Mark of the Sire

By Larion Wills

After an innocent encounter, Lon’s reputation was all it took to slander Catherine’s good name. To escape the vicious gossip, she leaves home to assist her uncle's family in settling into a new home on a ranch. Unfortunately, she finds herself a victim of her uncle’s self-righteous censure and constant lectures on proper behavior only to discover what she’d run from had followed - and worse.

A deadly encounter with the past, legends come back to life, enemies old and new, family estranged, and family thought dead all collided in the violence she had condemned him for. Will Catherine run away again or stay and admit her love for Lon? Will she prove herself a woman strong enough for the wilds of Colorado and willing to fight for her man?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Painted Hearts Publishing
• Release date: Jun 8, 2017

Larion Wills

Oklahoma born, L.L. Brooks now makes her home in the high desert country of Arizona, her desert used as the setting in this story. They gave up the asphalt and concrete of Phoenix and the heat, choosing instead dirt roads and distant neighbours. When she finds time for other activities, she enjoys reading-no surprise-a good movie, crocheting, a night out with hubby, spending time with the family and friends, playing with her dog, and—yes, she admits it—shopping, thrift shops and garage sales her favourite kind, even if the nearest gas station is a good ten miles away. Always thrilled to hear from fans, you can email her any time at [e-mail] and find a growing author page on Amazon.

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SIRE SERIES, BOOK ONE:

MARK OF THE SIRE

LARION WILLS

Mark of the Sire

Copyright © 2017, Larion Wills

Published by Painted Hearts Publishing

Smashwords Edition

About the Book You Have Purchased

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Unauthorized reproduction of distribution of this copyrighted work is illegal. Criminal copyright infringement, including infringement without monetary gain, is investigated by the FBI and is punishable by up to 5 years in federal prison and a fine of $250,000.

Mark of the Sire

Copyright © 2017 Larion Wills

ISBN 10: 1-946379-40-9

ISBN 13: 978-1-946379-40-5

Author: Larion Wills

Publication Date: March 2017

All cover art and logo copyright © 2017 by Painted Hearts Publishing

Cover design by E Keith

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

Prologue

The quirt swished through the air and cracked to split cloth and skin beneath. The child, a gangly adolescent, did not cry out. He ground his teeth together to keep the screams of pain trapped in his throat. The screams of helplessness and horror came from Lars, a child of the same age, and his Mama. Neither was strong enough to stop the brutal whipping, though both tried desperately. Despite Sam Fetchen’s skeletal build, both were thrown back repeatedly. The only consolation for the child was knowing they wanted to help. His father didn’t stop until Clyde was in the dirt, too weak to struggle when Sam dragged him away.

Chapter One

Lars Svensen was at the reins of the wagon. He’d grown to a large man, huge of stature compared to the average man of his time. He stood six foot four inches in his stocking feet with the width of shoulders and body making him look short from a distance. Lars had inherited his Viking size from his father as well as his fair hair and light complexion. As a good-natured and considerate man, his concern was for the woman beside him on the wagon seat.

The distant cloud bank kept massing and moving closer. The elements continued to work to keep them from reaching protection before the dropping temperature, a possible late snow storm, and darkness overtook them. To Lars’s way of thinking, Catherine Lincoln was a little bit of a thing, with looks reminiscent of a fancy porcelain doll with chestnut colored curls he’d once seen. She looked too fragile to be exposed to the hard elements of the Colorado Rockies, having arrived early in the past fall to assist her uncle, Lars’s employer, to settle his family into their new home. Not having had time to adjust to the severity of the high-country winters, she hadn’t set foot outside the house once the snows had begun, staying safely inside with warm fires. For her sake, as badly as he wanted to go on, he couldn’t in good conscience. He’d have to stay over at Brivers Station and take her to the Lincoln’s ranch in the morning. He would lose time to spend his day off with his wife and mother, but they would understand. Even his Sally had commented on how timid and frail Miss Lincoln seemed.

* * * *

To Catherine’s way of thinking, Lars was the one who needed a dry, warm place to retreat. His feet and legs were soaking wet from freeing the wagon from mud bogs, one of the elements working against them. Never would she consider herself a ‘little bit of a thing.’ At five foot seven inches, she was tall for a woman and self-conscious of her height. She towered over most women as well as stood eye to eye with most men. Compared to Lars, she was little. Most anyone was. She would have scoffed at the idea of being pampered after spending the better part of her twenty-three years caring for her younger siblings and father. She was tired of being pampered. To her, the concept was no more than an excuse to keep women helpless and dependent.

Lars eyed the cloud bank darkening the sky and bringing on an early twilight. I’m afraid we won’t even make it to Brivers before those clouds drop either rain or a late season snow. I shouldn’t have brought you along.

I didn’t give you much of a chance to refuse, she answered candidly. She had run out and crawled up on the wagon without invitation as soon as she heard Lars was going to town. One more day of being cooped up in her uncle’s house and she was sure she would have gone mad.

Your uncle will worry.

He knows where I am and with who. He has no reason, she said stiffly. She hadn’t asked permission or informed Uncle Charles of her decision. Likely he was angry. She, however, had reached the point of not caring what her uncle felt.

Yah, but it’s turned cold, and it may snow.

A slow smile crossed over her face. It snows in Chicago, Lars.

As cold as here? he asked in curiosity. He had never been further than Denver, and Chicago seemed another world to him.

Yes, and I promise I won’t melt at the first flake of snow. I’m fine, really.

It’s a harsh land for women, miss. Do you ever wish you hadn’t come?

Her smile faded. Not because of the land. It’s beautiful. Many times during the winter she had wished she had not come, though it had nothing to do with the land.

Even now? he asked in a teasing voice.

Even now, she answered with a laugh. Although I will admit, I don’t think I have ever seen so much mud. Will it be this wet for long?

Oh no, soon it will be all wildflowers and green grass.

That’s what I’ve heard. I’m looking forward to it. She would stay long enough to see the wildflowers before she left the suffocating atmosphere of her uncle’s house to return home.

It is a sight, miss. One my Sally never tires of. She enjoyed your visits, and she’s looking forward to you coming again. She can’t travel much, and…I mean…well…er-er…she looks forward to your company.

Catherine was aware of the dressing down Lar had received when making a comment concerning the reason of his wife’s confinement that caused his stammering and sudden embarrassment. The terse reprimand hadn’t come from her. He had been told in no uncertain terms by Charles Lincoln how improper it was to speak of such things in the company of a lady, especially an unmarried one. There was no reason for Lars to know the biggest cause of her decision to leave soon was the result of her constant clashes with her uncle over what was and was not proper for a lady to discuss, see, do, hear, or feel.

Despite her uncle’s curt dressing down, Catherine let him know she was not disturbed by speaking of pregnancy. Are you hoping for a boy? she asked, smiling again.

Yah, miss, he said with a grin to tell how proud he was soon to be a papa.

Does Sally want a girl? she asked.

Well, now, she says she doesn’t care, but she sure makes some fancy little duds. We don’t really care, just so it’s healthy and all. There will be more than one.

Grandchildren for Mama? she asked, relaxing as well and speaking freely for the first time in months.

Yah, miss. It always mourned Mama she didn’t have more than me, and I wasn’t much more than trouble.

Most little boys are. I suppose you had your share of fights and dragging home strays.

I did take a stray home once. Mama and Pa took him right to heart. His voice lost its lilt of merriment as he spoke. They wanted more children so bad and seeing the way his pa treated him made them sick to heart. It isn’t right the way the laws are, miss. There wasn’t a thing they could do to keep him from being beat.

Oh, Lars, that’s terrible.

Yah, miss. Mama missed him after he ran off, and she always worried for him, but not anything like she did before, when he was still with his pa.

Do you ever hear from him?

Some, he answered shortly and quickly changed the subject. I can see the lights now. We’ll have you safe and warm in no time.

The abrupt silence left Catherine to wonder what had happened to the little, beaten boy. She was much too polite to pursue a subject Lars so obviously wanted to drop, no matter how curious she was.

* * * *

Well, now, if this isn’t a pleasure. Mr. Brivers rubbed his hands together and moved toward Catherine rapidly when she entered the main room.

Lars had dropped her at the center steps of the wide veranda to avoid the mud and to be able to get out of the weather while he went to tend to the horses. She wished immediately she had waited on the veranda. Brivers was one of the reasons she hadn’t wanted to stay there, even one brief night. He was crude and vulgar, devouring her with his eyes and saying things bordering on insulting suggestion.

Mr. Svensen and I would like rooms for the night.

I’ll show you right up, he said and reached for her arm.

She stepped back. Thank you, no. We’ll have a meal first. She wasn’t going into any dark hallway alone with him.

Mr. Brivers chuckled smugly and gave a mocking bow. He stretched out his arm to point to one of the tables. Catherine went stiff. He chuckled more over her discomfort. The last time she had been there she sat at the corner table, the one he pointed to. Brivers had promptly boxed her in, telling her how lonely she must be. He was entirely too close when her uncle came in. Even still, she was the one to receive the cold look of reproach and later a reprimand on being too familiar. She didn’t want any similar scene repeated and readied to retreat to the veranda when she heard laughter from the other room, the saloon section of the way station.

You have other guests. We’ll call when we’re ready.

He edged closer. Might be I couldn’t hear you.

She promised herself she would leave if he took one more step. He raised his foot; she raised hers to retreat. They both whirled in surprise when the door slammed open.

Get out of here! Brivers shouted.

Never in her life had Catherine seen a man more filthy or mean looking. He was of medium height and gaunt. His hair was long, uncut, unkempt, and matted. A growth of facial hair, not long enough to call a beard, was encrusted with bits and pieces of food from past meals. All the creases in his face, hands, neck, and even the patched and worn rags he wore were filled with dirt.

Lookin’ fer my boy, the man said.

No Fetchen in here, Brivers retorted. I don’t want my place smelling. You get out.

Ya’d let Clyde in, the man said with a glint in his eyes.

Brivers gasped and paled. Fetchen chuckled and moved closer. He taunted while Brivers backed away, Might be he’s har now, waitin’ fer his ole pa.

No, no, Brivers said faintly.

Catherine backed off as well, though not because she felt threatened, as Brivers obviously did. The man’s body odor was offensive.

Her movement took his eyes to her. Who you be?

Who I am is none of your concern. Disgusted with his manner and condition, she turned away.

His bony fingers clutched her arm. Ya won’t be talkin’ like dat ta Clyde, he hissed at her.

She jerked to free her arm and hissed back, If he is as dirty, smelly, and rude as you are, I will.

The fingers clawed into her flesh to hold her tight, and Brivers gasped when Fetchen raised his arm to strike. Catherine braced herself, not to receive a blow, but to protect herself and deliver one of her own. She hadn’t grown up with younger brothers without learning to defend herself. The move was unnecessary. Fetchen dropped his arm when Lars bellowed his name.

Lars barreled through the door, pushing two smaller versions of the repulsive man out of his way. They were young boys, no more than fifteen, and the sight of them appalled her. The elder Fetchen looked cadaverous. They looked starved, and, although his clothes were ragged, he had enough to be warm. They didn’t even have shoes. Instantly, the memory of the little boy Lars had told her of, a child beaten by his father, came to mind. The man holding her arm was the kind to beat a child, and Lars obviously hated him.

Stay in yar own fence, Fetchen yelled at Lars and pulled Catherine around to put her between them. Catherine didn’t resist. She was too distracted by the emaciated and frightened boys.

Lars’s voice was deep with rage. Get away from her.

He advanced slowly with his hands clenched in fists. Fetchen circled for the door, careful to keep Catherine between them. Everything was going fine for him until Catherine balked at being dragged. She didn’t fight him. She planted her feet and wouldn’t move.

Let her go, or I will break your neck, Lars promised furiously.

From the saloon side a new voice spoke. Wouldn’t want to dirty my hands. Rather shoot him.

Four of them, stood in the doorway. The speaker, Quirt, was the oldest in his early thirties, and he looked cold and ruthless. He, as the other three, had a holster strapped down to his thigh. He, unlike the others, had the look of a man who knew how to use a gun and enjoyed it. The other three ranged in age from late twenties to barely out of the teen years. They didn’t have the look Quirt did, but they did have guns.

No gunplay, Lars said quickly as the four men began to spread out.

The whole family ain’t nothing but a pack of no account varmints, Quirt said, spreading his feet and bracing for a draw.

No guns, Lars implored and moved between them to protect Catherine.

Clyde will show ya, Fetchen yelled.

Clyde ain’t no better, no more than a low, miserable Fetchen, Quirt taunted.

Fetchen, get out of here, Lars pleaded.

Clyde’s coming. He’ll show ya. Fetchen shoved Catherine forward. No man, even the kind of those four, would chance shooting a woman, if for no other reason than public censure. He knew it and used it. While she was between them, he ran out the door, shouting back, Clyde’ll show ya.

Let him go, Quirt said when two started after him. He went back to the saloon. The other three did follow, two with reluctance.

Are you all right? Lars asked of Catherine.

I’m fine. She pulled away from his helping hands and straightened her cloak. She was furious over what had happened. As innocence as she was in causing any of the altercation, it would be something else for her uncle to misunderstand and berate her for. Brivers made the situation worse.

He attempted to tuck a hand under her arm. I’ll help you, he told her.

Catherine had had all she could stand. Keep your hands off of me, she snapped. She had suppressed her temper all winter, and at that moment, it was volatile.

He grinned. I only wanted to help.

The hell you did. Ever touch me again and I will claw your eyes out.

Her outburst drew open-mouthed astonishment from Lars and Brivers. Brivers recovered first with spite. You ain’t such a lady after all.

You ever try backing me into a corner again, and you’ll discover ladies can claw, too.

What? Lars asked with a jerk.

With a nervous look at Lars, Brivers answered quickly. I ain’t been disrespectful, ever.

You are right now.

I didn’t mean nothing. I apologize if it sounded so.

Lars finished for him in a statement, not a question. And it won’t happen again.

No, I said I was sorry. I’ll get you something to eat.

* * * *

He darted off, leaving an uncomfortable silence behind him. Catherine looked at the floor in what Lars thought was embarrassment. He thought she felt shamed, and there was no reason for it. He wanted to reassure her, but not being sure how settled for saying, He won’t be insulting you again, miss.

When she looked up, he was surprised again. What he saw in her eyes wasn’t shame. It was fury.

Thank you, Lars. He really was becoming impossible.

You should have said something sooner. We don’t stand for that kind of thing around here.

My uncle knew, she said with her dark blue eyes flashing. I am through pretending to be what he thinks I should be. I’m me, and if people don’t care for it, it’s too bad. She jerked the strings of her cloak loose and whipped it from her shoulders. I will not cow-tow to anyone or take one more lecherous remark from a sniveling coward while pretending I am too stupid and naive to understand his insulting meaning.

Shouldn’t have to, he said quietly. He had known her for nearly nine months, spoken to her, driven her a few places, and seen her speaking with others. She had been a guest in his house, and he thought he knew her. He found out he didn’t know her at all. You’re not near the mouse we were afraid you were.

What does that mean? she demanded with her chin high, her back straight in challenge.

He liked what he saw and grinned. In this country, a woman needs spunk to survive. You never showed much till now.

You’re teasing me, Lars. Catherine smiled in response with her anger gone faster than it had erupted. I know I have a wicked temper.

Spunk, miss. He offered his arm to escort her to a table. You had more than enough reason to be mad. It’s a wonder you didn’t claw his eyes out.

She colored slightly as he held the chair for her and told him as he settled into the one opposite her, I may only have slapped him.

You won’t need to, he promised and gave Brivers the eye when he came back laden with trays and a humble attitude.

Who was that awful man and those poor boys? she asked.

Lars’s features hardened. Sam Fetchen.

Scum, pure scum, Brivers told her. I hope McClellan does run him out.

What makes you think McClellan would stop with Fetchen? Lars asked him sharply.

He’s the one been rustling from him. He’s the only one low enough around here to steal.

There’s always been small scale rustling.

Yeah and Fetchen and his trashy brood have been here a long time, fifteen years now.

Twelve and small scale rustling didn’t start with him. It won’t end there, either.

I never heard you had any love for him. Now it sounds like you’re siding with him.

I’ve got no use for him, Lars said in disgust. I think there’s more to it than McClellan thinking Fetchen is taking a few of his steers.

You better watch speaking up for him. Feeling is pretty high against him. Be better for us all when he’s run out. No account scum, that’s all they all are.

He owns that piece of land, and no one has the right to take it away from him because they don’t approve of him.

If he were so innocent, he wouldn’t be calling in that gun-slinging killer son of his.

He isn’t— Lars began hotly, only to break off abruptly.

In a sudden silence, Catherine said, May I have some milk, Mr. Brivers?

Yes, ma’am, he said at his polite best, looking at Lars with his eyes squinted.

Thank you, miss, Lars told her when Brivers was out of hearing.

May I ask what you were going to say?

Clyde isn’t a killer. He never was like his pa, either.

The stray you took home?

I took home a lot of strays. It’s better I don’t talk about some of them, he said unhappily. He looked down at his plate, and it seemed forever before she said anything even though he knew she was looking at him.

Would you pass the salt, please? she requested blandly. Mr. Brivers always under seasons his food.

* * * *

Why didn’t you let us go after him? Tim Mills, not quite a man, barely out of his teens, slight of build, and anxious to prove himself.

We got bigger fish to catch, Quirt said. He had already shown the world and was well known as a man good with a gun and more than willing to use it. He was a killer for hire. Also well known, though not proven, if he couldn’t get his man facing him in a fair fight, he was willing to use other means. He walked the land, feared and hated, selling his gun to the highest bidder. Right now the highest bidder was the McClellan Cattle Company.

The third man was Carl Tetters. He’d heard the word on the back trails of McClellan hiring for more than cow-punching. His reputation was vague compared to Quirt’s, but he was younger by eight years and had just started. He offered his opinion. Clyde Fetchen ain’t coming. The old man’s spitting in the wind.

He was spitting in the wind last week. Tonight he wasn’t. He expected Clyde to be here, or he wouldn’t have had the nerve to show himself, Quirt told him.

He wasn’t on the stage, yesterday or today, and I’m getting tired of sitting around.

Fetchen expected him tonight, Quirt repeated.

I want him if he shows, Tim said, his hand dropping to fondle the grip of his low slung pistol.

If he shows, Carl grumbled.

We’re here to kill him, not build you a rep, Quirt told Tim.

Why’s McClellan so keen on having him killed anyway? Carl asked.

A man like Clyde Fetchen could cause trouble, and the boss doesn’t want any.

He ain’t but one man. Let me take him, Tim insisted. When Quirt looked at him with a mocking smile, Tim blustered with, I can do it.

Reckon he could, Carl put in. Them Fetchens ain’t nothing but cowards.

That’s right, Quirt, Tim agreed eagerly.

He cain’t be no different than them two Fetchen’s got trailing after him now, feared of their own shadow.

Clyde always was different, said Barry Styles, the fourth man. He had hired on for McClellan when his own ranch failed and had drifted from cowhand to gunman. The offhanded remark had been idly made, and he seemed more interested in how the light looked shining through his drink as he turned it slowly in front of him than their conversation.

The remark, however, caught Quirk’s interest.

You know him? he asked.

When we were kids.

What kind of man is he?

Can’t say what he’s like now. Haven’t seen him since he ran off.

What was he like then?

Skinny.

You’re a big help, he retorted in irritation.

I can take him, Tim insisted. I know I can.

The Dover brothers thought so, Styles said in the same distracted way.

I always wondered how true the story I heard was, Carl said. Them Dover boys weren’t pilgrims.

He caught them by surprise, bushwhacked them, Tim said. That’s the only way he could have gotten all three of them.

The way I heard it, it was the other way around, Styles said lazily.

Are you saying he’s as good as they say? Quirt asked.

Styles shrugged for an answer and downed his drink.

Tim begged. I can take him, Quirt. I know I can.

What happens after ‘we’ get him? Carl asked, emphasizing the plural to let Tim know his opinion of Tim’s skills.

I’ll get him! Tim shouted.

Sure you will, Carl taunted.

None of that, Quirt ordered quickly when Tim started forward to punch Carl, and he answered Carl’s question. We go back to the ranch.

Nothing else?

No, everyone knows he’s coming here to cause trouble. He’ll get it.

Who around here is gonna care about a Fetchen anyway? Tim asked with a snort.

Quirt was still watching Styles. A veiled warning was in what Styles said, and it worried him. He wasn’t going to take any chances with Clyde Fetchen. Let’s get something to eat.

* * * *

Preoccupied in thought, Lars ate absentmindedly. Catherine was doing the same. They each glanced up when the men came in from the saloon and quickly went back to their food, uncomfortable in the company. The men were halfway across the room when the door opened. Lars’s back was to it. What he saw first was the look on Catherine’s face, one of pure hatred. He twisted in his chair, expecting to see Sam again.

The man was Lars’s age, middle twenties, and he hesitated at the door to get his bearings. He was tall, nearly as tall as Lars, with broad shoulders. Under the heavy sheep skin coat you could tell where Lars was thick and massive of muscle, this man’s body tapered to slim hips and long legs. Light brown hair peeked out from under his hat, and his eyes were an unusual dark brown for a blond.

He looked to be a man coming in from the cold in search of a warm place to sleep. Saddle bags and blanket roll were over his left shoulder, and a rifle was in his left hand. Both hands were covered with gloves against the bitter cold outside. To hesitate before entering a strange room was normal. The next wasn’t. His glance fell on Catherine, and her expression of hatred held his attention.

Lars jumped to his feet, turning over his chair, and yelled. The room exploded. The roar of multiple gunshots was deafening, and the man was flung back out the door by force of the slugs tearing into his body.

I got him, Tim yelled joyously, too enthralled to yet realize he was not the only one who had fired.

One of us did, Quirt said dryly.

That was murder! Lars shouted in rage. He lunged forward and drew up short when Quirt turned his gun on him.

He went for his gun, Quirt said in quiet malice. We all saw his hand drop. You back off and take care of the lady.

Lars shook with rage and fear. He never moved, he retorted, wanting to beat Quirt to death but knew if he tried, he would be killed. Catherine pulled him back, and, though he hated himself for his fear in facing the four men, he went with her gentle pressure.

Who was it? she whispered.

Clyde Fetchen, Tim shouted. And I got him.

You don’t know if it was Clyde. You never took the time to find out, Lars raged helplessly.

Quirt looked at Styles, and Styles shrugged. I didn’t get a good look at him, he said indifferently.

You killed a man without even knowing who he was? Catherine asked in shock.

Reckon we’ll find out.

* * * *

Pure instinct was what kept him going. When those slugs slammed into him, reason stopped. He didn’t remember the six steps he had climbed to reach the porch and didn’t know why he fell when he rolled off the edge. He moved in reflex. He pushed himself to his knees, gasped for air, and reached for his horse’s reins. Though he didn’t hurt, he couldn’t catch his breath. His left