Seeing strangers, p.1
A Cowboy Christmas Legend, page 1
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Books. Change. Lives.
Copyright © 2021 by Linda Broday
Cover and internal design © 2021 by Sourcebooks
Cover art by Alan Ayers/Lott Reps
Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks.
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
All brand names and product names used in this book are trademarks, registered trademarks, or trade names of their respective holders. Sourcebooks is not associated with any product or vendor in this book.
Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks
P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410
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Contents
Front Cover
Title Page
Copyright
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty-one
Twenty-two
Twenty-three
Twenty-four
Twenty-five
Twenty-six
Twenty-seven
Twenty-eight
Twenty-nine
Thirty
Thirty-one
Thirty-two
Thirty-three
Thirty-four
Thirty-five
Thirty-six
Thirty-seven
Thirty-eight
Thirty-nine
Forty
Forty-one
Forty-two
Forty-three
Excerpt from To Love a Texas Ranger
One
Two
About the Author
Back Cover
Dear Reader,
I’m a sucker for Christmas stories and the affirming message of hope and love they bring. They’ve always been a bit magical to me, and often these stories center around miracles.
Sam Legend, son of famed Sam Sr., certainly needs one. He’s taken a bit of a wrong turn and separated himself from friends and family. But then who’s to ever say that a misstep is a wrong turn? Often those take us to exactly the place we need to be, as Sam finds out.
Cheyenne Ronan is the perfect woman for him, and she has a secret or two. Life seemed destined to make her a spinster, never letting her know love or have a family of her own. But Sam changed that for her, and she discovers another life waiting that is full of exciting and wonderful possibility.
Then, of course, I love writing about children, so I added Aaron and Ellen, two scared kids needing security and love. After all, the holiday is mainly for little children.
I’m really having fun writing about this new generation of Legends. They have just as much heart as their famous dads. If you didn’t read book one, it was about Gracie Legend and her adventures in finding love. Writing about the offspring keeps the Legend family and the Lone Star Ranch alive in readers’ minds.
I hope this Christmas season brings each of you an abundance of joy and happiness. I’ll be thinking of you and praying for good things to come your way. Maybe even a miracle or two.
So, settle back and enjoy Sam and Cheyenne. I’d love to hear from you. You can contact me through my website: lindabroday.com.
Merry Christmas and Happy Reading,
Linda Broday
One
Texas Panhandle
Winter 1900
Sam Legend startled from a deep sleep to the whisper of a sound. Or was it a mere dream?
Was someone outside? Or had he imagined everything? Hard telling.
He lay still and listened a moment but heard nothing more. Finally, he rubbed sleep from his eyes and sat up, reaching for his pocket watch. He fumbled around until he located the matches and struck one. The hands showed a little after midnight. He reached for the blanket on his bed and pulled it over the pair of faded red long johns, then grabbed the Colt from under his pillow. He didn’t bother with boots and skirted the fire on the floor in the middle of the room.
Still listening to every sound, he slowly pulled back the flap of his wickiup. Cold November air rushed in, drawing a shiver. The abode of sticks and grass proved little protection against the elements on the best of days, and during winter in the high plains of the Panhandle, it was downright piss-poor.
He quickly scanned left, then right, and saw no flicker of movement. Maybe some animal had caused the noise. From the top of the rocky escarpment where he’d made his home, he stared across the dark expanse of the barren landscape, watching far-off streaks of lightning.
Silence, his constant companion, skulked against his skin like a thief looking to steal a man’s peace. But Sam had always been unsociable, so solitude provided a perfect setting. Yet unending days of aloneness created fear that he might become completely uncivilized like some mad dog and try to bite everyone he ran across. A year ago, his adopted brother called him “prickly” and his little sister used the word “crabby.” They should see him now. They’d probably run.
Maybe that was why he was dreaming of three-legged dogs licking cactus thorns.
Some folks had told him he leaned toward the mountain man look, with dark hair flowing wild to his shoulders, an unkempt mustache, and long beard. Fair to say, he didn’t resemble a single one of his famous Legend family, owners of the largest ranch in North Texas.
That suited him fine. He didn’t have to explain to anyone why he’d become a recluse.
A whine drew his focus, accompanied by a familiar nudge on his hand. Sam glanced down at the gray-and-silver dog that had wandered up last year and decided this was her home. Shadow and he were a perfect match, since neither liked most people. The dog most definitely had a great deal of wolf blood in her.
“Hey there.” Sam patted the sleek head, meeting the intelligent gray eyes glancing up at him. “We’re quite a pair. I see you’re not missing a leg like the dog in my dream. Bet you have more smarts than to lick a damn cactus.”
Shadow whined and nuzzled his hand. Then she pulled back and pricked her ears at some noise that escaped Sam.
“What is it, girl? What’cha hearing?”
With a soft huff, the wolf dog turned to go back inside, telling him everything he needed to know.
Sam seemed to have lost what sense he had, standing out there in faded red long johns, freezing his rear off. He glanced at the small shed that housed a cold forge and sighed. He’d have to keep it going strong throughout the next day to complete the Christmas knife orders. Sam loved plying the bladesmith trade, and the creative opportunities it afforded fulfilled something deep inside that was hard to explain. The fun part was turning his imagination loose and seeing what he could design. His knives had begun to gain recognition for both craftsmanship and quality, which meant he had to talk to more and more people.
Dammit! He couldn’t have one without the other, and he needed the income to live on.
Finding all this reflection bothersome, Sam slipped inside and lowered the flap. Stoking the fire, he crawled back beneath the covers.
The soft crackle and pop of the fire lulled him to sleep in no time.
A sudden burst of air rushed into the crude abode. A fleeting image crossed his vision.
Was this just another crazy dream?
Or was it more of the danger that existed far outside of town?
He started to throw back the covers when a figure ran across the room and leaped on him. “Where is he?” the person growled. “What did you do with the man living here? Kill him?”
Shadow lunged at the intruder, teeth bared. The voice, belonging to a woman, spoke gently to the dog. “I have no quarrel with you, Taklishim. Quiet.” The obedient animal lay down.
Sam struggled to get his bearings. The pressure at his throat had to be a sharp blade. That much was clear. He swallowed very slowly and glanced up, moving nothing but his eyes.
Long hair hung over her shoulders; the ends of a few strands brushed his cheek like the whisper of silk. She seemed tall. Slender.
The firelight revealed strong facial features, though not the color of her shadowed eyes, and led him to believe she was probably pretty. The woman sitting on his chest had curves in all the right places. Even though Sam hadn’t been to town in a blue moon, or been with a woman longer than that, he recognized that softness.
“Who the hell are you, lady, and what are you doing here?”
“I ask the questions.” She pressed the blade against his windpipe and growled. “What happened to the man living here? It’s a simple request.”
“He died.”
“Liar!”
Anger swept over him. “You got some damn nerve!”
For the first time, her glance wavered, and the sharp edges of her face cast a softer shadow. “When did he pass?”
“About four months ago.”
“You’d say anything to save your hairy neck.”
“Come daylight, I’ll take you to his grave.”
She snorted. “Name one reason why I should believe you.”
“Because it’s the truth?” Sam eyed the woman with fire in her eyes. He wondered who she was. Tarak had been pretty old. Maybe a great-granddaughter?
When he caught her casting a curious glance around the room, he grabbed her arms and flipped her onto her back. He held her arms above her head, the knife still in her hand. Her chest heaved with seething anger. Though she wore some kind of long duster, her deerskin dress indicated a Native. Comanche? Apache? Both had occupied this area until forced onto reservations. Maybe she’d walked off one.
“My turn now. Who are you?”
Her eyes, glistening pools of black in the dim light, stared silently up. Rage tightened every inch of her supple body. If she got free, she’d probably plunge that blade into his heart faster than he could spit. Her glare promised that.
She remained stubbornly mute. Finally, she grated out, “One you should fear.”
Maybe he should, but his gut wasn’t screaming that loud a warning. At least not yet.
“Was Tarak your grandfather?”
“No. A friend.”
“Lady, this is twice tonight I’ve had my sleep interrupted. I’m tired and I have a full day of work looking at me come daylight.” He got off and pulled her up, taking the knife from her. Looking around, he tugged her toward the large trunk in the corner, three paces from the bed. He found a long strip of rawhide. He lowered her to the pile of furs and lashed her to the trunk, not too tightly though, lest he mar her skin. “That should hold you ’til first light and we can sort all this out.” He tucked a warm blanket around her.
“My pinto. I need…” She sighed. “Looks like rain.”
That a woman in her predicament would think about her horse surprised him a little. But then he recalled how gently she’d spoken to Shadow. She liked animals.
“Where is the horse? I’ll get it out of the weather.”
“She’s north about a hundred yards out, tied to a mesquite.” A moment later she muttered, “Thanks.”
“Don’t mention it.” He wasn’t about to let a horse stand the rest of the night freezing to death. He pulled on his britches and boots and went out into the wind that had kicked up, cussing a blue streak that he’d forgotten his coat.
The horse was right where the woman said. Sam lost no time getting the animal into the warmth of a small lean-to with his Appaloosa named Rio. He removed the saddle before rushing back inside his grass-and-twig house.
The woman’s sharp glance held a question.
“I put your pinto with my horse.” Sam removed his boots.
“Thank you, kuruk.”
Sam paused midway of yanking off his britches. “What did you call me?”
“Kuruk. That means bear in Apache. When I was on top of you, I wasn’t sure if you were man or beast. Why do you want all that hair? You must be lazy.”
She appeared to form an instant opinion about everything.
Sam grunted. “Makes it harder for you to slit my throat. I’m surprised you even found my skin.”
“Hmph! Muy loco.”
The Spanish words for crazy he understood. Sam crawled back in his bed and tugged the covers around his chin. “Try not to snore.”
He’d just gotten comfortable when a teary voice spoke. “How did Tarak die?”
“Old age most likely.” The old man had been almost a hundred.
“I should’ve been here.”
Why did it matter so much?
Questions about her kept circling, keeping him awake. Then when the rain started, he finally put the blanket over his head.
But nothing could blot out the driven, determined lady who’d reminded him he wasn’t near dead yet.
Two
The rain had stopped by first light. Sam rose and drew on his clothes, then threw more wood on the fire. After getting coffee boiling, he studied the sleeping woman that he could now see.
The mass of russet hair and white skin came as a shock. Despite the deerskin dress she wore, she was no more Native American than he was. That discovery raised even more questions. She’d asked about Tarak, the man the wickiup belonged to until he had passed. The old Apache had been a friend ever since Sam had arrived about a year ago, and taught him everything about how to be a good bladesmith. If she was so worried about Tarak, why had it taken so long to check on him? And where had she come from?
Shadow looked up from the side of the bed she slept on and stretched, letting out a soft whine, then padded to the flap hanging across the doorway and went out.
Suddenly the woman’s eyes fluttered, then opened. The startling green shocked him as much as the russet hair had.
She glared, not speaking, though clearly furious. If anyone had a reason to be pissed off, it would be him, not her. He still felt the sharp blade of the knife against his throat.
“Coffee’s on.” He moved closer, keeping a wary eye.
“I don’t bite,” she snapped.
“Lady, nothing would surprise me. Not sure you’re civilized.”
“And you are? I won’t hurt you, for God’s sake. I can’t say the same about you. You look more bear than human. Probably have rabies.” She tried to lift a hand to her face but was stopped by the rope. “When you get through gawking, do you mind untying me?”
“You’re a regular Miss Ray of Sunshine.” Sam grunted and knelt to remove the bindings. “You have a name?”
“Cheyenne. All right?”
“Last name.”
“Ronan.” She rubbed her freed wrists and stood. “My father is—”
“Bert Ronan,” he finished. “He sold me this land after I promised to let Tarak stay on it. Why didn’t you tell me your name last night?”
“I didn’t trust you. I had to find out who you were first.”
“I’ve never seen you before at Bert’s.” He rolled up the rawhide strip. So this was the daughter he’d heard about but never met. “Why didn’t you know Tarak died?”
She stared with sullen eyes and pushed back her hair. “I’ve been away, teaching English to the Apache under the government assimilation program.” She sighed and looked away, blinking hard. “You said you’d take me to Tarak’s grave.”
“Hold on a minute, will you? Let the sun finish coming up first, for God’s sake.” He couldn’t think very well with her anger slapping him in the face. He coiled the rope and tossed it in a corner. “A man has to have his coffee. Want some?”
She glanced at the fire on the floor in the center of the small room. “No, thanks.”
“Suit yourself.” He filled the pot with water, added coffee, and set it on the glowing embers at the side, instead of directly on the flames. “Might as well sit.” He lowered to one of the rugs around the fire. “You’re not a prisoner.”
Arms crossed, she spat, “Aren’t I? You tied me up.”
“Lady, you can leave anytime you like. I’m not stopping you.”
The wolf-dog ambled in and lay down next to Sam, giving Cheyenne a baleful look.
“I’ll just sit a minute to warm. It’s cold out.” She lowered herself to a colorful rug opposite him.
“Why aren’t you still there teaching?” He ran a hand across Shadow’s fur, watching Ronan’s daughter.
“A long story.”
He could believe that, with her ease at using a knife.
