Velvet Thunder

By Teresa Howard

Stevie Johns had seen her Comanche mother die in childbirth. Now a vicious white enemy had driven Stevie and her father off their land. How could she trust the mysterious man in black who just appeared out of nowhere a devilish stranger whose sapphire eyes seemed to see right into her soul? Lean and rugged, he offered his help, risking life itself to protect her. Though Stevie could never give her heart, she could not resist his tender embrace.


He called himself Lucky Diamond. More at home with a deck of cards than a six-shooter, Heath Turner had lived through the worst of the Civil War. Now the rugged U.S. marshal had left his native New York behind to bring justice to the New Mexico Territory. But from the moment he rode into Adobe Wells and set eyes on Stevie Johns, Heath knew he'd found the woman he'd want forever. Let her fight him with all the passion blazing in her soul, he was determined to win Stevie's heart and heal the pain of the past with the rapturous promise of love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: eClassics
• Release date: Mar 1, 1994
• ISBN: 9781601831903

Teresa Howard

Teresa Howard makes her home in Hoover, Al, where shares her abode with Gracie Jane, her furry dachshund friend. She is a life-long fan of science fiction and fantasy and her dream since childhood has been to see her books in libraries and bookstores.In 2000 Teresa participated in a Writers Workshops taught by the late Ann Crispin and has been a regular at DragonCon’s Writers Track led by Nancy Knight for many years.Though she was employed for many years as a technology coordinator and computer lab instructor in the Birmingham School System, Teresa’s passions remained writing science fiction and fantasy and researching genealogy. Many of her stories have elements of both. Her work covers a wide range of speculative fiction and has been published in magazines, anthologies, webzines, and on iPhone aps in the U.S., Canada, and the U.K.

Book preview

inadequate.

Prologue

New Mexico Territory

The flickering glow of lanterns cast eerie shapes about the walls of the cavern. A veritable rainbow of colors: sparkling blues, gilt yellows, and vibrant crimsons reflected off tiny crystals embedded in the flowstone. Shadows danced to the rhythmic picking and hammering of the two workmen, to the constant dripping sound of water throughout the cave, to the pounding heartbeat of the well-dressed gentleman perched on a stone slab—unsmiling—watching the laborers at their task.

When the workmen finished, they turned in tandem to the seated man. All done, boss. Just like you ordered, the oldest worker reported. Only an expert’ll know they’re fake. His lips spread in the smile of a man satisfied with a job well done. His partner had the same pleased, trusting smile stamped upon his craggy features.

The seated man rose, brushed dirt from his trousers, and strode across the room. After examining the work in minute detail, he nodded dispassionately. Then without blinking, he whipped out his Smith & Wesson .44, leveled the deadly weapon, and shot the unsuspecting miners through the heart. While they were yet warm, the expressions of shock and betrayal frozen on their faces for eternity, he dumped their bloody corpses into a nearby pit.

Adjusting his black cloth eye patch, he exited the cave.

One

The mid-morning sun beat down upon the plains, burning away the cool of the day.

Lulled into a trancelike state by the gentle sway of his mount, the clouds scudding across the azure sky, and the haunting call of an eagle in flight, U.S. Marshal Heath Turner gave his mount, Warrior, a brown steel dust, free rein to follow the dusty trail west.

He surveyed his surroundings with an appreciative eye. To his left a band of wild horses thundered across the plains. A single lusty stallion stood majestically on a bare peak, silhouetted against the sky. Heath’s lips spread in a purely masculine smile when the virile animal, wild with freedom, whistled, reared on his hind legs, then darted toward his harem.

The grasslands he’d just passed had given way to vast stretches of bunchgrass and mesquite. A dust devil, tossed by the breeze, moved lazily across his path. A road runner darted before his mount, kicking sand into the air, seeming never to tire.

Heath couldn’t say the same about himself; he was exhausted, thoroughly and totally exhausted. He had been in the saddle so long, he feared the chunk of leather had become a permanent part of his anatomy. His immediate destination was a sleepy little town called Adobe Wells and he couldn’t get there soon enough to suit him. All he wanted was a soft bed, a hot meal, a cool drink, and after a bit of rest, maybe a warm, willing woman.

Squinting, he looked at the ball of fire that masqueraded as the sun in these parts. The heat rising from the ground wavered like drunken ghosts dancing the minuet. Dizzying, he remained upright through sheer strength of will.

Suddenly, a rifle shot split the morning air, kicking up dust in front of his horse. The powerful steed danced in alarm. The second shot sent Heath’s hat flying off his head.

What the hell? he growled, sawing back on his reins, bringing the powerful animal under control.

In a dead run, he dipped to retrieve his favorite Stetson—some things were worth risking one’s life for—and placed it firmly on his head. Heading to the east side of the mesa, he made for cover. Just as he galloped behind a large boulder, another shot rang out.

The unexpected attack sent stamina flowing through him like hot lava, warming him from roots to soles, energizing his tired body, heightening his awareness. Though he didn’t know the nature of his assignment in Adobe Wells, he’d bet a month’s pay the ambush was connected with it.

Usually they wait till I get to town before shootin’ at me, he groused, dismounting in a blur. He pulled his Winchester from its saddle scabbard and cautiously peered around the rock, scanning the cliffs for any sign of the sniper. The shot had come from the ragged precipice that jutted out from the mesa. As far as he could see, there was nothing amiss in that quarter.

Squatting on his haunches, he filled his lungs with warm arid air and tipped his hat back with a tanned finger. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. The second and third misses were excusable since his horse had been in a dead run, but not the first. His slow, ambling gait had made him a sitting duck.

Maybe he’s just a piss-poor shot, Heath suggested to Warrior. Or maybe it was a warning.

Apparently, his mount didn’t have an opinion on the matter. All Heath heard, other than the sound of his own voice, was the wind singing off the face of the cliffs.

When another shot rang out, slamming into the rock just above Heath’s head, the impact of the bullet sent fragments of stone and dirt flying into his face. You’re starting to get on my nerves, he hissed to his unseen assailant, returning fire blindly.

There was no response to his gunfire as he scrambled back out of sight. The sun burned down upon him and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He shifted uncomfortably.

A great shadow fell over him as Warrior nudged his shoulder. Thanks for the shade, Heath muttered, absently stroking the animal, considering his options. He could wait the sniper out and then slip past him in the night. Or he could backtrack and travel southwest to Adobe Wells. The circuitous route would make the trip much longer, however.

He chewed a dry piece of grass, deep in thought. Whatcha think boy?

The huge animal snorted on cue.

I agree. Rising in one fluid motion, Heath stowed his yellow boy in the saddle boot, checked the ammunition in his Navy Colt, retrieved a rope from around the pommel, and tied it to his belt with a rawhide piggin string.

Soundlessly, he began climbing the east side of the rock shelf. He lost his footing halfway to the top, dislodging loose gravel from the sheer face of the cliff. Grabbing a toehold, he gasped for breath.

Damn! A blind deaf-mute would be alerted by that. Apparently, he was more fatigued than he thought, and it was likely to get him killed. Pressing his cheek into the rock, he expected to feel the sting of hot lead piercing his hide. It never came. After a nerve-settling respite, he continued his ascent, more slowly, carefully.

Easing over the top, he padded on silent feet to the southern rim of the plateau. All was quiet below; peace embraced him on all sides. If he didn’t know better, he would think he had imagined the ambush. But the breeze, ruffling his hair through the bullet hole in his John B., proved that someone was out there, someone who posed a grievous threat.

Where are you, you bastard? he asked quietly. Exasperated, he jerked his hat off and ran his fingers through long ebony hair.

At first he saw nothing. Then he shifted his gaze and caught glimpse of a slight movement. The toe of a scuffed boot protruded from behind a rock about twenty feet down the abutment.

Pay dirt. There was a whisper of triumph in his voice. He watched as gingerly, the sniper stepped into clear view. Well, I’ll be damned.

To Heath’s surprise, his assailant was a girl, dressed from head to toe in black leather. A small Stetson perched atop her head cast her face in shadow, but he could tell that she was young, painfully young.

And skinny as a fence post, he muttered. The rifle in the crook of her arm was bigger than she.

Standing stock-still, sucking on the end of a waist-length platinum braid, she looked like nothing so much as a precocious child. A child? Not hardly! Children don’t take potshots at perfect strangers, no matter how precocious they are. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at his nemesis.

A hazy warning quickened Stevie’s gut. She felt as if she were being watched. Tamping down the niggling sense of fear, she cast about for sign of the gunslinger.

If she didn’t find him and scare him off, she might well end up like Jeff. Unshed tears caused her nose to tingle. But she gained control of the pain and grief of losing her brother. Pure cussedness stiffened her spine.

With Jeff gone, Pa needed her to be strong. She was all he had. Now was no time to go missish on him.

Thinking of her pa, she spat the silken strands out of her mouth and instinctively wiped her tongue on her shirtsleeve. Pa said ladies don’t suck their hair, or bite their fingernails, or dress like boys, or curse like waddies.

Well, who said she wanted to be a lady anyhow? Defiantly, she lifted the end of her braid and clamped it firmly between her front teeth.

A tight coil of apprehension unwound in her chest. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

Where was that gunslinger? she wondered again. The man couldn’t just disappear into the air, could he?

Heath watched the girl step closer to the ledge and scan the horizon, obviously searching for him. He smiled a predator’s smile. An introduction was in order, he decided. Fashioning a Blocker loop, he tossed the rope over the rim. It fell with a muted hiss and circled her narrow shoulders, effectively penning her arms to her sides. Gotcha!

Stevie shrieked and dropped her head back, squinting against the sun. Her rifle fell to the rocks below with an echoing clatter. Desperately, she tried to wrest her revolver from its holster, all the while struggling to escape bondage.

Heath chuckled at her display of outrage, hoping the willful chit didn’t shoot her foot off. Enraged, she spoke the language he recognized as Comanche. He understood the foreign tongue with the rolling R’s well enough to wonder if some of the vile threats she made against his poor naked body were physically possible. Some of them sounded quite intriguing though.

Hold still, kid, he shouted down to her.

His chivalrous intent was to restrain the girl before she did herself grievous harm. Muscles bulged, straining the seams of his cotton shirt as he began pulling her to the upper ledge of the cliff.

Wiggling like a fish on a hook, she hung in midair, spitting another string of curses, even worse than the first. Damn, filthy, lowdown, stinkin’, bast—

Be still before I drop you, he interrupted. And stop using that filthy language, dammit!

When he pulled her over the rim, she flew into him, clawing like a panther, hissing like a snake. One fact was incontrovertible; the kid knew how to fight. What she lacked in physical strength she made up for in passion. Bemused, Heath slipped her revolver from its holster, tucked it in his belt behind his back, and held his arms in front of his face, allowing her to attack him like a setting hen flogging a curious rooster.

You ass! Cur dog. Bastard! she slurred him, and questioned his legitimacy again, stomping his booted foot for emphasis.

His Hessians cushioned her slight weight, but frankly, he was tired of her abuse. He subdued her by wrapping his arms around her waist. Behave yourself.

Let me go! she shrieked, digging in her heels as he dragged her away from the rim of the mesa, creating a wavy trail of dust in her wake. How dare you rope me and haul me up here like a sack of potatoes? You . . . you stinkin’ pile of horse shit.

And how dare you shoot at me, you pint-sized brat? he growled against her ear. Call me peculiar, but I take exception when people try to kill me.

Stevie didn’t hear his sophisticated northern drawl for the blood roaring in her ears. She had never been held so familiarly before; she found the gunslinger’s nearness strangely unsettling. Sensing there was more to fear from him than a bullet, she stopped struggling. Turn me loose! she ground out, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

You promise to behave yourself? Heath waited for an answer. Receiving none, he squeezed her around the waist in silent warning, then cautiously released his hold.

She turned to face him, slowly easing away.

His eyes widened at his first clear view of her. She was beautiful; doe eyes, black as midnight, tilted exotically. Skin, dusky bronze, like melted caramel or ripe apricots. High cheekbones, cradling a thick fringe of sooty lashes. Hair, the delicate hue of moonlight on water, so pale as to be almost colorless, so silky as to beg a man’s touch. Breasts full and firm, rising and falling with each labored breath. Wasplike waist, flaring into gently rounded hips. Legs, though short and slender, nicely rounded.

But it was the animation of her character that held him spell-bound. The female glaring at him possessed an ethereal face, a curvaceous body, and the temperament of a grizzly with a sore behind. In all, an intriguing combination! He grinned and shook his head, totally absorbed with the enchanting hellion. Well, beautiful, you want to tell me why you tried to kill me?

If I was tryin’ to kill you, mister, you’d be deader’n vomited maggots!

Now, that’s a lovely image. Tell me, princess, where did you go to finishing school?

Obstinately mute, she knew full well he was making fun of her. Raising finely arched eyebrows, her gaze moved over him with a sweep of her lashes. Trying for a look of total disdain, she failed miserably. He was quite possibly the most handsome man she had ever seen; tall as a church steeple, muscled as a Thoroughbred, glossy black hair, and deep blue eyes—the color and luminosity of blueberries covered by the morning dew.

She didn’t possess the vocabulary to describe his overwhelming physical presence, let alone the raw sensuality emanating from him.

Damn shame she’d probably have to kill him!

You stroke my ego with your scrutiny, little one. Dare I hope that you like what you see?

Go to hell! she spat out.

Chuckling, he took a step toward her.

Stop! She warded him off like an evil spirit. Don’t you dare move one inch closer!

He regarded her with an amused gaze, but halted.

She drew a deep breath, collecting herself. Now, I wasn’t trying to kill you, she repeated. Just warn you that workin’ for Judge Jack ain’t too healthy. It’ll only get you shot . . . or worse. With her chin held high, she looked down her nose at him. A difficult task considering that he was a foot taller than she. So you’ve been warned. And, mister, only one warning to a customer. Her threatening expression grew blank. Now, give me back my gun and I’ll go, she finished authoritatively.

Blessing her with one of his heart-stopping smiles—to no avail—he removed the cartridges from the weapon and handed it to her with a flourish.

Enraged that he had confiscated her ammunition, she raised the weapon above her head and lunged at him, connecting solidly with his shoulder.

Damn you! You little termagant, he grunted, drawing her flush against his solid length, chest to chest, belly to belly, thigh to thigh. Circling her ankle with his foot, he jerked back and swept her off her feet. Literally. They both hit the ground with a resounding thud.

Disappearing underneath him, she spat and sputtered, fighting to fill her lungs. Get off me, you overgrown sex maniac!

After the choking dust settled, he gave her a look that would have sent the hardiest cowpoke scrambling for safety. Unmoved, she tried to buck him off, twisting and jerking, slamming her lower body against his.

Look, lady—and I use the term loosely—if you know what’s good for you, you’ll hold still!

He wondered if she felt his growing desire pressing against her leg. More to the point, if she was worldly enough to know what it was, to understand what it meant.

When fear darkened her eyes, he cursed silently, fighting to tamp down his burgeoning desire. Obviously, it had been far too long since he’d had a woman. But the sprite gazing up at him as if he had two heads was not the kind of woman he needed. Although she was dressed provocatively in snug black leather pants and a tight fringed vest, he knew she was a lady, at least an innocent. He could almost smell her virginal fear.

Losing himself in eyes as black as midnight, he sought to remind himself that he was a sophisticated northern gentleman, and as such he didn’t take advantage of virgins. No matter how damned adorable they were.

Unconsciously, he shifted against her, increasing her unease, spurring her into action.

You rutting boar, she accused him, feigning bravado. Get the hell off of me.

The scent of her, the feel of her, called forth something primitive, untamed, passionate in Heath; her breath, brushing warm against his face, was the final blow. Dipping his head, he ground his lips against her own and silenced her with a kiss.

She gasped, enticing him to slip his tongue between her lips. As he deepened the kiss, all thoughts of propriety and ladies burned up in the heat of desire. He wanted more; he wanted all of her. Shifting to his side, he slid his hand down her back, cupping the firmest little fanny he’d ever had the pleasure to fondle.

She ceased her struggle as he continued his tender assault, skimming his hands over her writhing form. One hand found its way to the silken braid that rested on her breasts. Grazing the sensitive flesh with the backs of his fingers, he untied the scrap of rawhide that imprisoned her hair and sifted his fingers through the cool silver strands, spreading her hair like a gossamer cape about her shoulders.

When she made a helpless noise in her throat, he gentled. His tongue made long, lazy forays into her mouth. Pleasing him, she returned his kiss shyly. She tasted of lemonade, sunshine, and willingness.

But when he insinuated a knee between her thighs, she came to herself. Acting on pure instinct, she clamped her perfect white teeth down on his tongue.

His runaway passion flickered, dimmed, and died in the space of a heartbeat. Owww. He rolled off her and touched his throbbing tongue with the tip of his finger . A single drop of blood glistened in the sunlight. He held it close to her face. See what you did.

She was unmoved. Every inch of her rigid body shouted defiance. You deserve worse, you depraved son of a bitch.

Why you little— he began, reaching for her.

She surged to her feet and scampered to the edge of the cliff. After scrubbing her tingling lips with the back of her hand, she spat his kiss into the dust. If you ever touch me again, I’ll blow so many holes in you, you won’t hold water.

You’ll find I don’t scare easily. His tone was smug, for in her potent gaze, he read a combination of anger and desire. He suspected that he had just given the girl her first kiss and that she hadn’t found it as objectionable as she pretended. Arrogantly, he winked at her, knowing that it would enrage her further. But why he wanted to provoke her, he couldn’t say.

Surprisingly, her expression relaxed. Offering him half a smile, she slipped her hands behind her neck, as if to rebraid her hair.

Her shirt, pulled tight across firm young breasts, caused him to suck in a sharp breath. He imagined shaping those breasts in the palms of his hands. Pleasantly distracted, he failed to see her withdraw the bowie knife hidden in the scabbard under her collar.

With a flip of her wrist she sent the deadly weapon sailing toward him.

What? he yelled, barely sidestepping the knife. Clearly astounded, he wondered what kind of a hellcat he had stumbled upon.

She was horrified to have missed the mark, not to mention seeing such rage on his face. Oh, shit!

Scrabbling over the rim, she slipped and slid down the cliff. With a safe distance between them, she stopped at the base of the cliff, shaded her eyes with an unsteady hand, and peered up at him. He stood on the upper ledge, silhouetted by the blazing sun, looking larger than life. She was momentarily mesmerized.

Their gazes met and held. Something indefinable, as old as time itself, passed between them. Bending slightly, he touched the brim of his hat in mock salute.

Arrogant ass, she muttered without heat. Fleet as a deer, she whirled about and ran west.

Heath watched her retreat. She disappeared behind an outcropping of rocks. Still, he watched. After what seemed an eternity, the sound of horses’ hooves echoed through the valley. She burst into view, riding a palomino. His heart thundered in his chest. Woman and horse, wild with freedom, their silver-blond manes streaming in the wind, galloped across the plains as if the devil himself were nipping at their heels. Not only was she riding astride, but without a saddle.

A faint smile sculpted Heath’s lips. Until later, little hellion.

A tall man dressed in unrelieved black, lurking across the valley atop Mustang Mesa, lowered his army field glasses. He had witnessed the confrontation with interest.

Climbing down from his high perch, he headed toward Sandy Johns’s spread. His orders were to kill the rancher. If he timed it right, the man who had just kissed Miss Johns senseless would be blamed for her father’s murder.

Two

I don’t think the little lady likes you.

Heath pivoted and drew his gun, crouching low. Straightening, he exhaled with relief and leathered his weapon. "Damn it, Jay! You want to get yourself shot? You know better than to sneak up on me like that!

U.S. Marshal Jay Hampton regarded his partner wryly. You were expecting me, weren’t you? he asked rhetorically. Besides, since when could anybody sneak up on you?

Well, I was a little distracted.

So I noticed. That was some distraction! Jay whistled his appreciation, clearly unaffected by Heath’s surly disposition. Being cursed at, shot at, and practically stabbed to death by a delicious demon in breeches could wear on a man’s patience, he allowed.

Still, he was somewhat alarmed at Heath’s obvious exhaustion, physical and emotional. Ever since the two had served as special aides to Abraham Lincoln during the American Civil War, they had been closer than brothers. Now working for the Justice Department—riding together, chasing outlaws across the country, and saving each other’s hides time and again, their bond was even stronger. They often communicated without words. Jay knew the exact instant his irritation waned.

Releasing the last of his tension with a sigh, Heath sauntered over to Jay. Good to see you, partner.

And you. Jay shook Heath’s hand firmly. Smiling, he raised a questioning brow. By the way, who was that sweet little confection you were attempting to gobble up?

Characteristically, Heath muttered something unintelligible and slapped his hat against a rock-hard thigh. Damned if I know! I was riding along, enjoying the scenery, and next thing I know somebody’s taking shots at me. When I tried to subdue her, she threw a knife at my head.

Leaning against the boulder at his back, Jay crossed his feet at the ankles, plucked two cheroots from his vest pocket, and offered Heath a smoke. Looks to me like she was aiming at something a sight more vital than your head.

Heath halted in the act of lighting his cigar; his brow furrowed. Had the girl really been aiming at his privates? Considering the scandalous way he had treated her, pawing her and kissing her as if she were little more than a trollop for hire, he wouldn’t blame her.

But surely not! Decent women didn’t try to geld strangers, even west of the Pecos. But he wouldn’t put anything past her. A twisted sort of fascination teased his mind. Very twisted, he acknowledged.

You would be wise to steer clear of her, partner, Jay broke into his thoughts. Even if she doesn’t kill you in your sleep, she’ll be nothing but trouble.

Tell me something I don’t know.

Hoping Heath could handle the itty-bitty female, he pushed away from the boulder, looking every inch a serious lawman. Just don’t say I didn’t warn you

Heath nodded.

Oh, well, we’re not here to talk about our love lives. Or lack thereof. And I’m your partner, not your priest.

Heath voiced agreement. Taking Jay’s cue, he ground his half-smoked cigar beneath the toe of his boot and turned to business. Well, partner, why have we been summoned to Adobe Wells?

Not we. You, Jay corrected him. After I fill you in on your assignment, I return to Indian Territory.

Heath merely nodded. He didn’t want the team to be split up, but it never occurred to him to question orders. "Why have I been summoned to Adobe Wells?"

Apparently half the outlaws in New Mexico have swarmed there. You’re to mingle with them; pass yourself off as Lucky Diamond again, and see what you can learn. Jay smiled conspiratorially Captain said to tell you he’s enlarged your reputation a bit.

Heath grimaced. What have I done this time?

Jay placed his hand over his heart. Sent Barnes Elder to that great poker game in the sky.

Heath whistled softly. I’m getting good! If I didn’t know it was all fabrication, I’d be impressed myself. Barnes Elder, huh?

Yeah, poor ol’ Barnes never even cleared leather, Jay said of the fictitious gunman. Seems he was dealing aces off the bottom of the deck. Being a professional gambler, you couldn’t allow that.

Certainly not.

Jay sobered. You know this means every downy-faced sod-buster with the price of a bullet will be gunning for you. And you won’t get much help from the local law. The sheriff’s a green kid who’s afraid of his own shadow, and the territory judge is a fancy dresser with a questionable character. Name’s Elias Colt Jack. Has an eye patch and sometimes goes by the moniker One-eyed Jack. He’s trying to take over the whole valley, but we don’t know why. The only thing we know for certain about him is that he’s not a judge.

Let’s see now . . . Heath began dryly, counting off on his fingers. I’m going up against virtually every shootist in the territory—every novice who wants to make his reputation by drawing on the man who killed Barnes Elder—without my partner at my back. All in a town where the law consists of a wet-behind-the-ears sheriff and a greedy judge who’s not really a judge. Do you have any more good news?

Jay threw Heath an impudent grin. If you add the doll who practically castrated you, I’d say that about covers it.

The lengths we go to t’ serve our country, Heath deadpanned.

Jay chuckled. Yep. Makes you wonder about our intelligence, doesn’t it?

Heath raised an ebony brow, agreeing. What’s your assignment, as if I didn’t know.

Jay’s smile disappeared. I’ve got to find Rachel and put that bitch away again. For good this time. I don’t know how long it’ll take me, but as soon as I square things, I’ll be back.

For the past two years, Jay—and Heath, when he wasn’t on other assignments—had been chasing a cold-hearted murderer named Rachel Jackson, who had broken out of the Arkansas Territorial Prison, killing two guards in the process.

Rumor had it that Rachel was in Santa Fe. While Heath spent time in New York, visiting his ill father, Jay visited New Mexico’s territorial capital. But the report hadn’t panned out; Rachel was nowhere to be found. So Jay had received orders from their captain to alert Heath to the problems in Adobe Wells, then head back to the Nations after Rachel.

How’s your dad? Jay asked quietly.

Rad and Chap—he referred to his doctor twin brothers—say he’s stable for now. He’s still having pains in his chest though, and they’re keeping him in bed.

Knowing the general, that can’t be easy.

Despite the worry about his father, Heath returned Jay’s smile. No, I imagine not. That’s why both Rad and Chap closed their practice in Richmond indefinitely. They’re staying for the duration. He looked out over the valley, his deep, husky voice betraying a sense of guilt, I should be there too.

I know how you feel, Heath. But the general wouldn’t want you to sit by his side. It would make him feel as if you were waiting for him to die. And if I know the old man, he’ll pull through.

Heath drew a deep, cleansing breath. Dear Lord, I hope you’re right.

I am. Jay cleared his throat, knowing it was time they were both on the trail. Guess I’d best be movin’ on. I’ll be back this way soon as I finish up in the Nations.

Heath nodded. The two returned to their horses, parting company with reluctance.

Watch your back, partner. You hear? Jay drawled.

I will. Heath watched as Jay mounted and rode away. You do the same, he called to Jay’s retreating form.

With a backward wave, Jay disappeared from sight.

High atop Warrior, Heath kicked his horse into a gallop and headed toward Adobe Wells.

Hopefully, there was still time to reach town before nightfall.

Three

Stevie Johns hopped off Whiskeypeat and settled him in the barn before making her way to the sprawling ranch house.

A low growl greeted her from the shaded porch. She halted on the bottom step and raised her gaze. Two yellow eyes peered at her for a scant second, then the furry body of a wolf flew through the air, hitting her in the chest, tumbling her backward, flattening her on the ground.

Before she could raise her arms to shield herself, the animal’s huge, cavernous mouth opened. Time suspended as the wolf’s head grew larger, moving closer and closer to her face.

Stevie shrieked when Sweetums’s broad, wet tongue snaked out and bathed her from cheek to cheek. Laughing and rolling on the ground, she fought playfully with her pet.

It occurred to her that this was the second wolf attack she had endured today. Give me a four-legged wolf any day, she muttered, surging to her feet, pushing the door open, and following Sweetums into the front hall.

Who’s there?

’S’me, Pa, she answered, slightly out of breath.

Sandy Johns entered the foyer, staring at his daughter in the doorway, her figure limned by the glow of late afternoon sunshine. For a moment she might have been her mother, identical slight frame, same regal profile.

Then she bent to pet Sweetums and the fringe on her vest swayed, breaking the spell. With small, gloved hands, she brushed the worst of the dust from her pants. Straightening, she placed her rifle by the door, then glanced at her father’s scowling face.

Don’t even start!

Sandy held up his hands in a defensive gesture. Did I say a word?

She jerked her black kid gloves off and shook them in her father’s direction. You don’t have to. Your face says it all.

He shrugged noncommittally. It’s just a shame for a youngun as pretty as you to go around dressed like a man. You’re a woman, Stevie. It’s time you started behaving like one. Time you settled down and took a husband.

I’m not a woman. Not to the people in town. I’m a savage.

Here now! He closed the distance between them. You know I don’t allow talk like that in this house. As for being a savage, you’re only half Comanche. But it wouldn’t matter if you were full blood. You’re a beautiful young woman, and if you dressed like a female and gave the men in town half a chance, you’d have more men buzzin’ around here than you could shake a stick at.

Stevie had heard it all before. She was in no mood to hear it again. Don’t we have enough problems without you harping on what I wear? And who wants to attract men who think the only good Indian is a dead Indian? Not me, I can tell you! Besides, it’s not like I just started dressing this way, Pa. I haven’t worn girls’ clothes since I was ten years old. And I don’t intend to start wearing them anytime soon. So do us both a favor and let it lay.

The last time Stevie had worn a dress was to her mother’s funeral. Delicate, beautiful Swan had died giving birth to a stillborn baby boy ten years ago. She could have been saved, but the town doctor refused to tend an Indian.

The memory of her mother’s last few hours caused her throat to burn. Watching Swan suffer an agonizing, senseless death, holding her hand as the life’s blood ebbed from her body, made an irrevocable impression on Stevie. In one fell swoop it robbed her of her childhood and her desire to be female.

So now, at twenty, on the threshold of womanhood, she dressed like a man, hoping to make herself invisible to the opposite sex. It had worked until her body started changing. Unconsciously, she crossed her arms over her chest, hiding her budding breasts. Unbidden, she remembered the gunslick’s hands on her. Her cheeks flamed. Feet planted, she forced herself to drop her arms at her sides.

And I don’t want a husband, she emphasized in case her daddy hadn’t been listening the first time. With short, jerky movements, she tucked her gloves in the pocket of her breeches and dropped her gaze to the tip of one scuffed boot.

Sandy touched her cheek. But, honey, I’ll not always be around to protect you.

Don’t say that.

It’s true.

Well, I’ll just have to take care of myself, ’cause I’m not gonna get married. Ever. She paused, then blinked her eyes, fighting tears. Her voice was soft, unsure when she continued. Who would have me, Pa? What white man would want a half-breed for the mother of his children? Shaking her head wryly, she finished, And I just can’t see marrying a Comanche. With my sharp tongue,, he’d scalp me on our honeymoon. And as much as it hurts to admit, I have to agree with the townspeople. Most Indians are savages. The men anyway.

Stevie had been a tender child of four when she overheard her first account of a Comanche raid. The tale was so horrible, bloody, and vicious that she had never gotten over it. Women raped, their babies’ brains bashed out, men murdered and scalped, their tongues cut out. She’d had nightmares for weeks afterward; still did at times. She shuddered involuntarily.

Her mother had tried to explain why the People attacked the White Eyes. But the concept of a dying nation protecting its ancestral home had been far too sophisticated for Stevie to comprehend.

So she carried the shame of her Indian blood in her heart. Plagued with insecurity, she was a lonely girl in a woman’s body, a woman without a people, a woman who felt she didn’t belong to anyone—except her pa and little Winter. That would have to be enough.

Flashing her father a disarming grin to cover her emotion, she continued. Fact is, men are a pack of trouble. You’re proof of that.

Sandy smiled sadly. He knew what was going through his daughter’s mind. Sometimes, Stephanie Kay, I think I should’ve sent you east to live with my sister, where you could learn how to be a proper lady.

Stevie paled. You couldn’t do that to me and you know it. You needed around the ranch. And now that Jeff’s gone—

The look of pain in her father’s eyes halted her in mid-sentence. Like Stevie, Sandy was still grieving. It was evident in every line etched in his weather-beaten face.

Jeff had been missing for two months. His horse had returned to the ranch, blood staining the expertly tooled saddle his pa had given him for his twenty-first birthday. Adobe Wells’s sheriff had searched halfheartedly before giving Jeff up for dead. Sandy said the lawman had abandoned the search because he was stupid and cowardly—not much more than a kid himself. Stevie thought it was because Jeff was part Comanche.

She was certain that the man who killed Jeff was in the judge’s employ. Silently, she had vowed to discover the truth about her brother and avenge his death, if it took her the rest of her life. She just had to find a way around her pa and his propensity to smother her with fatherly concern.

She averted her gaze, knowing it wouldn’t do for Sandy to see the fire of vengeance burning in her eyes. He’d lock her in her room for sure, or worse, send her east to live with her oh-so-proper aunt.

Purposefully, she approached the window, pushing aside the fluttering curtains. A glossy blue bird perched on the cottonwood, warbling an airy tune. Stevie stared at it with unseeing eyes.

Who else would take care of things around here if you managed to marry me off or send me to live with Aunt Avesta? Now that all the hands are gone.

Sandy crossed the room, placing his hands on Stevie’s shoulder. Don’t worry, kitten. I won’t send you away. Sandy didn’t want Stevie to leave the Rocking J any more than she wanted to go. But he feared for her safety. Damn Elias Colt Jack to hell!

Looking out the window over his daughter’s shoulder, Sandy conquered impotent rage and allowed himself a moment’s reflection, remembering what life was like when he, Jeff, and Stevie worked side by side, reigning like kindly lords over the little kingdom his ancestors had carved out of the wilderness, when the ranch was alive with the sounds of men, horses, and cattle.

He sighed heavily. Would it ever be that way again? Not if Judge Jack had his way, a still, small voice answered. The judge’s determination to own the Rocking J knew no bounds. At first he had tried to buy the place, but when Sandy refused to sell, the real trouble began. Stock disappeared; wells were poisoned, outbuildings burned to the ground.

The theft and vandalism had taken a financial toll. Except for a small nest egg in the bank that Sandy had put aside as Stevie’s dowry, he was as broke as the Ten Commandments.

Dowries were fanciful, he knew, but he was determined that Stevie have one. For