Cherished

By Jill Gregory

Elegant Julianna Montgomery flees a forced marriage only to have her would-be husband frame her for theft and put a price on her head. Captured by ruthless bounty hunter Cole Rawdon, Julianna is furious when Cole doesn’t believe her protestations of innocence. Betrayed early in life, Cole doesn’t believe in anything but his own deadly skill and speed with a gun. He trusts no one until Julianna’s beauty and spirit begins to touch his heart. As enemies converge around them, it will take all of Cole’s wits and skill to save Julianna. While they try to ward off danger, they're forced to face the most perilous question of all. Can they dare to believe in love?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jill Gregory
• Release date: Aug 1, 2011
• ISBN: 9781452471402

Book preview

CHERISHED

By Jill Gregory

Smashwords Edition, August 2011

Copyright 2011 © Jill Gregory

Formatted by A Thirsty Mind

Cover Design by Marsha Canham

First published by Dell Publishing, 1991 All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Jill Gregory.

To Rachel, who dares to dream and to dance—with all my love forever

Table of Contents

Prologue

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

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Excerpt from Daisies in the Wind

Excerpt from When the Heart Beckons

About the Author

Prologue

New Mexico Territory,

March 1873

Reese Kincaid was a liar, a coward, and a murdering thief who had never earned an honest dollar in his life, but there was one thing he was damned good at, and that was laying an ambush. And as he laid out the ambush for Cole Rawdon, the bounty hunter who had been making his life a living hell for the past weeks, a demon light of joy sprang into his coal-black eyes. Kincaid gazed around at the hard, grizzled faces of his gang in triumph.

There ain’t no way in hell Rawdon’s going to ride out of this place alive, he crowed.

His four companions and the redheaded whore, Garnet, squirming on his lap, all chuckled happily.

The hideout cabin where they waited was a squalid pesthole of a place, square-walled and dank. Filthy with spittle and discarded coffee grounds and dead flies, it was furnished with little more than a half-dozen roughly carved chairs circling a scarred pine table. It reeked of sweat and tobacco and whiskey—but no more so than did its six inhabitants. Everything in the cabin, from the torn and grimy bedding scattered about the dirt floor to the piles of unwashed dishes heaped on the table, all encrusted with remnants of food and crawling with ants, looked as foul and disreputable as the five men and one woman who waited with such malicious glee for Cole Rawdon. Reese Kincaid felt even more feverish anticipation than the others. He wanted Rawdon bad.

Rawdon had been pursuing Kincaid for weeks now with the cold-blooded relentlessness and uncanny tracking skills that had earned him a reputation among the bandits and desperadoes of New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona. Kincaid was desperate and wily, a man much experienced at evading the law, but even he recognized it was only sheer luck that had kept him one step ahead of Cole Rawdon for this long. Now, though, things were going to be different. The hunter was about to become the prey. Kincaid had Rawdon right where he wanted him—or he would, soon as the bounty hunter rode that paint horse of his into the canyon. Rawdon knew about this cabin at the bottom of Stone Canyon—Garnet had seen to that. Her girl friends in the saloon in Black Creek by now had told him all about the snug little hideout seventy miles from the town, and he was so eager for that reward money waiting back in Tucson, and so damned sure of himself, that he’d be after Kincaid like a thunderbolt.

Cole Rawdon was as fearless as he was determined, and Kincaid knew it. That was the most frightening thing about him. That and the fact that he was good with his gun. Too damn good. Even though he was barely twenty-eight years old, his reputation throughout the southwest territories was practically a legend already. The hombre never missed. It was enough to make anyone sweat bullets just to hear about it. But, Kincaid reflected as he stroked Garnet’s lithe body with a filthy, callused hand and ordered Ed to bring him more whiskey, he had the advantage now. Brains and cunning would win out over guts and skill. There was no way he could lose. Rawdon didn’t know that the rest of the gang was here in the canyon, too, that they’d slipped in one by one over the past few nights, after splitting up following the Tucson stagecoach job last month. Now they were all back together again, just in time to prepare a neat little welcome for Cole Rawdon. Hell, Kincaid thought, his florid, heavy face flushed with pleasure as he nuzzled the whore’s neck and then paused to inhale a deep swig of whiskey, I think I’ll kill him slow, one bullet at a time, each fired about an hour apart and in a different place. And the last one, he decided with a grin, will go right between his eyes.

The sun was just coming up outside the cabin window, touching the sage-colored hills with a faint yellow-gray light. Kincaid shoved Garnet away and pushed back his chair. Time to get ready. He didn’t want any mistakes or any surprises. He stood up, his blood heating with anticipation of the ambush ahead. Barking out his orders, he sent each member of his gang stomping off to take his assigned place.

Kincaid peered past the grime-streaked curtain at the distant empty mesa overlooking the canyon. In stark contrast to the squalid cabin, the mesa was quiet. Peaceful. Almost eerily calm in the growing light of the new dawn. Up above, the sky was turning blue as a mountain lake. Not a cloud to be seen. Birds sang in the juniper tree outside the window. Yep, Reese Kincaid thought, grinning out from beneath the dingy mane of brown hair that hung over his face. It was going to be a real fine day for a killing.

* * *

Cole Rawdon worked his way to the lip of Stone Canyon with the stealth of an Indian. He had learned much from Sun Eagle during the time he had spent with the Cheyenne, and it had served him well in his present occupation. Though he was a tall young man, with broad shoulders, and a well-muscled, powerful frame, he had the ability to step as lightly as a feather when he wished to remain undetected. He wished that now.

Cole spotted the lookout man first, crouched in a high crevice of rock north of the canyon’s entrance, a rifle in his hands. The rough, handsome planes of the bounty hunter’s face showed no emotion, but a grim smile just touched the edges of his lips. It never reached his eyes. Since he could move about more silently on foot, he had left his horse, Arrow, tied in a grassy dell well out of sight and hearing. Now he slowly crept upward and across the ledge of rock, toward the lookout. His movements were lithe and graceful; he was more like a shadow slipping among the rocks than a man. His hard young features were set with single-minded purpose, and his remarkable vivid eyes shone with cold blue fire as he made his way toward the man watching the canyon entrance from high above.

Cole came upon him from behind, and quick as a flash had one powerful arm around the man’s neck. The lookout never stood a chance against his larger, stronger unseen foe. When his victim had slumped into unconsciousness, Cole trussed him efficiently and then moved on, with no wasted time or movement. Always he was listening, watching. It was these incredible abilities at keen perception combined with razor-sharp reaction that had kept him alive all these years in the wildest, most savage regions of the frontier. Only once had he been caught unawares, a long time ago. But he’d been little more than a kid then, seventeen years old, green and foolish. He’d been lonely and stupid enough to trust another human being—a mistake he would never make again. That one time had taught him well—never to trust any man, or any woman. Ever.

Of course, Jess Burrows and Liza White were both dead now. But the lessons of greed and betrayal they had taught Cole would be with him forever. He’d never forget the way a beautiful woman could lie and deceive, smiling all the while, or the way a man who said he was a friend could shoot you in the back and leave you for dead in the scorched heart of the desert, without blinking an eye. He ought to thank them. They had tried to kill him, but they had only made him stronger. They had taught him to stand alone, to steer clear of all entanglements with others of his species. They had taught him what it took to survive.

And now they were the ones dead and buried, Cole reflected, scanning the desolate cliffs and boulders with a practiced eye. And he was still here, too ornery to bid the world adiós until he’d sent a few more no-good hombres to hell first.

By the time the sun had come full up in the sapphire sky, he had found and knocked cold two more of Kincaid’s men.

There were no more to be found, none that he could see anywhere around the steep walls of the canyon. That meant the fourth member of the gang, Ed Weeks, was holed up in the cabin with Kincaid, probably posted near a window. Rawdon got his horse, and headed for the entrance without wasting further time. Two against one, considering the circumstances, were fair odds.

Ed Weeks grinned when he saw the lean, sun-bronzed bounty hunter ride toward the clearing. Murphy, Burr, and Slade would be right behind him, hemming Rawdon in. He cocked his Remington revolver and stuck it out the window. Ed had an impulsive, fun-loving nature. He always liked to be the one to get things rolling, but he knew Kincaid would be mad as fire if he jumped the gun. Squinting against the glare of the rising sun, he waited and watched as the bounty hunter took cover behind a boulder. Won’t do you no good, Rawdon, Ed chuckled to himself. Then he waited for the fun to start.

Crouched behind the boulder, with just the tip of his Stetson showing, Cole scanned the cabin and its surroundings with a keen, sweeping glance. When he was satisfied with his assessment of the layout, he moved on to the next step of the hunt. It was a well-worn, all too familiar process. He’d give Kincaid a chance to turn himself in alive. He doubted if the outlaw would take advantage of it. It didn’t matter to Cole, though, either way. The reward would be turned over to him whether the fugitive was brought back dead or alive.

Kincaid! he roared.

An instant later the cabin door opened and Reese Kincaid stepped outside into the light.

Howdy, Rawdon.

The outlaw was one of those big, clumsy men who swagger when they walk, and he swaggered now across the patchy grass of the clearing. His gut stuck out beneath his plaid shirt, and his gunbelt, slung tight across heavy hips, emphasized his huge girth. Even from this distance, Cole could smell the foul stench of his greasy, sweat-soaked clothes, though the girl who slithered out of the cabin after him, clad only in a dirty chemise, appeared not to notice or care. She was watching Kincaid with proud, possessive eyes, and she giggled when he yelled for the bounty hunter to show himself.

But when Cole stood up and strode forward, Garnet gasped. She hadn’t expected anyone as handsome, nonchalant, and yet deadly-looking as the black-haired bounty hunter who came forward with easy strides and perfect composure. His thick midnight hair just reached his shirt collar, glinting like coal in the bright light of midday. Beneath his hat, she saw eyes the color of sapphires, but so cold, so merciless, they filled her with sudden terror. He had wide shoulders and a broad, muscular chest beneath his shirt and leather vest. His stomach was flat and lean. Tight-fitting trousers encased powerful thighs and legs, and were tucked into calf-leather boots. A gunbelt with a polished silver and turquoise buckle that was the only adornment he wore completed his attire—except for the big pair of silver-handled .44 Colts he wore with the ease of a man wholly comfortable with killing. Garnet had seen a great many rough men in her day—gamblers, outlaws, drifters, and cowhands—but there was something about this one that made her shiver and hug her bare arms about herself. Handsome devil, that’s what he was. And both words equally fit: Cole Rawdon was undeniably, stunningly, irresistibly handsome. And yet there was a look about him, something in the hard, cold planes of his bronzed face, that told her he was as tough and mean as the devil himself. Handsome devil, Garnet whispered to herself, and fought the urge to dart back into the cabin and run for cover.

What had Kincaid been thinking of, letting this man catch up with him at all? There was something so implacable and dangerous about the bounty hunter that it made her forget all about the brilliance of the ambush Kincaid had devised. Cole Rawdon wouldn’t be a man to go down easy. For the first time since she’d met and fallen in love with Reese Kincaid, she began to fear and doubt.

Took you long enough to track me, Rawdon, Kincaid taunted as the other man came slowly forward, pausing at a distance of ten feet away. Kincaid was intimidated by no man, though he felt a surge of annoyance at Rawdon’s coolness. Kincaid couldn’t wait for him to realize he was trapped. He wanted to wipe that damned self-confidence right off the son of a bitch bounty hunter’s face. You must be losing your touch, he added. Right, Garnet?

The girl made no answer. She was uneasily studying the canyon entrance, looking for some sign of the other three men. It seemed to Garnet that they should have been here by now.

But Kincaid was too preoccupied with baiting the bounty hunter to notice the delay. You started out real good from Tucson, but you kept lagging behind, boy. I tried to let you catch up a couple of times, just to get killing you over with, but you were too pokey for me. Garnet was waiting for me, and I was real eager to get here. You don’t blame me, do you, Rawdon? I bet you’d ride like hell for a woman like Garnet, too, if one would be dumb enough to have you.

I wonder if the lady would let you touch her if she knew what you did to those women on the stagecoach before you killed them, Cole commented in his quiet voice, dagger-edged with ice. You’re real good with a knife on innocent women, but how are you with a gun against a man? He heard the redhead’s sharp intake of breath that told him she didn’t know anything about the passengers’ murders, but he didn’t take his eyes off Kincaid long enough to spare her a glance. Guess you didn’t tell your ladyfriend about that.

Those folks got what was coming to ‘em. They tried to get away. And you’re going to get what’s coming to you, Rawdon. Real soon.

Rawdon’s eyes narrowed. The only thing I’m going to get is the reward for your worthless hide, Kincaid.

Hey, Weeks—ya hear that? The outlaw raised his voice to a shout. This here boy thinks he’s going to get a reward! Haw! Haw!

Throw down your guns, Rawdon—we got you covered! Weeks called from inside the cabin.

"I’m giving you a chance to throw down your gun, Kincaid. You, too, Weeks. It’s the only chance either of you will get."

From the cabin came the hearty cackle of Ed Weeks’s laughter. It was echoed by the jeering chuckles of Kincaid. Through it all, Cole stood perfectly still, at ease yet prepared. His muscles were ready, his brain was prepared for what would happen soon. Very soon. Deep within his heart was an iciness more solid and cold than the snow that never melts at the very peaks of the Rockies.

You’re downright stupid, boy! Kincaid was shouting at him now, his face flushed and sweating with excitement, split by a huge, evil grin. You’re about to meet your Maker, and you don’t even know it. You’ve been out-thunk, outsmarted, and out-tricked, plain and simple. You’ll never see the sun set on this day.

Sounds to me like you’re stalling, Kincaid. You expecting someone?

The bounty hunter’s unperturbed countenance made Kincaid’s face darken to purple rage. Where the hell were Slade and Burr and Murphy? They should’ve been here by now. He wanted to see the bounty hunter sweat, gawddammit. Hell, he wanted to see him bleed. He’d make him beg for death before he was done with him. What were those idiots waiting for?

Slade! Come on down! Burr! Murphy! Get your butts down here. We got ‘em! he called. There was no answer. Only the cry of an eagle circling far, far above. Murphy! Slade!

Rawdon watched as Kincaid’s face underwent a dramatic transformation. Red-hot fury and smug triumph faded away and with them went all the color in the fleshy cheeks. Kincaid was left staring at the empty walls of the canyon towering above them, peering in disbelief at the canyon entrance where nothing moved, no one came. He was ash-gray now, and shaking. But not only with fear. A new, animalistic rage swept over him, a rage born of the urge to survive, to kill, to conquer and smash to bits any enemy.

Murphy! Slade! Burr! he called once more, desperately. Then he brought his gaze swiveling to Cole Rawdon. The black depths of his eyes shone with virulent hatred. You gawddamned son of a bitch, he rasped. What the hell did you do to them?

Nothing near as bad as what I’m going to do to you, Kincaid. The cool glint of the bounty hunter’s eyes filled the outlaw with stark terror.

Weeks! Now! Kincaid bellowed, and went for his gun.

Cole Rawdon moved faster. Like lightning he had a Colt in each hand, and like lightning he fired them each in a different direction. One bullet ripped through Kincaid’s heart; the other slammed through the cabin window and plunged into Ed Weeks’s brain. The roar of the two guns thundered through the sunlit canyon, echoing from rock to rock. Then came silence, but for the high, keening screams of the woman.

Garnet, filthy and half naked, threw herself down beside Kincaid’s body, shrieking at the top of her lungs. When Rawdon approached, her grief turned to terror for herself, and she gasped and stared up at the man looming over her, consumed by hysterical, helpless fright. But he only walked past her into the cabin. It took less than a second to see that Weeks was as dead as a man could get. By the time Rawdon came out again into the light, the woman was quieter, huddling over Kincaid’s bloodied body, sobbing on her knees in the dust.

Rawdon glanced at her, then away. He felt no pity for her. He had stopped up all his emotions a long time ago. He would not harm her, but he would do or say nothing to comfort her. Her grief, her loss, were none of his concern.

Kincaid was dead, and Ed Weeks with him. The rest of the gang had been captured, and it shouldn’t prove too difficult forcing them to reveal where the stagecoach loot was hidden. All in all, Cole Rawdon thought as he looked at Kincaid’s blood seeping into the dirt floor of the canyon, it had been a good morning’s work.

But as always, he took no pleasure in the killing, and his face was grim and worn when at last he had buried the dead, and left that desolate place behind. The woman stayed of her own accord, but Cole left her Kincaid’s horse before riding out to gather up his prisoners.

The Kincaid gang had proved no more difficult than most of the others to track and bring down. As Rawdon rode the narrow track that led up and out of the canyon, he realized that, even with the reward money from bringing in the Kincaid gang, he was still damned short of having enough to buy back Fire Mesa—if he really wanted it back. Did he? Or was it just that he didn’t want the home robbed from him in his childhood to be sold to that greedy bastard Line McCray? It would serve his father right if Fire Mesa was lost forever because of his drunken gambling. But his father was long dead, buried with his shame, as was Grandfather, he who had once ruled Fire Mesa with such pride and iron strength. Perhaps it was better to let the land go, to forget the glorious wild hills and buttes of his childhood, to remain a wanderer, belonging to no one and no place. And yet, when he thought of Line McCray building a railroad through his grandfather’s land, his jaw clenched with fury.

He’d need a pile of money to outbid McCray. And he’d need it soon.

Fire Mesa ...

With sheer effort of will, Cole pushed all thoughts of the beautiful, vast Arizona spread from his mind, and forced himself to think instead about dealing with his prisoners. He was here, today, in this godforsaken New Mexico Territory beneath a hell-blazing sun, with three hombres to transport and the Apache up in arms over treaty violations. Reality was here, now, harsh and full of danger. Fire Mesa was the past, a memory, distant and unreal, part of his life that had brutally ended twenty years ago on a day of death and destruction.

Fire Mesa was a dream. Or was it, Cole wondered, his eyes dark with memory, a nightmare?

1

Colorado,

April 1873

The dusty Kansas Pacific railroad car chugged across the Colorado plains with the steadfast determination of an ant crawling across a vast park lawn. Juliana Montgomery, fetchingly attired in plumed hat, a turquoise taffeta traveling dress, silk gloves, and dainty half-boots, sat with clasped hands and rapt, glowing face, watching the scenery glide past her window. Absorbed as she was by the newness and beauty of her surroundings, Juliana had no way of knowing that every mile crossed brought her nearer and nearer to the giant trap that had been carefully laid out for her. She had no inkling of the fate her aunt and uncle had decreed for her, not a single premonition or qualm of unease. Her heart was light and happy, filled with hope, as she took in the endless, rolling plains and crystal skies of Colorado, drinking in the wild splendor of land, sun, and sky unbroken by human habitation.

Magnificent, she thought on a little breath of wonder as she gazed out at the spring-bright plains. She had never seen such a boundless expanse of land: the prairie seemed to roll on and on forever, the buffalo and grama grass adorned here and there with beautiful wildflowers and shrubs. Beneath a lemon-drop sun, lovely sand lilies and coral-colored wild geraniums burst forth in riotous profusion. Scotch thistle appeared in scattered clumps, festooned with their gay purple tassels, and she was fascinated by the variety of cacti that rolled past: the conductor had pointed out to her the creosote bush and the yucca with its blaze of creamy flowers blossoming forth from bladelike leaves, and the deep red of an occasional prairie cactus shimmered against the pale green of the plains grasses. There were graceful cottonwoods and in the river bottoms, alongside the shallow green waters of the South Platte, she had spotted wild iris and cattails waving in the wind. Lovely. Compared to the tame, carefully cultivated gardens she had known these past nine years in St. Louis, the colorful blaze of wildflowers and cacti set against that rough prairie were a delight for the eye and the soul.

Isn’t it breathtaking? she murmured, her heart lifting at the wild beauty of the scene. Her cousin Victoria, dozing beside her, merely grimaced.

You keep saying that, she complained.

Juliana’s gaze never left the window. Look, the mountains in the distance—they must be the Rockies. Oh, surely, Denver cannot be far.

In the seat across the aisle from them, Katharine Tobias, Juliana’s aunt, worked her painted silk fan frantically against the stifling heat. She was a handsome, imposing woman with upswept dark hair, piercing mahogany-colored eyes, and wide shoulders. She was tall, with regal bearing and a proud carriage—and absolutely no sense of humor. Well, at least the scenery here is far more interesting than those dreadful boring plains in Kansas. I do admit fearing I would never again see anything but green grass and dull yellow sunflowers.

Uncle Edward set aside his sheaf of papers and removed his spectacles. He rubbed the red spot on the bridge of his nose and shifted uncomfortably in his seat. We’ll be in Denver by suppertime, he prophesied with relief. A man behind him blew his nose loudly, into a big square handkerchief. Edward ignored the interruption. You girls had best catch a few winks now if you want to be rested up for tonight. I don’t want you feeling peaked when we attend Mr. Breen’s party.

Yes, Papa. Obediently, Victoria leaned her head back and closed her eyes once more, all too eager to blot out the blinding sun, the jerking motion of the coach, and the heat and dust of the day. But Juliana was still staring out the window, transfixed, a dreamy smile playing about the edges of her pretty mouth.

Well, Edward reflected as he set his spectacles back in place, let her soak up the western scene if she has a mind to. If everything goes as planned, this untamed, uncivilized land she’s so enamored of will shortly be her new home.

With his spectacles on he could see her more clearly, and he was not displeased with her appearance. Far from looking the least bit peaked, his golden-haired niece was the picture of glowing feminine health. Even in her wilted travelling dress of stiff taffeta buttoned up to her throat, and with damp tendrils of hair clinging to her temples, Juliana looked as lovely as any of those wildflowers that charmed her so. The train was unbearably hot and dusty, and everywhere one looked women were fanning themselves, men perspiring and licking dry lips, and the odor of sweat positively clung to the air. Yet Juliana still glowed, her skin as fresh and lovely as a summer peach, her pale hair shimmering in the sunlight. Edward’s smile deepened as he studied her. The girl could dazzle, no doubt about that. With her lush cloud of sun-drenched hair, her winged brows and slender, enchantingly curvaceous figure she looked like a fairy-tale princess. Even the pale dusting of freckles across her small, straight nose, and the full mouth just a shade too wide for fashion only added to her loveliness, for they saved her from cold, classic perfection, and imbued Juliana’s elegant, chiseled features with a warmth and unconscious sensuality that added immensely to her appeal. Her laugh was low, husky, her smile as bright and captivating as a summer’s day. A beauty, everyone said, and they were right, but unfortunately his niece was a headstrong, troublesome beauty, flawed by her own willful spirit as well as her family’s questionable background. Though she was the toast of St. Louis society, ardently courted by scores of smitten beaux, it was common knowledge that no young man of breeding and wealth would marry her.

But I’ll show them all, Edward thought gleefully as he rubbed his sweating palms on his pants. I’ll marry her off to the richest businessman in the western United States, and ride his coattails to the top. There would be no more small-time profits for Edward Tobias, no sir. From now on, words like comfortably established, prominent, and well-to-do would no longer suffice to describe him. He would be a millionaire, a tycoon, a magnate, just like John Breen himself—all within a year, if the marriage went ahead as planned. And why shouldn’t it? John Breen, after meeting Juliana only that once, had made up his mind to have her, and Edward would see to it that the girl accepted his offer. She had better not get it into her head to be difficult about it either, for Edward would have none of that. John Breen had invested in the Tobias factories a year ago in a small way, his capital helping to spur them on to previously unthought-of success, but once he married Juliana, he had promised to open doors for Edward that would guarantee him wealth beyond most men’s wildest imaginations.

And the marriage would do wonders for his daughter, Victoria, Edward reflected, glancing over at the dark-haired girl snoring lightly against the upholstered seat. She hadn’t withstood the journey near as well as Juliana. Only passably pretty at her best, Victoria looked much the worse for wear after their long, weary days of travel. Her olive skin shone with oily perspiration and her hair hung limply against her neck. Still, though her lips were straight and thin, her chin a shade pointed, and her voice a trifle shrill, she had a neat figure and well-bred manners, not to mention her pleasing ability on the pianoforte and with an embroidery needle. All attributes that would someday be valued by the right man, Edward was certain, if only Juliana was not there to dazzle and distract him. No, Victoria would never again be a wallflower once she was free from comparison with her spectacular cousin. And with Juliana married and settled in Denver with John Breen, Edward knew it could not be long before his Victoria would find herself the object of some appropriate suitor’s attention.

He settled back beside his wife and her fluttering fan, content with himself and his expert arrangements for the future, dreaming of the mines and lumber mills and railroad shares he would soon own, possibly as many as John Breen himself.

The saloon in Denver, Juliana decided, will be the perfect place to begin my inquiries. The only trouble was, how would she manage to elude Aunt Katharine and Uncle Edward long enough to manage it? If she was caught ... A knot tightened inside her stomach at the thought of what would happen if she was discovered going into the saloon. She had already been forced to promise Uncle Edward she wouldn’t try to find Wade and Tommy, and if she was discovered doing anything as scandalous as entering a saloon to ask about them she would have to endure the most horrible censure. But it was worth the risk, Juliana told herself, as she unbuttoned the top button of her dress trying to alleviate the effects of the heat. She had to find Wade and Tommy—and this visit to Denver might be her only chance.

Juliana, fasten that button! Aunt Katharine’s furious whisper made the girl jump and hastily obey. Her aunt was glaring at her, her face puffed out with disapproval.

I’m sorry, Aunt Katharine. But it’s so dreadfully stuffy.

Try to remember that you are a lady and behave like one! You don’t see Victoria undressing herself in public, do you?

Victoria is half dead— and too frightened of you to wiggle her toes without permission, Juliana thought, with a pitying glance at her slumbering cousin. No, ma’am, she said.

Life would be easier, she acknowledged, if she were more like Victoria—biddable, cowed by authority, terrified of breaking any of society’s conventions. The only problem was, much as Juliana tried, she couldn’t get the knack of decorous behavior. She laughed out loud when the Reverend Davis sneezed at the high point of his Sunday sermon, rushed to help when the serving maid spilled soup on the dining room floor, and carried on elaborate conversations with Aunt Katharine’s lapdog, Charlotte, conversations so outrageous and nonsensical that the Tobias family could only stare at her as if she had gone mad.

It’s that mother of hers, Aunt Katharine frequently remarked in an undertone to Victoria, unaware that Juliana overheard several times. She was a wild, disgraceful young thing, and you mark my words, some of that has rubbed off on poor Juliana, despite our best efforts. Why, just look what’s become of her brothers—you can’t tell me there isn’t a bad taint in her blood!

When she heard things like that, it was all Juliana could do not to explode with anger. Usually she stopped whatever she was doing and left the room without a word, retreating to her own pretty bedroom on the second floor of the Tobias home. She would sink onto the bed and try to conjure up memories of her home back in Independence before Mama and Papa had died, and especially of her mother, whose past as a dance-hall girl before she married Papa had always been the subject of so much whispered gossip and contempt. It had been nine years since her parents’ deaths, and during that time, since Uncle Edward had come to fetch her east, the life she had led in Independence during the wagon train days, with Mama and Papa and Wade and Tommy all living together above the busy general store, had mostly faded into fuzzy memories. She could still, when she closed her eyes tight and concentrated hard, see Mama’s sad, pretty face with her yellow hair and pale lime-green eyes as she worked so busily packing supplies for the families and traders setting out for the West. And she could see Papa outside helping to load the wagons and horses with the gear, or sitting down to supper with them when the store was finally closed for the day, and the curtains were drawn against the setting sun. He would wink across the table at Juliana and say, Peanut, eat every crumb now, you’re far too thin. You want to grow up to be a beauty like your mama, don’t you?

And then there were Wade and Tommy, several years older than she, both boys handsome and energetic and filled with mischief. They had helped Papa vigorously in the store, but they had never liked the monotony of town work. We want to be scouts, they used to say, listening in rapture to the tales of buffalo herds and river crossings, Indian raids and fierce desperadoes, related by travelers returning from the West, who stopped in Independence and were all too happy to share their adventuresome tales with any who would listen. We want to cross the Cimarron River and sleep beneath a Texas sky. The bustle and commotion of thriving Independence held no allure for Wade and Tommy. Horses and cattle, wide-open spaces, gunfights, and buffalo hunts had captured their young fancies.

But nine years had passed since Juliana had seen her brothers. Mama and Papa had been killed, shot by drunken outlaws trying to rob the store, and Uncle Edward had come to Independence to take charge of the orphans. He’d wanted to fetch all three of the Montgomery children back to St. Louis with him, but Wade, aged fifteen, and Tommy, two years younger, had refused to go. They’d quarreled horribly with Uncle Edward about it. When Juliana begged to be allowed to stay in Independence with them, Uncle Edward had steadfastly refused, and even Wade and Tommy had insisted that their ten-year-old sister go to St. Louis and be raised like a lady. She would live with Aunt Katharine, they told her, Papa’s own sister, in a fine house, with pretty clothes, and a governess to teach her, and her cousin Victoria for a playmate. It wouldn’t be right for them to raise her. They were going to leave Independence and head for Texas. They wanted to catch wild horses, start a ranch. Someday, they told her, they’d have the grandest horse ranch in Texas and build her a fine house. Then she’d come and live with them.

Only ten, and heartbroken by the death of

Reviews for Cherished

[benn9314 · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

A story about the Wild West along with a love story