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Book 3 in Linda Broday’s Men of Legend series
Coming soon from Sourcebooks Casablanca
North Texas
Spring 1879
Alone. Hunted. Bone-tired of running. Some days he almost welcomed death so he could rest.
Trouble stalked Luke Weston from one end of Texas to the other. He was a wanted man with a price on his head and a large target on his back.
The black gelding’s hooves struck the rocky floor of the narrow canyon, sounding like shots from a tracker’s gun. Luke shifted in the saddle and tried his best to pretend that the nervous jitters crawling up his spine weren’t whispering a warning. But he couldn’t afford to. Men in his profession who ignored their gut usually ended up as a meal for the coyotes or buzzards.
A large flock of nasty scavengers silently circled above him now, watching with their greedy eyes—they waited as well for the bullet that would end his life.
He tucked his long black duster around his Colt and removed the narrow leather loop anchoring the weapon to the holster. The warning whispering in his ear, he rested his hand on the wooden grip into which he’d carved one word—Legend.
Trouble stalked him. It wasn’t anything new. Except this time, he knew one name.
Munroe O’Keefe.
The young jackass, desperate to make a name for himself, had bragged from Austin to Fort Worth that he would kill Luke Weston and that he’d be a hero for it.
Luke had broken camp as the sun rose and spotted the young gunslinger high up on a ridge. Since then, he’d thought he’d lost him in the rugged landscape littered with gullies, ravines, and desert mountains.
But had he? Was he underestimating his adversary?
“Stupid fool,” Luke muttered. O’Keefe didn’t have the brains of a stuffed goose, or he’d realize that killing Luke would only draw a wide target on his own back. Luke’s death wouldn’t bring the kid any fame, and for damn sure wouldn’t bring him glory. The only thing it would accomplish would be to put O’Keefe on the run for the rest of his life.
Knowing one name didn’t cover it all, though. Munroe O’Keefe was only one of many on his trail. Others included lawmen from Texas and beyond, bounty hunters anxious to collect the price on his head, outlaws wanting to recruit him.
And that was only a partial list.
A low, angry growl rumbled in Luke’s throat and he cussed a blue streak under his breath.
The sudden rustle of sagebrush that rimmed the rocks behind sent alarm rushing through him. His Colt cleared the holster as he swung around.
A coyote froze for a second, staring back at the gun pointed at him before loping off into the brush. Shadowed by the low brim of his Stetson, Luke’s gaze swept the narrow trail. Finding nothing, he finally holstered his Colt.
It took a minute to force his nerves to settle. He dragged the cool Texas air deep into his lungs. Such was the price he had to pay for past mistakes. Now, his face was plastered on every wanted poster across the state, and the reward was growing higher by the day.
Luke forced a bitter laugh and smoothed the withers of his black gelding. “Major John, you might find yourself in the company of a new owner soon. You’re a good friend, but another man might not take kindly to a beer-drinking horse, so try to refrain and mind your manners.”
Major John snorted and tossed his head high as though to say “you mind your business and I’ll mind mine.”
“Keep your attitude to yourself. I mean every word.” Sudden pain pierced Luke’s heart. One of the hardest moments of his life so far had come six months ago, when he’d had to bury his nameless black gelding. He’d searched high and low for one equal in looks and temperament, and the minute he’d gazed into Major John’s eyes and seen the animal’s heart, he’d plunked down the money. He hadn’t regretted it. So far.
A bead of sweat rolled into Luke’s eye and he swiped at it impatiently to stop the sting. Damn, he’d be glad to rise up out of the steep, narrow confines of this canyon. Only six horses wide, it reminded him too much of a coffin. He longed for a breeze on his face. The morning was only a few hours old, but the moisture left by the sudden spring shower had already burned off. He’d have to remove his duster first chance he got. The sun’s heat would be relentless soon, bouncing off the rocks. He had important business in Dead Horse Creek, just south of the mighty Red River that separated Texas from Indian Territory. A dangerous outlaw hideout.
Finally, he had his first real chance to find the man who’d framed him for a cold-blooded murder. The man who called himself Ned Sweeney was like some damn ghost. Even his name wasn’t real, stolen from a Beadle’s Dime Novel. Who knew what his real name was. Luke had heard rumors that Sweeney never stayed more than one night in the same place. If he didn’t catch him now, no telling when he’d surface again. Convincing a desperate man on the run to do the right thing might pose a problem. A tight smile curved Luke’s mouth. He had ways of making him talk. But he had to find him first.
If he could get his hands on the rotten bastard, he’d wring the truth out of him. Make him own up to the crime. The question of why Sweeney’d framed him had haunted Luke for two years.
Luke readily took responsibility for the things he’d done, but the blood of federal judge Edgar Percival was on Sweeney’s hands, not his. It was strange how many crimes landed at Luke’s door these days—another downside of having a reputation for a fast draw and a price on his head. It was easier to pin everything on a man already known as an outlaw than look for the real criminal.
Anger and frustration left a sour taste in his mouth.
Minutes ticked by slowly, until at last he exited the canyon. Dead Horse Creek wasn’t more than a half hour away. A friend, Brenner McCall, had given him the tip, assuring him that Sweeney would be there. He urged Major John into a trot.
Luke’s thoughts were still on Ned Sweeney and on clearing his name when he spied a lone wagon near the only tree of any size within miles. He drew his Colt.
Nothing moved, and he rode closer. No one would leave a wagon and team of horses in the middle of nowhere by choice. Then he spied tools on the ground that suggested someone had been fixing the wagon. But where had they gone? The hair tingling on the back of his neck was a warning. Could be an ambush.
Every nerve taut, he drew near and his mouth tightened in a thin line.
Bound and gagged, a woman slumped under the tree, her head sagging on her chest. She appeared to be dead. Her blue dress was covered with dried blood.
A noise alerted him and Luke swung around as two men scrambled toward cover.
“Stop where you are!” Luke ordered. When they kept running, he fired, but they jumped into a ravine.
Every nerve tightened as he slowly dismounted. The woman’s eyes suddenly flew open in alarm. She made muffled noises that he couldn’t make out through the gag in her mouth, but he did read her fear. As he strode toward her, she kicked her legs, defiance filling her eyes. She leaned her weight against the tree trunk, ready to kick the daylights out of him.
“Ma’am, I don’t mean you any harm.” He raised his hands as he advanced. Anger spread through him. Why would those men do this to a woman?
The bound woman showed no sign of calming.
“I only want to untie you. Nothing more.” He crept a little closer, and even though the two varmints were probably watching, he slid his Colt back into the holster. It was within easy reach. Maybe the woman would calm down with it out of sight.
“If you’re going to hurt me, I won’t come closer. Nod if you agree not to kick.”
The woman finally nodded once, although fury flashed in her eyes as Luke knelt to remove the gag. Why level her wrath at him? He was trying to help.
When he took the obstruction from her mouth, she let loose. “Damn you! You better run, mister, because when I find my damn gun, I’m going to put a bullet right between your eyes.”
The profanity shocked him as much as the anger.
“Hey, lady, I don’t know what you think I’ve done—”
“What you’ve done? How about tying me up like a Christmas goose!”
“Now wait just a cotton-pickin’ minute. That wasn’t me. I’ve never seen you before.” Was she an escaped lunatic? Maybe he’d had it wrong and those two men he’d rode up on were taking her to the asylum. But then why would they run?
For a second, he was almost tempted to stuff the gag back into her mouth. Her withering glare stripped a layer of hide from his chest. “I was riding by, minding my own business, when I saw you,” he said hotly. “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m all you got, lady.”
Unless he counted the two men who’d vanished into the ravine. Since he hadn’t seen any more of them, they must’ve ridden away. Or maybe they were watching. He needed to decide what to do with her before they returned.
“I sure could use a drink of water, if you can spare some, handsome,” she said sweetly through gritted teeth. She blew a strand of hair the hue of a summer sun from her eyes.
The gesture reminded him that he hadn’t untied her. On second thought, he had some control leaving things as they were, but on the other hand, she could be hurt, in shock from blood loss. When he caught the quiver of her chin, he knew she wasn’t as rough as she appeared.
“I’ll get some water once I free you. Are you injured?”
“Everything hurts.” She stared down at her ruined skirt. “I don’t know where this blood came from.”
He quickly cut the ropes binding her arms and legs, then stalked to his horse, his long, black duster slapping against his legs, and jerked out his canteen. He returned and squatted next to her. “Take it slow.”
After drinking her fill, she handed it back. “Thanks.”
She looked at her hands with a stricken gaze, staring at a ring set with a small emerald. Then she glanced down at her dirty dress, paused at the long rip up one side, and began digging in the folds, probably for the gun she’d threatened him with before. Giving up her search, she leaned to touch her scuffed boots as though she’d never seen them before.
“My name’s Luke. What can I call you?”
“I’m…” She glanced up with anguished eyes, putting a hand to her head. “My name is… It’s…” She stopped, her forehead wrinkling in clear confusion. She let out a sharp whimper. “I…I can’t remember. Oh God, I don’t know my name! Why can’t I remember? Wait. I have a ring. I’m married.” She glanced at him. “Are you my husband?”
If he was, he wouldn’t wait for her to shoot him; he’d do it himself. “No, ma’am. I’m one hundred percent certain you’re not my wife.” Correction. He upped the percent to a thousand.
Her lost, frightened look deepened. “Then you can’t…you can’t tell me who I am?”
“No, ma’am. I’ve never seen you before.” Luke had limited experience with lunatics. Not even the pretty kind with curves and long legs that could make a lonely man think about long, sultry nights.
Crazy or not, she was a looker. But then, lunacy didn’t always attack the ugly ones.
“I don’t know who I am.” Her voice was small and quiet, all the bluster gone.
It would be a hell of a thing to forget your name. Although he had—on purpose. Completely different.
“Maybe you can tell me how you got here and who those men were who tied you.”
“Men? I haven’t seen anyone except…” She frowned. “Once or twice, I sort of saw shadows in the darkness.”
“Two men ran from here when I rode up.”
Misery darkened her eyes. Her voice was barely louder than a whisper. “I don’t know anything about them. I just don’t know anything about anything. I want to go home but I don’t know where that is. Where is my husband? Did he leave me here? Maybe…maybe I’m not married. Or…Oh God, maybe…” A strangled sob rose as she clawed at the blood staining her dress, her eyes wild. “Maybe I killed him.”
After witnessing her scalding temper, the latter was entirely possible. Her dress bore witness to something bad. Luke reached over to touch her shoulder before he thought better. With forced confidence, he stood. “I don’t believe you’re a killer and you shouldn’t either. I’m sure there’s an explanation.”
“Who am I, then? Where did I come from? Maybe I’m a whore.”
“Look at your clothes. They’re not the sort a loose woman would wear. Aside from the stains and rips on your dress, it’s nice—modest. I’d say you’ve been well cared for.”
Hearing a noise, Luke pulled his Colt and whirled. He scanned the area but saw no threat and returned the gun to his holster. “I’ve got to get you out of here, amiga, before those men come back. Can you walk to the tail end of the wagon?”
“I’m really woozy, but with your help I can.” But when she stood, she collapsed in his arms. “My legs are too numb. I can’t. And my head is splitting open.”
Luke lowered her back to the ground. “Just sit here a minute. I’ll keep watch.”
“Move, please,” she cried, hurling herself away from him.
He’d barely gotten clear before she spewed vomit. He reached for the canteen and wet his bandana, putting it on the back of her neck. He knelt, rubbing her back. At last, she emptied everything from her stomach and rose. Luke wet the bandana again and gently washed her face.
“Rinse your mouth, amiga.” He handed the canteen to the woman, who appeared at least five years younger than his thirty. “Do you mind if I feel your scalp for a lump? You have blood matted in your hair.”
A blow to the head appeared a logical conclusion. He’d once seen a man forget everything except how to pull on his boots after a wallop by a stout length of wood.
Though she felt poorly, the mystery lady rallied to shoot him a lethal stare. “Go ahead, but touch me anywhere else and you’ll regret it, mister.”
Lord, he already regretted a great many things where the morning was concerned.
“Not ‘mister.’ Luke,” he gently reminded her. “And you don’t have to worry.”
He slid his hand into the mass of honey-blond hair spilling onto her shoulders and down her back. He ignored the silk strands wrapping around his fingers and gently worked his way across her scalp.
“Does it hurt when I touch this area?”
The woman drew a sharp breath. “Yes.”
“You have a large lump. You could’ve fallen and hit your head, or else someone struck you before they tied you up. That’s likely why you can’t remember anything.” Despite the lady having tried his patience at first, he fought rising waves of anger. If he could get his hands on the two men who’d done this, he’d make them very sorry.
Unshed tears bubbled in her eyes. “Will it come back?”
“I’m about the furthest thing from a doctor as you can get, amiga.”
“Why do you keep calling me that?”
“‘Amiga’?”
“Yes. That’s not English. Even I know that much.”
“It’s Spanish for a woman who’s a friend.”
Her forehead wrinkled in thought. “So, you’re Spanish?”
“Just half. My mother was Spanish; my father is white.”
“Oh. I wonder if I’m a mix.” She glanced down and gave a little cry. “If I do have a husband, I’m going to chew him out up one side and down the other.” She peered at her ring. “Any fool knows this isn’t a wedding ring and the size of that emerald makes him a cheapskate. I sure didn’t mean much to him.”
The lady might’ve forgotten her name, but she sure knew her jewelry. He covered a grin with the back of his hand.
She suddenly wobbled, digging her fingers into his arm. “I’m going to be sick again.”
Luke quickly got out of the way, but only bile came up. When her sickness passed, he wiped her face again and let her rinse her mouth. “I’ll carry you to the wagon, amiga, where you can lie down.”
He swept her up in his arms and strode to the back. He’d get her situated, then drive her to the nearest woman who could look out for her. With his conscience cleared, maybe he could still manage to overtake Ned Sweeney if he rode hard.
“Just a moment.” He propped her against the side of the wagon while he lowered the heavy wooden gate. Her face had turned the color of cold ash. The wagon bed was empty except for a pail, a shovel, and wooden crates at the front covered with a dirty canvas. Damn! No blankets back there. It wasn’t going to be a very comfortable ride.
“Wait a minute.” He went to his horse. Bringing back his bedroll, he spread it out.
“Let’s get you inside where you can rest.” Carefully, Luke lifted her onto the bedroll. Someone had to be searching for her, wondering why she’d vanished. He should’ve chased after those two men he’d seen running, but the lady had seemed more important at the time.
She murmured, “I don’t mean to be trouble.”
“You’re no trouble.” Though every bit of softness in him had disappeared long ago and his heart had long since turned to stone, he could no more leave her out here than become a priest.
He crawled up and took her hand. “Try not to worry. Just think about shooting me and that should perk you right up.”
“I just wish I didn’t feel like I’m not a…a person anymore. I need… I need…”
She needed an identity, something to ground her. He understood that perfectly. Until a short while ago, he’d shared that problem…except he’d never forgotten his name for one second. Though he’d tried hard, he’d found it hopeless to forget. To pretend he was someone else. To wish for things he could never have.
Luke stared at a row of little roses around her collar. “How about I call you Rose? Just until you get your memory back.”
“Rose.” A little smile curved her lips. “I’m Rose.”
It was funny how such a simple thing could brighten her mood. It had been a long while since he’d brought cheer to anyone. Fear was the only thing he seemed to be able to spread and that was measured in spades.
Except…there had been one—Angelina—who’d thought he hung the moon. But she was gone. He’d laid her to rest with the angels three years ago and rode off without looking back.
He cleared his throat, dragging himself back to the woman he’d called Rose. “I’m going to check those crates to see what’s inside, then we’ll get going.”
Rose’s brow wrinkled. “Wish I knew.”
Crawling to the cargo, he threw back the canvas. Three small crates held whiskey, and it wasn’t the rotgut stuff. Then he started in disbelief: at least a half-dozen brand-new rifles also rested inside.