Wild texas hearts, p.1
Wild Texas Hearts, page 1
Wild Texas Hearts
by
Tracy Garrett
Wild Texas Hearts
Copyright© 2017 Tracy Garrett
Cover Design Livia Reasoner
Prairie Rose Publications
www.prairierosepublications.com
All rights reserved.
This is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author's imagination and are not to be construed as real.
No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
DEDICATION
For Jo Davis, my dearest friend, my confidant, my "partner in crime." Who would have thought two empty chairs at the same table would be the start of such an amazing and treasured friendship? You encouraged, badgered and sympathized in equal measure. And you never gave up on this story.
Wolf is for you.
PROLOGUE
The Texas Panhandle, September 1889
Some days a man got so tired of being on the trail he couldn’t even stand the company of his own horse.
Cain Richards trudged up the hill, the reins of his mount loose in his fist. Scarlett would probably follow, but he didn’t want to chase the big mare if she decided otherwise. He just didn’t have the energy. Even his pack horse, a sturdy little mustang mix that could usually go for weeks without tiring, lagged behind, foot sore and all but done in. It’d been a hard couple of months.
He stopped at the top of the rise to wipe the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his dusty shirt and look over the patch of earth he called home. A swell of pride straightened his weary shoulders. The house was situated close to the rocky stream that bisected the land. The corral was off to the right, its whitewashed fencing gleaming in the late afternoon sun. The enclosed area was big enough for a dozen horses, with several large trees shading nearly all of one side. Last spring, he’d finished installing the pump to pull water into the troughs. Now that he didn’t have to carry water, he could add to his herd.
To the north of the house sat a decent sized barn, and in its shadow, the chicken house he’d finished for Emily the day before he left to go hunting.
Everything else, for as far as he could see, was wide open prairie, perfect for grazing the horses he planned to have someday. The first time he’d ridden through this valley, hunting buffalo for the Army, he’d known he was meant to live right here, between these hills.
That was the summer he’d earned his nickname. The soldiers in the hunting party started calling him Wolf for his ability to find their quarry when no one else could. His skill had served him well, earning enough money to buy this spread and plan for the future. And it had brought him his wife.
He was eighteen when he signed the papers to buy the land he now called home. He remembered that rainy spring morning like it happened yesterday. By the first winter, he’d dug a well for the dry times—which turned out to be nearly every summer—put up a small corral for the horses, and built a one-room cabin. Then, he met Emily.
Wolf grinned, thinking of his wife of eight years—or almost eight. When he’d led that small group of worn-down, dusty soldiers past the gatehouse of Fort Elliott that cold October afternoon in 1881, he never dreamed his life was about to change forever. He thanked God every single day that he’d gotten that assignment.
Leading the horses, Wolf trudged down the hill to the stream, humming Emily’s favorite tune. He wanted to wash the dust and sweat from his face and neck. The last two days had been high-summer hot, unusual for September, even here in the Texas plains. But the aspen trees were gilding the higher elevations with golden leaves, meaning fall was coming on fast. Wolf was looking forward to some cool mornings for a change.
He glanced toward the house, but didn’t see any movement. The silence was unusual, but he was late coming home. He’d planned to be back mid-morning. Maybe that’s why the kids hadn’t come squealing out of the house to greet him. They’d probably grown tired of watching for him.
It had been a hell of a trip, but worth every sweaty, dusty mile. He’d been gone for a little more than two weeks. The meat he brought would feed them well this winter, and the otter and beaver pelts tied across the packhorse should bring in enough money to purchase all the other supplies they needed.
Wolf shook the water from his hands and knocked the dust from his hat. Right now, he was looking forward to enjoying a good meal and spending time with Emily, making up for the thirteen nights he’d spent alone. He pushed to his feet and studied the cabin again.
Nothing moved. Not even the chickens were pecking in the grass for feed they might have missed. And the wash was still hanging on the line beside the house. Emily never left it out past noon. A wave of foreboding scratched down the length of his spine and stabbed into his gut. He took two steps forward, studying the little house.
No smoke. There was no fire burning in the hearth, no smoke staining the brilliant blue sky behind the house.
Something was wrong.
Wolf picked up his pace. “Emily?” He called for his wife, then his two children. “Calvin? Amanda!” The corral was empty. The barn door stood open. Feathers were strewn around the coop.
He took the last two hundred yards at a run. Vaulting over the stairs, he slammed through the half-open door, then skidded to a halt. Chairs were overturned, dishes were smashed, clothes were strewn in a trail leading from the children’s bedroom. Dark puddles of jam dripped from the kitchen table to the floor. Where the hell was his family?
“Cain?”
Wolf spun toward the sighing sound and spotted his wife on the floor beside their bed. Throwing furniture out of his way, he dove to his knees beside her. He didn’t need to ask what happened. The torn bodice of her dress, the scratches and bruises on her exposed breasts, the blood on her skirt. An animal cry of pain ground its way from deep in his soul. His hands shook as he smoothed her honey blond hair off her battered face.
“Honey, who did this?”
“Took them. My babies,” she panted.
Wolf couldn’t breathe. His children. Someone had stolen his children. “When?”
“Morning,” was all she could manage. Her body began to shake. Wolf tried to gather her close. Her moan stopped him. Dread and grief warred in his mind. Raw fury eclipsed them both.
“Who?”
“Don’t know.” Emily tried to moisten her lips. Wolf kissed her gently, doing it for her. “Six. Seven. Men. Went south.” She coughed, the sound rasping from her lungs.
“Easy, honey. Let me go for the doc and—”
She shook her head, once. It was all she had strength for.
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, brushing away the tears that fell onto her skin as he cried. “You have to hold on, Emily. You can’t leave me.”
“Love. You. Find my...babies.” Her breath eased out on the word.
Emily was dead.
CHAPTER ONE
Doan’s Crossing, Texas, December 1889
Wolf sat at the far end of the saloon, such as it was, with his back against a rough-sawn pillar. The narrow block of splinter-edged wood wouldn’t offer much protection to a man his size if bullets started flying, but it was better than the walls. They looked flimsy enough for the winter winds howling outside to knock them over and blow them clear to Missouri.
Sitting in a saloon of any kind went against the grain. Wolf was an alone kind of man now, and the last months riding a hard trail hunting for the Harrison gang had hammered that into his bones. But tonight, he needed more than his own company.
He rubbed a tired hand across the thick growth of beard edging his jaw. The wind had kicked up just after sundown, moaning through the walls of his rented room like a woman’s screams, making him itchy, jumpy. This two-bit watering hole in a town teeming with cowboys, peddlers and thieves was just across the street from his boarding house. Besides, whiskey was whiskey, and the amber liquid in his glass was less watered down than most would serve.
Wolf downed the contents in one swallow, felt it sear a path to his gut. He’d had worse in the three months he’d been hunting the Harrison gang. Eighty-seven days, three hours and a handful of minutes since he’d come home to find his wife dying, and his son and daughter gone.
Emily.
His beautiful, fragile, perfect wife. Grief sliced under his tough hide to knife him in the heart again. He made himself focus on the hate burning in his belly, demanding revenge, and fed the blaze with the memories that haunted him every second of every day. He would find his children. Then the men who’d defiled and murdered a defenseless woman would die like the animals they were.
Wolf glanced around the saloon. The establishment was little more than four plain walls and a white-washed ceiling. Four kerosene lamps that would have been more at home on a sailing ship were suspended from the low ceiling, and the lack of illumination gave the bar a dingy, seedy appearance. At least, it smelled clean. Evidently, the saloon-keeper preferred the scent of lye soap to sour mash.
He’d expected it to be busier on a Saturday night, but there were only four of them in the place, counting the bartender. The other two patrons, drunken cowboys whose smell alone would have driven him to the back of the room, sat at the same table, arguing across the three feet of scarred, stained wood that separated them.
Wolf studied the woman behind the bar—at least, he thought it was a woman. She wore stained buckskin pants that were thin from
No real curves showed beneath the ill-fitting garb, but she didn’t look like any man he’d ever seen. Her dark brown hair looked like it had been hacked off at her shoulders with a dull knife. What was left was held out of her eyes with a colorful beaded band. If she truly was a female, she made sure few would realize it. She didn’t seem to take much notice of it herself.
As if he’d drawn her attention by wondering, she grabbed a bottle of whiskey and headed his way. The gentle sway of her hips brought his body to painful attention. Definitely a woman.
“Want another?” She gestured with the half-full bottle.
He nodded toward his empty glass and looked back to the cards spread out in front of him. Solitaire wasn’t really his game, but he refused to suffer through the stench of the other two just for a game of poker.
“Queen of hearts.”
Wolf glanced at the finger pointing to his card game. Her clothes might look stained and dirty, but she wasn’t. When he inhaled, the clean scent of soap surrounded him. His gaze traced her arm, past the bulky shirt that, up close, hinted at some interesting curves, into an amazing pair of dark blue eyes, edged with gold, and fringed with black lashes that curved nearly to her eyebrows. Eyes a man could lose himself in. “What?”
“You missed a play. Red queen to black king.”
She moved the card for him, filled his glass and turned back to the bar. For the time it took her to cross the room, Wolf didn’t look away. He couldn’t. His whole body hummed with need. There was a time, back when he was young and foolish, when he would have tossed down a few coins and satisfied the need.
Then he met Emily James, daughter of Major Reginald & Ophelia James, of the United States Army, in command at Fort Elliot, and the darling of every soldier there. Only seventeen, she was so tiny. The top of her head, even with her hair piled on her head in some fancy style, barely reached the middle of his chest. And he could span her waist with both hands with the better part of one left over.
When he married her, took her to his bed, Emily was far too delicate to bear even a small part of his real need. So he learned to control his desires, deny his body’s pounding want.
Now, Emily was dead. And it had been so long.
Disgusted with himself, he threw down the cards and tossed back the whiskey. He had to get out of here. He was losing his mind if the sight of a woman in men’s clothes had him wanting to change his plans for the night.
A shout rang out.
“Now, see here, ya yeller bellied low-life. I say I can.”
“Ain’t possible,” the other bellowed. “Yer too dang short!”
The bartender waded into the middle of the argument. “Cletus! Rufus! Stop this right now. I have other customers.”
Wolf glanced around to be sure he hadn’t missed anyone in the room. She must be referring to him.
“Don’t you fret, Miss Lizzie. We can solve this right quick.” The cowboy tried to pat her arm, but he was so soused he had to grab her shoulder to keep from toppling over.
Wolf was half out of his seat before he realized she didn’t seem concerned. He settled back to see how she handled them, but kept a hand on the well-worn handle of his Colt revolver.
“Rufus,” she leaned away from the man, waving at the air beneath her nose. “You’re drunk.” She lifted his hand from her shoulder and gave him a shove that landed him back in a chair.
“Well, o’ course I am,” he cackled. “It’s Fri-dee!”
“Today is Saturday, and since when did the day of the week matter?” She planted her hands on her decidedly shapely hips and scowled at the men. “If you two spent half as much time riding herd as you do in here, you’d be retired and back in Tennessee with your wives by now.”
The other cowhand hooted with laughter. “Yer probably right, Miss Lizzie. Rufus, let’s settle this so I can go git rich and git home.”
“Sure, but I’ll be the one t’ get rich, not you.” Rufus surged to his feet and reached for Lizzie to steady himself again. When he stopped swaying, he swept his hat from his head. “Thank you kindly, barkeep.”
Even from where he sat, Wolf could see Lizzie turn her head and stifle a gag. But it didn’t slow down her talking.
“Just what do you two have to settle?”
“I say I can spit farther than Cletus, here, and—”
“I say he’s too short,” the other finished.
“Hold on.” Her hands went back to her hips, causing an interesting gap to open between the buttons up the front of her shirt. Wolf settled his attention on the exposed curve of pale skin while she berated the cowboys.
“You know I don’t allow spittin’ in this establishment.” She pointed toward the door. “Take it outside.”
“Well, hell,” Cletus grumbled. “You can take the first shot, Rufus.”
Wolf’s gaze snapped to the men. He hoped they meant shots of whiskey, but both drew their revolvers. He shot to his feet. “Put them away before someone gets hurt.”
Lizzie and both men turned to stare at him, or rather at the Colt he held steady in his hand.
“It’s all right, mister. They ain’t hit it yet.” She winked at him and turned away.
Wolf frowned, confused. What the hell was going on? Two men were threatening to shoot up the saloon and she just winked like a floozy on a work night?
He watched in disbelief, as first one, then the other, took a bead on the fancy mirror above the bar and fired. Neither bullet hit the target.
“That’s enough now. You’ve had your fun. Out!” With a hand on a shoulder of each man, Lizzie aimed them toward the street.
To Wolf’s amazement, the men holstered their pistols, tipped their hats and stumbled out the door, weaving together in perfect synchronization. Lizzie watched them climb on their identical roans before turning back to him.
“Sorry about that. I suppose I should have warned you.” She carried their empty glasses, and the half bottle they’d been too drunk to finish, to the bar.
Wolf slipped his revolver back into the holster at his waist and strode to the bar. “What the hell was that all about?”
“Rufus and Cletus are brothers. They were sailors who got too old for the sea. When no captain would sign them on, they used their shooting abilities to protect a wagon train heading west from Tennessee. When they got to Texas, they fashioned themselves into cowboys and joined up with an outfit moving cows to Dodge City. Late last fall, the herd came through Doan’s Crossing. Rufus and Cletus dropped in here on their night off, decided they liked it, and never left town.
“They come in here every night, get stumbling drunk, and start arguing. Been at it for almost a year, or so I’ve been told.” She shook her head, remembering. “When they get to the part about which one can spit the farthest, I throw them out. They each take one shot at my mirror and leave. It’s become a—well, a ritual of sorts.” She glanced at the garish gilded object on the wall. “They always miss.”
“Why let it continue?”
She glanced toward the sound of the two men singing a sea-shanty at the top of their lungs as they rode out of town. “They always pay for their whiskey.” She pinned him with her night-dark stare. “Well, hell. Look around you. It isn’t as if they’re chasing away customers.” She wiped at the bar with a damp rag, smearing around a year’s worth of old liquor and sweaty customers. “Besides, they used to be sailors.”
Sadness lingered after the statement, but Wolf chose not to pursue it. “They had to hit something. These walls are too thin to stop a bullet.”
“That’s why the mirror is hanging where it is. It used to be over there.” She waved the grimy rag at the opposite wall where a haphazard patch had been nailed onto the smoke-darkened wood. “The first time, they missed and put two holes through the preacher’s parlor wall while he was sitting in the room, reading the Bible—the Book of Revelation, I think. Evidently, the good reverend thought the end time had finally come and was not too pleased to discover he was mistaken.”
