug, Luke took a sip of wine. “It is what it is. No changing the hand you’re dealt. Just have to limit your wagers.”

  “A gambling man, Weston?” Houston asked.

  “Always.” The outlaw’s face hardened.

  “Me too,” Sam said. He was betting Weston would find his bed extremely hard. He turned to Sierra. “Is your room to your liking?”

  The tiny scar above her lip disappeared with her wide smile. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  “Quite different from a bedroll on the ground,” he agreed. “I’ll ask around tomorrow about that job.”

  “Thank you. I have to find something to busy myself with, or I’ll go out of my mind with worry about Rocky.”

  “About that—I’ll set the wheels in motion come morning.”

  She clutched at his arm, and the warmth of her hand burned through his shirt. “Please don’t ride out again so soon.”

  Her concern for him brought a smile. “Pa would send men after me with orders to kill if I tried to leave this soon.”

  Stoker pointed his fork at Sam. “That’s for damn sure, son. I’m thinking of hiding your horse. But then, you’d just find another. Miss Sierra, apologies again for the strong language. I think what my son meant was that he’d start burning up this telegraph line I put in and see what he can learn.”

  Blinking hard, she murmured, “That would be wonderful, sir. I’m very afraid for my brother. I hope we can find him.”

  “If anyone can track him down, it will be Sam.” Pride filled Stoker’s voice.

  “Thanks, Pa.” Sam reached for his glass newly filled with bourbon. “I’ll do my best. If he’s in Texas, someone knows something. A reward might sweeten the deal and pry some tongues loose.”

  “Only I don’t have a cent to my name,” Sierra murmured.

  “Nope, but Pa does.”

  “Great idea, son.” Stoker shot Sam a glance. “Just tell me what the going rate is.”

 
; “I don’t deserve all this,” Sierra murmured. “My life changed when I fell into your lap on the train.”

  So did mine, Sam realized. Even though they would part when they left the Lone Star, he’d never forget the sweetness of her kisses after walking around dead for so long.

  “I had to be there so I could help you.” He tipped up his glass and drained it. “Would you like more potatoes or green beans? There’s plenty.”

  “No thanks. I’ll do well to eat what I have.”

  Sam studied her. No one would guess that her blue dress and fancy hair hid an untamed woman who’d danced in the firelight to the strum of a guitar. “After supper, we usually sit on the porch. Would you care to join us?”

  “If you’re sure I’m welcome.” Uncertainty lined her face.

  “You’re always welcome.” Sam winced at his husky tone.

  Across the table, Luke Weston wiped his mouth on his napkin and sat back, nursing his glass of whiskey. His eyes glittered as he shot daggers at Stoker. Sam could feel the anger strangling him. Words an old ranger once told him came back: “If you really want to know a man, find out what makes him mad.” Weston seemed to hold a grudge of some sort against Stoker. Sam recalled their conversation at the shack and then after and Weston’s sarcastic comments about the ranch.

  Until Sam knew what had brought about the angry words, he would never truly know the outlaw.

  Why did he care so much about learning what made Luke tick? Maybe because of all the life-and-death moments they’d shared. Like it or not, an unbreakable bond had formed between them. He just hadn’t considered fully how deep it ran.

  The rest of the meal passed with only the clank of the silverware and the ticking of a tall grandfather clock in the corner.

  At last Stoker pushed back his chair and rose. “I trust you will all sleep well.”

  Sadly, Sam watched his father collect another bottle of bourbon and head upstairs. Damn. It was going to be another one of those nights when Stoker would fight his demons the only way he knew how.