The Taming of Shaw MacCade
Historical Romance
by
Judith French
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ISBN: 978-1-64457-008-1
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Table of Contents
Cover
Dedication
Acknowledgement
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Epilogue
Meet the Author
Dedication
For my grandson, Ry Culver.
Acknowledgement
With special thanks to my wonderful editors, Shauna Summers and Charlotte Herscher, and to my agent, Joyce A. Flaherty.
"Oh, young Lochinvar is come out of the West, Through all the wide Border his steed was the best."
—Sir Walter Scott
Chapter 1
Angel Crossing, Missouri May 1849
Rebecca Raeburn suppressed a shiver of apprehension as the image of a tall figure on horseback materialized in the ghostly twilight. Silently, the big man leading a string of pack animals rode out of the west toward her. The spectral thud of hooves and the creaking of leather harness were faintly audible, muffled and eerily distorted by the thick clouds of mist rising off the Little Smoke River.
Instinctively, Rebecca's fingers closed around the heavy pistol that she always carried in the deep pocket of her canvas skirt. She wasn't a coward, and she wasn't given to flights of womanly fancy. She'd ferried passengers—red, white, and brown—across the Little Smoke River for more than a decade. Never once had she come to harm. And oddly enough, she was rarely disturbed by keeping company with even the roughest folk—until now.
She'd transported her last fares of the day, three men bound for the gold fields of California, across the water not more than a quarter hour ago. She would have been half way home if she hadn't stopped to check her fish trap in the eddy near the ferry mooring.
An owl hooted.
Gooseflesh raised on Rebecca's arms as she stared hard into the swirling fog. The Indians claimed that an owl calling before full dark meant bad luck. Not that she was superstitious. She wasn't; at least she'd told herself she wasn't. But where was the man she'd glimpsed?
For long seconds, perhaps minutes, she waited. She heard nothing but the rush of the rising river, saw not the slightest movement through the trees. Then, abruptly, a stranger materialized only a few yards from the ferry.
"Evenin'," she called, masking her nervousness with a bold greeting. "You want the ferry?" Rebecca wasn't certain how many pack animals he was leading, and each one added to the fare. "A dollar for you and your beasts!"
His reply came quick and gruff. "Cost is dear."
"You're more than welcome to swim," she answered, gathering courage from the familiar dickering over the cost of passage. Lord but he'd startled her. A great stretch of a man, he was, all broad shouldered and shaggy bearded, with crow-black hair as long as an Indian's.
The stock of a rifle poked out from a saddle holster, and a razor-sharp tomahawk was strapped to the horn. A mountain man or maybe a buffalo hunter, she speculated. His hunting shirt was fringed and beaded. Some Indian woman had taken weeks, perhaps months, to tan, stitch, and adorn his buckskin clothing.
Rebecca tried again to make out his features under the wide-brimmed hat he wore, but it was simply too dark to see clearly. The prickling sensation along the nape of her neck increased until it was impossible to ignore.
She swallowed, tasting the acrid bite of danger on her tongue. Outlaw, saint, or devil, this one would bear watching. "Make up your mind!" she urged. "River's five feet and rising. I'll make no more crossings tonight."
His answering grunt was noncommittal. Swinging down from the ornate, Spanish saddle, he strode forward, his fringed, knee-high moccasins making no more sound on the log platform than a cat's paws.
Rebecca unlatched the bar that served as a gate across the end of the ferry. "Come on," she ordered, then watched closely as the disquieting westerner led his horse and pack animals to the raft.
The horse—like his master—was in his prime, boasting a deep chest, straight back, and muscular thighs. When the stranger half turned to take the stallion by the cheek strap, she glimpsed a holstered pistol strapped to one hip and a sheathed scalping knife on the other.
He's armed for war, she thought as she offered her hand, palm up. "It's the custom to pay on boarding."
The westerner dug into a pocket, produced a silver coin, and tossed it. She caught the dollar in midair and murmured a curt thanks. He made no reply, simply walking past her, leather reins gripped tightly in one gloved hand.
The stallion hesitated, tossed his head, and rolled large, intelligent eyes. The man patted the horse's neck, and the spirited animal stepped gingerly onto the log raft. Rebecca couldn't help but notice the stud's unusual coloring. He was as black as ebony with a white blanket bearing dark spots splashed across his rump.
She'd heard tales of horses like this: Paloose? Paloosas? They were Indian horses, greatly prized for their speed and stamina. Rumor had it that their native masters considered these fiery animals almost human. Not only were the beasts impossible to obtain at any price, the penalty for a white man laying hands on one was instant death.
Whatever the truth to those stories, this stallion was a beauty. Snorting nervously, nostrils flared, ears twitching, he tossed his shapely head. Despite the sweat-stained neck and damp shoulders that gave evidence of hard travel, he was still bursting with sass and vinegar.
Four heavily laden mules and a striking chestnut mare bearing the same unusual coloring on her rump as the stud clattered onto the ferry. When the last animal was safely aboard, Rebecca closed the gate and fastened it. "Best tie them all," she warned her passenger. "River's tricky. It might be a bumpy ride, and y
ou don't want them bolting."
"No need."
"Suit yourself." Rebecca gritted her teeth in disapproval as she slipped the mooring lines free. The stranger's guarded manner and meager words did nothing to lift her sense of premonition. Surely the mist and coming night were making her overly cautious. If he'd meant her harm, she reasoned, he'd have tried something when they were on dry land. Wouldn't he?
"There's hot food and a clean bed to be had yonder." She pointed toward the far shore. "Angel Crossing. My family runs a store and inn. No liquor served, but no bugs either. And you can sleep easy, knowing your animals and goods won't be robbed in the night."
Still no answer.
"If you're a drinking man, you'd best follow the trail east. The MacCades will sell you whiskey strong enough to burn sin from Lucifer himself."
Again, the traveler made no reply.
Rebecca studied the stranger as she began to turn the winch to haul the ferry across the river. Something about the way the man tilted his head seemed oddly familiar. If only the light were better. She wished she could see more of his face. If she didn't know that Shaw MacCade was long dead under a rock slide, she could almost swear...
"What's your name?" she called.
He shrugged.
She kept cranking the geared mechanism until the raft reached the deepest part of the channel, then snugged off the handle and moved toward her passenger. "Are you sure I don't know you?" she asked.
"You should."
His voice flowed over her like icy river water.
"Shaw?"
He swept off his hat and turned toward her. "Aren't you glad to see me, Becca?" He chuckled, his voice rich and husky—just as she remembered it. "The least you could do is give me a welcome home kiss."
Her chest felt too tight to draw breath. Her legs went from bone and muscle to cheese and whey. "Joe Nickerson said you were dead," she managed. "Last October, I heard it." She shook her head, unbelieving. "Reverend Thomas led prayers for your soul."
"You sound disappointed." Shaw grinned, thrusting his elbows back and leaning arrogantly against the end gate.
Her heart was hammering, her tongue felt too thick to form words. She motioned toward the western bank. "Why didn't you tell me who you were?"
"Would you have let me set foot on this ferry if I did?"
He laughed again, and her stomach pitched as it had that day they'd arrested her father for murder. All-consuming black rage boiled up inside her. How dare he come back from the dead?
"If I remember correctly, we didn't part on the best of company," Shaw said.
"I remember," she replied. He'd lost none of the MacCade arrogance. "I remember I caught you kissing my sister, and I told you I never wanted to see you again." She deliberately kept her tone soft as she reached for the latch.
At the last instant, he saw her movement. "Don't—"
The lock snapped open, and the gate swung wide. Shaw scrambled for a hold on the slippery deck, but it was too late. He hit the surface of the dark river with a splash and went under. Rebecca clung to the ferry railing and stared at the spot where Shaw had vanished. What had she done? A small sound of anguish formed in her throat, but before she could utter it, one muscular arm shot up out of the black tumbling water.
"Shaw!"
Sputtering water and swearing, he fought to reach the raft. "Damn you, Becca!"
Rebecca seized an oaken push pole and brought the butt down on his grasping fingers. "Stay away from me! You and all the rest of the MacCades can go to hell!"
"Are you trying to drown me?" Shaw's face was a pale blur amid the rushing current. "Let me on the frigg'n ferry!"
"Swim or sink, you treacherous coyote!" She pitched the silver dollar at his head. "And take back your passage fee! I wouldn't carry a MacCade to save my soul from hellfire!"
* * *
Shaw felt the grip of water as cold as an assayer's heart. His buckskins—soaked through and as heavy as lead—weighed him down and threatened to pull him under. "Becca!" he shouted again.
Ruthlessly, she jabbed at him with her long pole.
Pain shot up Shaw's leg as the gnarled root of a bobbing tree stump struck his right knee. He gasped, sucking in a mouthful of muddy river. Sputtering, he treaded water, trying to think. His limbs were chilled to the bone. He was a strong swimmer, but he knew he had his limits. If he stayed here arguing with her any longer, he might wash up on some sandbar tomorrow morning as crow bait.
His stallion Chinook squealed and reared, sending the other animals into a panic. Instantly, Becca dropped her pole and twisted to grab the big Appaloosa's bridle. The notion that the raft might tip or that Becca might dump the horses and mules overboard sliced though his anger. I'll kill her! I'll hold her head under until Gabriel blows his horn!
Choking, he uttered one final threat, then turned and swam with the current. If his memory served, the Little Smoke River took a sharp bend a few hundred yards downstream. If he could ride the force of the flow, let it buoy him up, he might make shore in the shallows there.
Shaw was shocked at how quickly he felt the strain of each stroke. His muscles burned; his mind played tricks on him. How long had he been in the water? Seconds, minutes? The fog and the darkness confused him, made him doubt his sense of direction.
Branches and debris tumbled past him. He couldn't feel his feet any longer; his hands were gloved claws. This was crazy. Crazy! He hadn't traveled five thousand miles, fought hostiles and bandits, landslides and blizzards, to be pushed into a river and drowned by a girl.
Had he reached the bend? He took a deep breath and let himself sink, down and down. No! Too far! Too deep!
He drove upward, drawing strength when he'd believed there was none left. Something struck his head. Something floating. His arms locked around the object—a wooden cask. "Thank you, God!" he whispered.
With the three-gallon keg to hold him up, making the near bank was easy. A child could have done it, he thought. Gratefully, he felt solid rock beneath one foot, stood, and plowed toward the massed willows leaning over the high bank. The icy river tugged at his hips, reluctant to let go of her prize, but he sloshed on until the water washed around his ankles.
Fits of shivering seized him, and his teeth began to chatter. Groaning, he knocked the wooden plug against a rock and upended the whiskey cask. A few fiery drops seared his tongue.
He savored the heat, shaking the container to make certain it was empty before discarding it.
Remembering his pistol, he felt for it, knowing the answer to his question before his fingers fumbled over the empty holster. Gone!
"Damn you to a fiery hell, Becca!" He'd paid ninety dollars for that sidearm in San Francisco. It was French, and he doubted there was another like it west of the Mississippi. Anger seethed in his gut. After all he and Becca had meant to each other, why had she done this to him?
And what more had she cost him tonight? The packs that weighed down his mules were all he had to show for four years of his life. If they were gone...
No time for what he couldn't change. He needed to get his wet clothes off before he died of exposure. Gritting his teeth, Shaw struggled up the rocky bank before stripping off his hunting shirt and leggings. Wearing nothing but a Blackfoot loincloth and moccasins, he threaded his way through the patch of trees until he reached the edge of a meadow.
It was full dark now. The crescent moon was swathed in clouds, but far off to the north, lights from Angel Crossing twinkled like fireflies. That would be Raeburn's blockhouse; there'd be no dealing and thus no lamps lit at the store at night.
The air was warmer than the river, and Shaw was grateful. He'd find no shelter at Raeburn's. He needed to build a fire, warm his bones through, and put on dry clothing. And for that, he reeded his horses, his mules, and his belongings.
He still had his knife, but he didn't fancy meeting one of Becca's brothers carrying a loaded rifle. Hell, after the welcome Becca had given him, she might just shoot him herself.
All this time, he mused as he loped toward Raeburn's corrals. Shaw had seen his share of women in the far west, some a lot prettier than Becca; exotic Spanish señoritas, hard-faced whores, and Indian squaws with black eyes that a man could lose his soul in. But Becca Raeburn had stuck in his craw, plaguing him like a loose nail in a horse's shoe.
Bossy, hardheaded, and psalm singing, Rebecca Raeburn was exactly the wrong gal for a footloose roamer to set his rope for. MacCades and Raeburns got along about as well as Saint Peter and the devil. Six hundred years of feuding and who knows how many dead on both sides hadn't brought peace any closer than the Great Salt Lake was to the Pacific.
Oh, Becca had a saucy enough figure. A blind man could tell she was pure female. But her chin was a little too pointed and her mouth too sassy for real beauty. Her hair was as contrary as the rest of her—couldn't decide if it was brown, yellow, or red. And now, to top it off, she'd gone clean out of her mind. Crazy. Crazy as an alkali-poisoned bronco. Becca had meant to drown him. She'd tried her best to do it.
And he'd see that she paid the price full measure.
* * *
As he neared the stable area, a pack of dogs began to bark. Shaw swore under his breath. He'd forgotten about the hounds. Some of them weighed seventy, eighty pounds. And he was on foot. Sweat broke out on his forehead as he reached for his knife.
Abruptly, a door at the side of the house opened, and a woman's voice rang out. He could have sworn it was Becca's. "Jess! Molly! Come on! Jess! Come here!"
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