1

Haywire, Texas

1885

Brett Tucker hunkered low in the saddle and urged his galloping horse to go even faster. With the wind in his face and the sun at his back, he pressed his boots hard in the stirrups. He didn’t know her name or anything about her; all he knew was that he had to save her.

With a slap of his reins, he yelled, “Giddup!”

His mind raced along with his mount’s pounding hooves. But what if he was too late?

The ground shook beneath his hurtling horse, sending squirrels and rabbits racing for cover. Frenzied blackbirds shot from treetops, scorching the air with protesting squawks. Deer took flight with leaping bounds.

A farmer pulled his wagon to the side of the road, allowing Brett to race by unhampered. Mavericks raised their tails and ran. A buffalo lifted its shaggy head and bellowed.

Jaw tense, Brett narrowed his eyes against the dust and the glare of the hot, white sun. The only things identifying him as a Texas Ranger were the Colt at his side and the shotgun slung from his saddle. That and maybe his grit.

It was his grit that had brought him to this moment. The moment he’d waited for. Waited too long for—three years, two months, and twenty-one days to be exact.

The road sloped upward, slowing his progress. Digging his heels into his horse’s flanks, Brett urged him up the hill. “Come on, Soldier, come on.”

His mount crested the hill, and the steeple of the white church came into view.

Behind him lay the town of Haywire, and before him the moment he’d hoped would forever define him as a man.

The horses and wagons parked outside the church gave Brett a small measure of comfort. In less than two minutes, the wait would be over, and he would have done a woman a favor in the process. That is, if he wasn’t too late.

One minute. Anticipation coursed through his body.

Thirty seconds.

Twenty.

Reaching the church, he pulled hard on the reins, and Soldier’s front legs rose in the air. Brett slid out of the saddle, boots hitting the ground hard. With one quick move, he wrapped the reins around the hitching rail and reached for his holstered Colt.

Surprise was on his side, and he dared not waste a minute. Taking the steps two at a time, he rushed through the double oak doors leading inside the hushed chapel and ran past the two startled ushers. He hated ruining a bride’s wedding day, but better now than later. No woman in her right mind would knowingly marry an outlaw.

“Stop the wedding!” he yelled. A collective gasp greeted his outburst, and all heads swiveled in his direction. Sunlight slanted through stained-glass windows, bathing the church in a rainbow of colors.

Pausing a moment to gather his bearings, he raced down the center aisle, vaguely aware of the pews on either side packed with wide-eyed guests.

A heavyset man with a walrus mustache rose from the front pew. “What is the meaning of this?”

Brett halted. “I’m looking for Frank Foster.”

All eyes turned toward the groom stepping forward, a puzzled frown on his face. “I’m Frank Foster.”

The would-be groom looked nothing like the man who had ruined Brett’s sister’s life and was wanted for robbery. For one thing, he was shorter, leaner, lighter in complexion. He was also at least five years too young.

Brett had a bad feeling about this. “You’re Frank Foster?”

The man glowered at him. “Yeah. So, what of it?”

“Frank J. Foster?”

“Franklin Thomas Foster, if you must know.”

Brett sucked in his breath. Good God! What had he done?

Holstering his firearm, he gave the bride and groom a sheepish grin. “Sorry to bother you, folks. N-nice wedding.” He tossed an apologetic glance at the stone-faced preacher. “Continue what you were doing.”

As he turned to leave, he met the bride’s gaze. Even the veil couldn’t hide her big, blue eyes or the look of dismay on her pretty, round face. He felt bad for disrupting her special day. Absolutely terrible. The worst. On impulse, he leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “Sorry, ma’am. Didn’t mean to interrupt your wedding. Hope you find it in your heart to forgive me.”

He backed away just as the groom grabbed hold of his arm. “What is this, eh?” He cast a narrow-eyed glance at his bride. “Who is this man?”

“I-I never saw him before in my life,” the bride stammered.

“That’s not what it looked like to me.” Foster shoved Brett hard. “What are you doing here?”

Brett held out the palms of his hands to calm the man. “I’m a Texas Ranger—”

“How do you know my fiancée?”

“I don’t, sir.”

“Don’t lie to me.” The veins stood out on the groom’s neck. “I saw the way you looked at her.”

“I felt bad for her is all. I shouldn’t have come here. My apologies. I’m leaving.”

“Yeah, well, not without this, you aren’t!” Foster let his fist fly, a steel-like knuckler that landed on Brett’s jaw. Brett’s head jerked back and parted company with his wide-brimmed hat. Guests gasped and jumped to their feet.

The bride’s mouth dropped, and her eyes rounded in horror.

Shaking away the fog in his head, Brett reached for his sore jaw. For such a compact man, this Foster fella was strong as a bull. As mean as one, too, if the look on his red face was any indication.

Spectators were either too shocked or too dazed to move. The stunned silence was broken by the sudden frantic ringing of the church bell, signaling trouble.

“Frank, please,” the bride cried, grabbing hold of the groom’s arm.

Shaking her away, Foster advanced toward Brett, fists ready to strike again.

This time, Brett was ready for him. He grabbed the groom’s swinging arm within inches of his own throbbing jaw. In the tussle that followed, a candle overturned. Flames shot across the altar cloth, and a woman screamed. The preacher spun around, grabbed the basin off the baptismal font, and tossed the contents.

The water missed the fire but not the bride. Crying out, she stared down at her soaked wedding gown and sputtered in shock and disbelief.

An usher slapped at the flames with his frock coat, startling the bride and snapping her out of her daze. Yanking off her veil, she glared at Brett, her chest heaving, before running up the aisle, her train dragging behind her. Several women, including the bridesmaid, followed her out the double doors.

The bride’s absence only made the groom more furious. Lunging forward, he barreled into Brett headfirst. The air whooshed out of Brett with an oomph, and the two of them fell to the floor. The best man, ushers, and even some of the guests tried to separate them, but failing that, took swings at one another instead. Soon, all hell broke loose.

Fists flew in every direction. The sound of pounded flesh was followed by grunts and groans. A baby cried, a woman screamed, and the church bell kept pealing.

Breaking free from Foster, Brett jumped to his feet and pulled out his gun. When his order to stop failed to gain the hoped-for results, he aimed high. He fired a warning shot at the ceiling, and pieces of plaster rained down on the chaotic mass of bodies on the floor. Fists froze in midair. For a long moment, silence reigned.

“You shot Jesus,” the minister finally said, sounding like a man announcing the end of the world.

Brett spun around. “What?”

The reverend pointed upward. All eyes lifted to the fresco painted on the ceiling.

Brett groaned. Not only had he ruined the wedding of two perfect strangers, but he’d also decapitated the Man on the donkey. Accusatory gazes lit into him, and a half dozen men moved forward.

The doors swung open, and the arrival of the sheriff stopped the men in their tracks.

Sheriff Keeler surveyed the damage and turned to Brett with a smirk. Rubbing his chin, Brett glared back. He’d sent a message for the sheriff to meet him at the church, but the lawman sure had taken his sweet time getting there.

“Looks like you got yourself in a heap o’ trouble,” the sheriff said in a mocking tone.

Brett holstered his gun but said nothing. He didn’t know what to say. No doubt the sheriff would notify Brett’s superior officer, and he’d have a lot of explaining to do. A heck of a lot. Grimacing at the thought, he bent to pick up his hat.

After the sheriff and his men rounded up a respectable number of citizens—including the groom—and carted them off to jail, Brett slipped the minister a gold eagle. He doubted that Jesus could be saved, but surely the money would help pay for the rest of the property damage.

Dabbing at his sore jaw with a handkerchief, he then staggered outside. There was no sign of the bride, and the makeshift paddy wagon had already pulled away.

Brett threw himself onto his saddle and groaned. He’d always had a bad feeling about weddings. Now he knew why.