Desperate Straits

By Janet Squires

Sarah Ryan's hope for a new life in the Arizona Territory is shattered in an instant by gunfire. Suddenly, she has to rebuild an uncertain future with her orphaned nephew, Will, and take on the challenges of a cattle ranch. Just when order returns, veteran lawman, L.T. McAllister rides in. He's a dangerous man determined to do what's right regardless of the personal cost. L.T. believes himself ready for anything until he meets Sarah. Her ideas about the man he's become soon pit his lifetime of duty against desire. L.T.'s and Sarah's loyalty to Will catapults them into a life for which neither one is prepared. And when L.T. and Sarah defy Sheriff Grant Simpson, they trigger a cataclysm of retaliation that escalates into kidnapping and murder. L.T. and Sarah are forced into a battle for justice... and their lives.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Whiskey Creek Press
• Release date: Dec 1, 2014
• ISBN: 9781611608502

Book preview

Chapter 1

Ballinasloe, County Galway, Ireland

Be brave.

Sarah Ryan nodded. Her throat ached too much for words and she wouldn’t let herself cry—he couldn’t bear to see her tears. Instead she reached for her father’s hand. His cold fingers no longer trembled. His body had not even that much strength. His nails were blue, the veined skin waxy and pallid.

Sarah. His voice was stubborn, taut with effort.

Dread filled Sarah’s heart, but she lifted her gaze. He smiled, his dark eyes still warm in an ashen face.

Please, Papa.

You’ll sell the colt to Lord Gregory. He’s always fancied him and Kip won’t end up a cavalry mount ridden to death in some war.

There’s still time.

No.

Sarah wanted to beg, hated herself for that weakness, knew he was right—all in the same agonized moment.

Give me your promise, child, he rasped. His eyes held her, commanding one last act of loving obedience.

You have it.

She didn’t recognize the voice that passed her lips, but he hadn’t noticed. Her words released him.

Sarah rested her cheek on his silent chest and the tears, so long unshed, came at last.

* * * *

You’ll be a richly-dowered young woman, Lord Gregory Fitzwilliam assured her a week later. He set the heavy strongbox on his carved mahogany desk and looked across at Sarah perched straight-backed on the edge of an elegant rosewood armchair.

It isn’t marriage that’s on my mind just now.

Of course. But you must realize that it was naught but the lack of your fortune keeping several of our fine young men in check.

I know well enough.

And marriage is a woman’s proper state, not tearing across the countryside on horseback.

There’s no chance of that happening now that you’ll have Kip, is there?

If you need more time...

Sarah drew herself up a fraction more. I gave Father my word. I take my comfort from that.

Lord Gregory opened the strongbox and removed a cloth sack that jangled in his hand. There was no better farm manager, horseman, nor friend than Thomas Ryan. He loosened the drawstrings on the bag and proceeded to count out gold sovereigns.

Did you ever see such?

Sarah never had more than shillings in her pocket and once a golden guinea. The coins stacked one on another, a glittering promise of her future.

Lord Gregory paused. It’s a handsome sum.

Sarah was mute. She’d watched her father trade in horses all her life. Could Kip, even as splendid as he was, be worth the shining fortune piled before her?

I’ll look forward to a dance at your nuptials.

She felt honor-bound to speak, but what if Lord Gregory changed his mind? There’ll be no wedding.

Sarah?

The funeral mass has been sung, the cottage is empty. In but a few days I’ll be aboard ship bound for America.

You can’t be serious.

Mary will have me. My mind’s made up.

Lord Gregory fingered the coins. There will be little to spare by the time you arrive at your sister’s.

No one’s poor who has good sense and the use of his feet.

You sound like your father. Lord Gregory paused then added another stack of sovereigns to the rest and dropped the bag back in the strongbox. There’s nothing left but the formalities. He pushed the bill of sale across the desk then passed Sarah the inkwell, pen, and blotter.

I, Thomas Patrick Ryan, do hereby sell—

Sarah’s eyes misted at the sight of her father’s familiar hand. It was just as well that she read the document over when her father first wrote it, setting down the chestnut colt’s markings, his bloodlines, and the agreed upon sum. That amount and a good deal more was hers—if she signed the contract.

Sarah couldn’t seem to breathe and startled at the sound of Lord Gregory’s voice.

"Kip’s one of the finest young stallions in the county. Even if he never sires his equal I’ll be honored to have him in my stable and here he will stay. You need have no concerns on that account. I made a promise too."

Sarah felt herself go quiet inside.

Oh, Da! I’ll never lay another flower on your grave, but I’ll carry you away in m’heart.

She dipped the pen and wrote—Sarah Anne Ryan, 22 July 1887.

* * * *

The Arizona Territory

A pair of bay horses, driven by Robert Dawson, leaned into their harness as they trotted along the dusty track climbing into the mountains. Sarah Ryan huddled into her cloak, but the warm folds were no protection against her pain. Mary and Ben dead? It can’t be.

Her mind drifted back over the moment when she finally arrived in the town of Surraco. The joy of reunion with her sister and brother-in-law was extinguished by a single word. Murder!

Dawson’s wife, Adaline, found Sarah sitting alone in the stagecoach waiting room stunned by news of her sister’s death. Adaline offered a hot meal and a warm bed, but Sarah was determined to finish her journey that started five thousand miles away in County Galway, Ireland and reach the ranch known as Hermit’s Rest. She’d have no peace until she comforted her orphaned nephew, Will. Now, she observed their progress with growing uncertainty.

Whatever shall I say to a twelve-year-old boy I’ve never laid eyes upon?

The sturdy geldings turned dark with sweat as they pushed on through the afternoon’s rough uphill climb. Sarah felt a trickle of moisture on her own back by the time they entered a narrow pass and began their descent into a high valley surrounded by mountains that rolled into infinity. Dawson stopped the wagon and watered the team at a shallow, swift-running river flowing across their path.

How much farther will it be then, to the ranch? she asked.

We’re on it. Hermit’s Rest claims all the land from the pass back to the base of the mountains. This river marks the southern boundary. But it will take a little while to reach the house from here. He pointed to the river’s source. That’s Wildhorse Canyon. It cuts back into the mountains east of here between the ranch and town.

Sarah struggled against a rising tide of foreboding. Coming to Hermit’s Rest was supposed to be a fresh beginning. The adventure of a new land and the promise of welcome in her sister’s family offered a powerful antidote for her grief. Had she made a mistake?

Sarah closed her eyes.

Dear Saint Brigid—You who love and care for the injured and disheartened. Out of your compassion, heal my sorrow, grant me strength.

Somehow it would be all right.

Sarah tried to concentrate on the changing landscape. Her Ireland was a thousand shades of green—the emerald fields, the mossy bogs—the gray-green Burren, the blue-green sea. A land so ancient even the light on the sunniest of days was softened by the passage of ages. The countryside here was beautiful yes, but so—raw, so—new. The broad expanse of jagged mountains was covered in an endless swath of towering trees. Yellow flowers, round as pin-cushions, and spikes of crimson blossoms forced a passage through the grasses at the trail’s edge, the last pockets of summer color in the vastness surrounding her. And all of it cast into sharp relief by a brilliant sky.

Dawson pointed ahead. The ranch house is over there.

Where? I don’t... Bless me, I do see something. Sarah studied the buildings that seemed to be a natural outgrowth of the wooded hillside. The main house of neat squared logs waited, closed and hushed in the late afternoon sun. The windows were dim save for one that was patched with a scrap of wood. Close by was a smaller house—for the help, she supposed. In the distance a crude barn and corrals blended into the surrounding trees.

It’s so deserted.

Will and Jeremy could be most anywhere. This place is a lot of work for one man and a boy.

Then why aren’t there more men on an estate this large?

Don’t be misled by the size. Most ranches out here are land poor. There isn’t a man who’d part with a foot of his spread, but hard cash for wages, that’s different. Ben hired seasonal help for branding and the like.

Dawson stopped the wagon at the wide porch running the length of the house. He looped the reins over the brake lever and jumped down to help Sarah out of the wagon. He cupped his hands around his mouth. Jeremy! Will! A squirrel chattered, then there was silence. Appears no one’s here to meet you.

Tis my own fault. When I found out I’d be arrivin’ early... Sarah steadied her voice. I decided to surprise my sister.

I could wait, if you don’t want to be alone.

You mustn’t think it. I’ll be fine. Besides, you should be returnin’ to your store. Sarah noted the doubt that rested on his face. I’ll get m’self settled. She offered her hand. I thank you for bringin’ me out here, Mr. Dawson.

Ben and Mary were good friends. If there’s anything Adaline or I can do for you, just ask. He unloaded her baggage then climbed into the wagon and whistled the team into motion.

Sarah leaned on the peeled log that served as a porch railing and watched the wagon disappear beyond a grove of trees. Her attention was drawn to the wide branches of an alder standing in the distance and the two rectangular mounds it sheltered. Three yellow roses, the blossoms spent, clung to the bushes that edged the railing. Sarah plucked the petals and walked to the twin patches of naked earth edged with smooth river rock.

A chill wind tugged at the pair of markers bearing the inscriptions: Benjamin Josiah McAllister, and Mary Margaret McAllister. The simple wooden monuments made Sarah ache with loss. She knelt to replace a stone that had rolled loose from the border of her sister’s grave, then scattered the petals. Don’t worry, Mary, I’ll care for Will. I swear it on m’life!

Sarah returned to the house and dragged her trunk and bags inside. The wall opposite the entry was dominated by a wide stone fireplace. Before the hearth lay a faded rag rug surrounded by a thread-bare settee, a cowhide chair, and a well-used oak rocker. Sarah felt like an intruder, but it didn’t keep her from exploring.

There was a sleeping loft at the end of the room. A quilt, tacked to the lower edge, served as a curtain to conceal a makeshift bed space tucked beneath the overhang that was probably meant for her. There was a small chest dressed with a lone candlestick and a diminutive china figurine of a shepherdess with a lamb. She dropped her bags on the cot with its crude horsehair-stuffed mattress.

Sarah gathered tinder from the wood box to kindle a fire. It took several tries with the flint and steel she found on the mantle before a glimmer of spark signaled success, but she soon had three logs crackling to chase away the gloom with their cheerful light.

She stepped into the room that had been Mary’s and Ben’s. A knitted shawl hung in a tangle across the iron bedstead. A hint of rosemary, the scent Mary favored, clung to the wool. Sarah hugged, then folded the shawl away in the top drawer of the dresser. A small paper parcel was tucked in the corner with Sarah’s name written across it in Mary’s elegant hand.

Sarah held it a moment and opened the wrapping. Inside was a handkerchief edged with delicate crocheted lace, the corners embroidered with shamrocks.

Mary’s handiwork.

Her last letter had included her plans to celebrate Sarah’s twentieth birthday when she arrived. The day had come and gone during the long trip west, but Mary hadn’t forgotten. It was fourteen years since Sarah had seen her sister. The passage of time must have changed her, but Sarah would always remember Mary with her fairy-tale beauty and quiet, steady manner that even Sarah’s mercurial temperament couldn’t disturb.

She tucked the handkerchief in her sleeve and went to the kitchen. It was almost a relief to see the greasy plates on the table, assuring that she wasn’t going to be alone. She trimmed the wick on the kerosene lamp and lit it as much for its comfort as its light. A stained dishcloth tucked into the waistband of her skirt made a serviceable apron and she set about putting the house in order. Each neglected room was swept and dusted to perfection. The long afternoon shadows faded into twilight.

Sarah put the broom and cleaning rags in their corner by the stove. She was tired, but satisfied as she dug out the packets of tea and white sugar that Dawson’s wife, Adaline, had urged on her that morning. A thorough search of the pantry and a visit to the kitchen garden yielded the ingredients for a hearty stew. Sarah filled the kettle and set it to heat for tea. The first hint of steam spiraled from the spout when she heard the unmistakable click of a gun being cocked behind her.

Chapter 2

Sarah’s throat closed. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. She reached past the stove and lifted the broom from its resting place. The muzzle of a rifle was visible near the edge of the doorway. She swung the broom around and up, knocking the weapon aside to discharge into the ceiling over her head with a thunderous roar.

The gun-wielding stranger burst past the corner. His watery gray eyes widened as he saw her. Oh Lordy! You must be Miss Sarah.

Aye, I’m Sarah Ryan and what madman are you to be wavin’ that weapon at a lady in her kitchen? She hoisted the broom in warning.

Now, Ma’am, take it easy. The old man kept a cautious eye on Sarah as he edged his way farther into the room.

A voice shouted, Jeremy! A boy charged into the kitchen and skidded to a halt in the center of the room.

Sarah collapsed into a chair, dropping the broom in the process. She laughed and cried at the same time.

It’s okay, Will. Ever’ thing is all right, soothed the gray-headed old man as he hurried to the boy. This here is your Aunt Sarah.

Jeremy remembered the rifle he was still holding and stumbled in his haste to lay it out of the way. I’m mighty sorry. It was all he could do to get the words out. We wasn’t expectin’ you near so soon.

Sarah brushed the tears from her face. So it seems.

She held out her hand to Will, but the gesture went unnoticed.

His worried attention was centered on the old man he’d called Jeremy. Are you sure you’re all right? I heard a shot.

Will was close to her height, a sturdy lad with straight brown hair. His alert blue eyes were edged by dark circles that spoke of wakeful nights.

Sarah longed to comfort him, but she rose from her chair and returned the broom to its place instead.

Jeremy nudged the boy toward the back door. Will and I better go put up the horses.

Wait.

Can’t talk now. Got to see to those horses. The old man’s anxiety was plain.

I’m not the only one who was scared.

Sarah let him go. Yes, of course. Don’t be too long. Supper’s almost ready, she told the retreating figures.

* * * *

Sarah didn’t know what to make out of mealtime, beyond the obvious. Jeremy found her cooking tolerable. He hunched over his plate like a starving man, chewing and swallowing stew and mopping his chin with his sleeve. Sarah couldn’t begin to guess his age. Despite the gray of his hair and handlebar moustache and the silver stubble of whiskers over skin weathered to the texture of old leather, there was a wiry toughness about him.

Jeremy tore off a chunk of bread and daubed it in gravy. As he slopped a second helping of stew onto his plate he looked up as if he realized Sarah was watching him. He stared at the gravy-spattered table and let the ladle back down into the stew. You’ll have to excuse my manners, ma’am. He hesitated, making Sarah wonder what he was going to say next. It’s been a while since we’ve had such a fine meal.

If he’d been trying to find a compliment, he’d succeeded. It’s all right. No woman ever took offense at a man likin’ her cooking.

Sarah considered Will’s troubled face. He’d spent supper time picking at his food with his fork or casting anxious looks in her direction. Now, he seemed unaware of her. She raised an eyebrow in question to Jeremy. He answered with a slight shake of his head. If he knew what was bothering Will, this wasn’t the time to discuss it.

I suppose this is awkward for all of us, Sarah offered.

Yes, ma’am. Jeremy managed another word or two in response to her comments and after a few minutes she conceded defeat and let the meal finish in silence.

Will pushed his plate away. I guess I’ll be goin’ to bed. I’ve been bunking with Jeremy to keep him company.

Stay. We could get acquainted.

Will stood up so fast that his chair overturned. We got nothin’ to talk about. He stomped out of the kitchen.

Jeremy went after him, leaving Sarah worrying over what to do next.

She straightened Will’s chair. Maybe she could find the boy and coax him into eating something more; that would be a start. She moved his dish to the stove to keep warm and walked out onto the shadowed porch. Someone was in the barn. Bats swooped in and out of the darkness capturing fat, fluttering moths drawn to the yellow lantern light shining through the half-open door. The barn went dark. Will and Jeremy started across the yard. Sarah was about to speak when the clear night air brought a portion of their conversation to her ears. It was Will.

Why did she have to show up now?

Jeremy stepped in front of Will, stopping him in his tracks. What the devil’s got you so riled? It’s not like you to treat a body the way you did Miss Sarah.

Jeremy waited, but the boy stood, arms crossed, stiff and silent as a fence post. The old man went on. Dammit, boy I know it’s been bad. But this can’t be easy for her neither. Think of her comin’ all this way and findin’... Jeremy’s voice cracked. You ought to give her a chance.

Sarah blessed Jeremy for his words. His unexpected support was a thorn in her conscience. She’d never redeem herself if she was caught listening, but it was worth the risk to find out what was bothering Will. She compromised by backing along the wall, away from the light from the waxing moon illuminating the yard.

She’s gonna be in the way.

I’m not so sure.

Will grunted in protest, but Jeremy cut him off. With your folks gone and no money to hire help we’re getting behinder every day.

Will dropped his hands to his sides. Please, Jeremy. She can stay if that’s what you want, just don’t give up.

Jeremy laid his arm across the boy’s shoulders. I never quit your Pa and I ain’t quittin’ you. We got to be practical like, that’s all. Jeremy patted Will on the back. Look at the good side. Leastways she can cook.

Sarah heard all she needed to. She slipped back inside.

I can do a fair bit more than cook.

She splashed equal parts of hot and cold water into the dishpan. Waves overflowed the chipped edge and wet the floor. She shook her head at her flash of temper. Sure, there’s always the cleanin’. She grabbed a rag to soak up the mess. Impatience fled in the face of reality. Cleaning may not be what she had in mind, but the plain fact was that it needed doing. Sarah scraped a plate and remembered Will’s dish on the stove. The food was still tempting. Getting past her nephew’s reserve had to be her first priority.

She found Will sitting on a bench on the bunkhouse porch. He saw her coming and headed for the door. Determined, she went up the steps.

May I speak to you? She put the plate on the bench and waited.

His expression was blank as a mask.

Sarah knew it was all the invitation she was going to get. I want you to know that I understand, at least a little bit, how you feel. Sarah hesitated then went on. I never knew my mother. And when my father died, I was so alone, but I looked forward to making a home here with Mary and Ben and you.

You’re an orphan, too?

I suppose I am.

Am I getting through to him?

I hope you’ll give me a chance. I loved your mother and father and I’ll love you too if you’ll let me.

The boy looked at her and grew thoughtful.

You don’t have to answer. Think on it.

What are you going to do?

I’m not sure, she answered honestly. "But I do know this. You and I are family an’ there’s nothin’ so important as that."

She handed him the plate of food. I kept this warm for you. A man can’t be expected to have a good night’s rest with an empty stomach.

Will studied the plate, making Sarah wonder if pride or hunger would win out.

Guess I could eat something, he admitted. Jeremy and I have a long day tomorrow.

I’ll see you in the morning then.

Will disappeared inside.

It was a beginning of sorts.

The protest of a log, cracking beneath the blow of an axe, led Sarah to the woodshed. She found Jeremy splitting kindling with steady precision. She walked into the circle of lantern light and waited. A chunk of pine broke beneath the stroke of the blade to be followed by another a few seconds later.

Jeremy rested the axe head against the stump he was using as a chopping block. His gaze met hers with quiet determination. I ought’a explain about the gun.

Sarah came closer.

Guess I been a mite jumpy after what happened to Ben and Mary.

Sarah’s stomach turned over. Exactly what did happen?

Jeremy rubbed his gnarled fingers across his face. He peered at Sarah. When he spoke, his voice was low and edged with bitterness. Was me that found them, curse the day! Heard shots and come runnin’, but I was too late. There was four gunmen. Ben kilt two and was down hisself. I shot another. The fourth got away.

Sarah dug her nails into her palms to force a stillness she didn’t feel. You mean one of those men is still out there? That’s why you had the gun?

No, ma’am. That fella’s long gone. Out here ever’body carries a gun.

The old man grew agitated. Them outlaws had a posse on their trail and they’d been runnin’ hard. That’s why they came here. They needed fresh horses. Ben tried to stop them. There was a fight. Jeremy spat into the dirt. Soon as it was over I hauled Ben inside. That’s when I saw Mary. A stray bullet come through the window. My guess is she didn’t know what happened. It was that quick.

Sarah prayed he was right. When she first heard the news in town, the shock had kept her from asking questions. Now she had answers, but knowing was precious little comfort.

I’m sorry, Miss Sarah. I shouldn’t talk so much.

I’m sorry my askin’ caused you pain. It must have been terrible for you and Will. Thank the saints you both survived.

Amen to that, Jeremy agreed. Will was gone for the day, trappin’ rabbits. By the time he got home I had things purty well cleaned up. The boy took it hard though. Mighty hard. Wouldn’t let me help with the grave diggin’. Did it by hisself.

Jeremy examined the axe then tested the blade’s edge with his thumb. Anyways, when we came back tonight and I saw the lights and all; I told Will to hide out and let me take a look. Can’t let nothin’ happen to that boy. I never figured on you comin’ all the way out here. When I think what I almost did. How I nearly...

The axe rose and fell, cleaving another chunk of firewood and driving the blade deep into the chopping block underneath.

The blow rang with a fierceness that Sarah knew wasn’t directed at the wood.

I’m gettin’ plumb useless, he muttered.

Sarah sought some way to offer him comfort. Well, I hope never to be havin’ such an experience again, but no harm’s done, save for ten years scared off the life of a helpless woman, she added in a voice that she thought sounded almost normal.

Now, ma’am, as to helpless, I think I’d sooner face a bear with a sore tooth than you with a broom in your hands.

Let’s say we’re even then, Sarah continued, satisfied by the relief that appeared on his face. I’m glad that Will had you with him through all of this. I can see how much he cares for you.

Thank you, ma’am. He’s been stickin’ mighty close, that’s for sure.

Sarah was tempted to question the old man further, but she could see how his body sagged with fatigue. There was nothing he could say now that couldn’t be said tomorrow so she told him good night and returned to the house.

* * * *

Morning came too soon. Sarah rolled over, burying her face in the pillow. She’d lain awake for hours, worrying about what she was going to do, until sleep claimed her at last. Her head ached. She wanted to stay right where she was, but slid out of the warm cocoon of blankets and dressed.

She thought of the empty loft. Will’s need to be with Jeremy in the bunkhouse was understandable. Still, her nephew’s distrust and dark looks hurt her. She had to think of some way to make friends. She sighed and walked to the kitchen. There had to be a solution. In the meantime there were things to do.

She opened the grate for the stove and reached for some kindling and bits of tinder. The wood box was almost empty. She pulled her woolen shawl over her shoulders and walked outside to the woodshed.

The rising sun gilded the underside of the few high clouds and painted the bare rock along the distant valley wall salmon pink. Rays of light cut through the mist hanging in the tree tops. A blue jay, iridescent in the morning light, swooped overhead, scolding a trespassing squirrel. Mary had described mornings like this in her letters.

The bunkhouse door banged open. Will bolted across the yard to the barn. Sarah gathered her courage and followed him. She paused inside to let her eyes grow accustomed to the dim light. The scene was wonderfully familiar. The scent of the sweet fresh hay mingled with oiled leather. Eager nickers answered the rattle of oats in the mangers. Some things didn’t change.

The first stall held a pretty piebald mare painted black and white. Next was a tall, speckled-gray gelding of uncertain origins, but Sarah suspected, from the sturdy look of him, that he could go all day. In the stall at the end of the barn was another gelding, a handsome sixteen-hand chestnut whose refined lines bespoke careful breeding.

Will talked to the horse as he worked over his shining copper mane with a brush. The big horse snorted, alerting the boy to Sarah’s approach.

What a handsome animal. How’s he called?

Will ran his fingers over the glossy red coat along the gelding’s shoulder. Irish. Cause of his color. The boy was silent for a moment then added, It was Ma’s idea.

Sarah stroked the horse’s velvet nose. He lifted his muzzle to her face. His whiskers tickled her cheek. She closed her eyes against gathering tears. Just so had Kip greeted her when she brought him a bit of scone or some other treat saved from her breakfast.

Your Irish is so like the last colt m’father bred; they could have shared the same sire. Sarah blew softly into the horse’s nostrils. He responded in kind; his warm breath whispered across her skin. She saw the interest on her nephew’s face.

Tis an old gypsy trick that I learned from your grandfather, Sarah explained. Now, Irish knows me.

You know about horses?

Aye. That I do. Sarah laughed. Tis nothing as glorious as a heart-pounding gallop on a fine, bold hunter. She eyed the chestnut as he dropped his head to feed. Your Irish has the look of a runner.

He can outrace most anything in the territory.

Sarah could appreciate Will’s pride in the gelding. It was encouraging to discover that

Reviews for Desperate Straits

[cathygeha · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

This action-packed Western with heart, grit and depth is a thrilling story that kept me absorbed from beginning to end. Sarah Ryan has made her way from Ireland to Hermit’s Ridge ranch in Arizona only to find that her sister and brother-in-law have been murdered. With the idea of becoming her 12 year old nephew’s caretaker she moves onto the ranch and eventually becomes his partner. When she first sees the lone gunman, Texas Ranger L. T. McAllister, arriving in Succor, Arizona to turn his brother’s murderer in for trial, she does not realize that he is related to Will, her nephew. With Jeremy, the crusty older wrangler, assisting at the ranch and eventually L. T. coming to help out they all spend weeks waiting for the trial and getting to know one another better. Gunslingers, fights, evil, corruption, torture, friendships, a dance, a festival, gold hunters and more occur in this rousing story that eventually ends on a happy note. The way this was written I felt as if I could have been there. My emotions and senses were engaged as I became immersed in the lives of the characters of this book. I recommend this novel to anyone who has enjoyed Louis L’Amour, Zane Grey, Max Brand and other classic Western authors and also recommend it to those who enjoy historical Western romances written by female authors that allude to the sensual without being explicit. Thank you to NetGalley and the author for the copy of this book in exchange for my honest review.