Echos of Dreams

By Joyce Barton

Saber Santana was raised an outcast in the midst of a tight-knit religious community. In order to save herself from a forced marriage and protect her crippled mother from further abuse at the hands of the tyrannical leader of the church, she manages to sneak them away in the dead of night and find safety in a mining town in the Colorado Mountains. The problem is she is determined to seek retribution for the wrongs done to her mother, and doing so puts her in jeopardy of being arrested or killed.
Noah Kincade comes from a life of privilege. Everything he's ever desired has come to him easily. The code he lives by is simple: Strive for honesty at all times, put your trust in the just and moral rules that govern society, right is right and wrong pays a price in the end.
Lives are changed irrevocably the fateful day these two cross paths, making one wonder if it's ever too late to dream a new dream or learn to see things differently.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Jul 12, 2021
• ISBN: 9781098377397

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

1878 Clear Creek Canyon

Colorado Mountains northwest of Denver

Noah Kincade had never been more frustrated or pissed off in his life. Being held at gunpoint by the very stagecoach robber he’d been sent to apprehend was so far out of character for him, he didn’t know how he’d ever live it down.

He also couldn’t imagine the situation getting any worse.

Until the robber hissed another deep-throated, raspy-voiced command. Drop your trousers!

You can’t be serious, Noah bellowed. Normally, he rarely raised his voice, but he’d never been in a more outrageous position. The outlaw had already instructed Shorty, the stage driver, to deposit everyone’s weapons into the furious water of Clear Creek and empty the cash from the metal strongbox into his saddlebags. Forcing Noah to disrobe was ridiculous to the extreme.

As serious as a January blizzard, Mister. This time the gravelly words were delivered with deliberate slowness, as if addressing a half-wit. Now get ‘em off.

Lorrie Jenkins, the petite young woman hovering close to Noah began to cry. He could only hope she wouldn’t swoon again. Charles Lawton took a timid step forward and placed an arm around the very upset Miss Jenkins, to support her or be supported, Noah couldn’t tell; the lanky salesman from Missouri quaked as visibly as the aspens in the surrounding glen.

The other female passenger, the voluminous Etta Bainbridge, sat on the ground propped against one of the stagecoach wheels. Her tent-size blue skirt had been hiked up past her ankles and her left foot rested in her husband’s lap. Hank Bainbridge had already removed his wife’s damaged shoe. His hands trembled as he wrapped his handkerchief around her big toe in an attempt to stop the flow of blood, his eyes darting from his task to the gunman and back again. Shorty knelt next to him with an open flask of whiskey in his weathered hands.

Noah groaned inwardly. He’d never shot a woman before, not on purpose or any other way. But as luck would have it, the precise moment he’d had the outlaw in his sights and depressed the trigger, Lorrie fainted against his gun hand, causing the bullet to pierce Etta’s shoe and sever the tip of her toe. To make matters worse, his pistol then dropped out of reach under the seat, rendering him as helpless as the others when the crowded stage clattered to a halt, and the robber ordered them all to get out.

The injured woman’s faded blue eyes held as much anger as pain and fear when she glared at Noah, no doubt holding him entirely to blame for this situation instead of the robber. He agreed with her completely; he should have been more alert, better prepared. He’d already mentally berated himself for deciding to ride inside the crowded coach instead of on top with the driver or alongside on his horse. His strategy had been to lure this very outlaw into believing there were no armed guards to thwart a holdup, thereby having surprise on his side making it easier to get the drop on him. But the plan had backfired, and he’d jeopardized the lives of these innocent people.

You got sap in your ears, Mister? The gunman raised his coarse voice even louder. I told you to remove those trousers.

And if I don’t? Noah continued to stall, noting that even on top of a horse, the man looked considerably shorter than his own 6’3" and couldn’t weigh more than 140 pounds soaking wet, if that.

When Paul Bradshaw sent word asking for help in apprehending the robber targeting his money, he’d painted an entirely different picture. Maybe there was more than one robber, because this one didn’t appear to be cold or calculating. And certainly not an imposing figure. He’d been as visibly shaken as the others when Noah carried the injured Etta Bainbridge out the coach door. He’d even allowed them time to get her settled before continuing with his demands.

Like something out of a storybook, he was outfitted completely in black and sat straight as an arrow atop a black Mexican saddle cinched to the back of a black, sway-backed nag that looked as if a one-legged man could outrun him. A black sombrero sat low enough to make it difficult to see his eyes, the only part of his person slightly visible behind a black, full-face mask and gloves. His black shirt was tucked loosely into black corded britches which were tucked into scuffed, knee-high boots.

Normally, Noah’s size and the scar along the right side of his face never failed to cause his opponent’s pause. But that wasn’t the case now. In less time than it takes to sneeze, the outlaw’s gun went off, slamming a bullet into the ground between Noah’s boots. A second shot nicked the heel of the boot on his right foot.

Lorrie screamed and lunged away, taking the salesman with her as she hit the ground. Etta Bainbridge buried her face in her hands. Her husband scrambled up next to her and enfolded her bulk as best he could in his skinny arms. The stage driver tipped the flask and took a long swig.

Noah managed not to flinch, but inside he seethed. If word got out how badly he’d bungled this job, he’d never live it down. Situations like this didn’t happen to him. Ever. His control never slipped. His strict standards never failed him. He had a reputation for being in complete command of himself and any circumstance in which he was involved. The code he lived by was simple; never let your guard down, never assume anything, adhere to the just and moral rules that govern society and you’ll never go wrong. Right was right and wrong was wrong. Right always won and wrong paid the price in the end. Just as this masked gunman would pay, Noah vowed. He’d never be able to face himself in the mirror again if he failed to bring this man to justice.

You need help with those buttons? The fierce voice jerked Noah back to attention.

Listen, you–

No! You listen! You have 10 seconds to get shed of the gun belt, trousers and boots. Otherwise, someone else is gonna get hurt.

Noah wanted nothing more than to pull the scrawny man from the saddle, strip off his mask and teach him a lesson with a hard fist. Could he propel his 205 pounds fast enough to dodge a bullet? If he only had himself to think about, he’d take the chance. But he didn’t, and he couldn’t endanger the others any more than he already had.

A click from the hammer on the outlaw’s gun prodded Noah into action. He ground his teeth together and thumbed his grey Stetson to the back of his head. Warily, he worked the boot off his right foot, then the left. Then he unbuckled his cartridge belt and let it and his holster slide to the ground. Finally, he started on the buttons of his grey wool pants. He heard Lorrie Jenkins gasp. If this upsets her, Noah thought, wait till she sees I’m not wearing anything underneath.

He’d always been attracted to delicate blondes like Lorrie and would do anything to protect her or any other woman’s sensibilities, but he couldn’t stall any longer. The outlaw’s eyes had thinned to mere slits and the business end of the gun was now pointed menacingly at that part of Noah about to be exposed.

As carefully as possible, he tugged down the hem of his shirt and dropped his britches. An immediate rush of high mountain breezes cooled everything he’d bared. From her position on the ground, Miss Jenkins gaped at the hemline of his shirt. Noah’s face burned; no doubt at least part of him was on display. Where were the woman’s delicate sensibilities now?

The gunman was staring too. Noah just wanted to get this over, with no one else getting injured. They’re off. Now what?

Stand behind Miss Featherbrain and keep your hands where I can see them.

Lorrie Jenkins took offense at the name-calling. How dare you–

Shut up, Miss Featherbrain, before I shut you up. The robber’s patience had run out. He turned the gun toward the stage driver. Unhitch the team and make it quick.

Once the six-horse team was free, a couple of shots in the air had them running down the road. Even before they disappeared from sight, the outlaw had untied Noah’s big Palouse horse from the back of the stagecoach and looped the reins around the high horn of his saddle. The barrel of his gun was now fixed on Lorrie. Pick up the boots and trousers and hand them to me very carefully.

Lorrie, her pretty face tear-streaked and dirty, gaped at the gun aimed straight between her eyes. Her fussy bonnet and the bun at the back of her neck sagged woefully as she leaned heavily against the salesman, who had both arms wrapped around her, wilting her lavender dress even more.

Do as he says, Miss Jenkins, Noah urged. He’d been told that in previous holdups the robber’s interest had been solely on the box containing Bradshaw’s cash and that no one had ever been injured, but he couldn’t be certain what the man would do if Lorrie failed to follow his instructions. And without a gun or horse or his pants and boots, there was nothing he could do but cooperate. Evidently, just what the outlaw was counting on.

The salesman rose and helped Lorrie to her feet. Everyone collectively held their breath while they watched her do as instructed, handling the items as carefully as if they were the threat and not the gun pointed at her head. The outlaw made quick work of tucking Noah’s gun belt, boots and britches in front of him on the saddle, then spun his nag and kicked him into a gallop.

Half-naked and feeling like a colossal fool, Noah watched the bandit, his favorite horse and the money he’d sworn to protect disappear around a bend in the road. He had seriously underestimated the nag’s ability to run, just like he’d underestimated a lone gunman’s chances at successfully holding up a stagecoach with him on it.

CHAPTER 2

Saber hiked up her skirt and climbed inside her bedroom window, landing with a thud on the floor. Her heart tripped like a miner’s pickaxe as she yanked the bottom of her dress in after her. A soft ripping sound brought her sharply around. A piece of the hem, the same pale yellow as the rose bush beneath the window, waved up at her from a thorn.

She leaned back outside and peered cautiously around before retrieving the torn fabric. As she stuffed it into her pocket, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror above her dresser. She looked like a frazzled raccoon. Smudges of dirt the size of the eyeholes in her mask ringed both of her eyes as perfectly as if painted on. Her black hair sprang out from her head and down her back in a tangled, curly mess. The buttons of her bodice were fastened at an odd angle, hiking it higher on one side than the other. Isobel Sabrina Santana, she whispered to the image looking back at her. You’ve stooped to new depths for sure. As if holding up a stagecoach isn’t bad enough, you’ve now forced a man to disrobe and stolen his horse.

As soon as she’d returned the nag - she’d borrowed without asking - and released the beautiful Palouse - she wished she could have kept - she had run as fast as her legs would carry her to the cave where she’d left her dress and shoes. The quick change out of her black disguise and the three-mile run home had nearly drained the last remnants of her strength.

Mindless of any dust on the saddlebags, Saber slung them onto the quilt covering her bed, grabbed the piece of cloth off the wall hook near the dresser, doused it with water from the pitcher and proceeded to scrub her face clean. Too bad she couldn’t scrub away the anxiety still pounding away inside. Her mind kept reliving the near-disastrous event; the stage rattling to a halt, Shorty’s hands thrust high in the air, the passengers filing out, one of them a golden-haired giant toting a very plump woman with a bleeding foot.

How had things gone so wrong? Each of the other holdups had been easy in comparison. A single rider had carried her stepfather’s cash the first time, and Saber had had surprise at her advantage. The second shipment of money had been carried by two men driving a freight wagon, and she’d managed to get the drop on them as they struggled to get the team of horses through a swollen creek. The third time had been similar to this one, the money shipped by stage with an armed guard, and all it had taken was a single warning shot splintering the wood on the seat near the guard’s knee to impress him enough to drop his gun with no more than a shrug. Shorty was driving the stage that time, too. But he seldom challenged a loaded gun. Neither had any of the passengers, especially when they realized none of their money or valuables were going to be taken.

This time, however, she’d nearly lost the dream. This time someone had gotten hurt. Even though the bullet wasn’t from her gun, she felt fully responsible for it; no one would have been hurt if she hadn’t held up the stage. From that point on, everything had continued on a downhill slide. After gently placing the woman on the ground, the tall man had straightened, braced his long legs several inches apart and pinned Saber with a look so intense it had taken every ounce of will she could summon to keep her gun steady. His furious, rigid features could have been chiseled from granite. The pale scar that zigzagged from his right ear to the cleft in his chin glared in contrast against his sun-darkened face, making him appear even more dangerous. Thankfully he’d been unarmed, otherwise she’d probably be dead.

Given a thousand years, she would never be able to explain her swift response; ordering him to undress had been both appalling and brilliant. A devil with a warped sense of humor must have breathed that idea in her ear. Since he was the only obvious threat, separating him from his boots and britches is probably what saved her.

Even so, she hadn’t been prepared for his nakedness. No one in his right mind dressed without long underwear in the changeable spring weather of the Rockies. But it was his green eyes that continued to haunt her. They had turned as dark as a pine forest and promised harsh and swift punishment for his humiliation. There wasn’t a doubt in her mind he was more than capable of carrying it out. Especially since she’d ridden off with his beautiful horse. Nor was there any doubt that he’d been hired by her stepfather. Paul Bradshaw’s stamp was all over him, the dark blond good looks and haughty air, as well as the gallant charm he oozed all over the little featherbrain plastered to his side.

It wouldn’t be the first time her pious stepfather had hired someone else to do his bidding, keeping his own lily-white hands free from the taint of blood or sin. Anyone who dared cross Bishop Bradshaw paid dearly… sometimes with their life.

Saber shuddered to think of what he’d do to her if he ever found out she was the one stealing his precious money.

She picked up her hairbrush and started to work the snarls out of her hair. Leaning closer to the mirror, she noted the apprehension in her dark eyes and the lack of color in her face. He won’t find out, she assured herself. This near-disaster would serve as a lesson. From now on, she’d be way more careful.

Giving up on her hair, she placed the brush back on the dresser and knelt near the head of the bed. A small braided rug covered her hiding place. She folded it back and removed the two loose floorboards. Another frightening job behind her, she thought, as she reached into the hole and lifted out the box. Another step closer to her goal of securing her and her mother’s future. With a flick of her thumb, she released the hasp and opened the lid. Several orderly stacks of bills and a few coins filled her vision. Her hands shook as she reached for the saddlebags and unloaded their contents into the box. Neatly straightening each stack of new bills, she knew without counting that this added another $5,000 to her considerable stash. Jeremy’s accuracy could be banked on. Her stepbrother was never wrong on the date, the delivery method or the amount. She mentally sent him a big thank you for his love and loyalty, knowing she could never accomplish her goal without him.

The tension of the past several hours began to drain out of her as she lowered the box back into the dark safety of the hole and replaced the boards and the rug. Yawning loudly, she rocked back on her heels, relieved to feel her heartbeat soothe to a more normal pace.

You’re late!

Saber snapped around so fast she landed on her rump. Her heart missed at least three beats before lurching back into a thudding gallop. Metoo, she gasped, her hoarse voice barely audible. You scared me half to death!

Severe disapproval creased the face of the tiny Chinese woman standing in the doorway. The long, grey-streaked braid hanging down the front of her red satin tunic made an effective exclamation point. She was 55 years old, extremely strong for her advanced age and being no bigger than the average 10-year-old. Her presence could fill a room, especially if she was displeased about something. With unerring accuracy, she aimed her sightless eyes straight at Saber. You scared all right, but not of me. What you got in that hidey-hole?

How did– Saber swallowed the rest of the ludicrous question. It was a mistake to underestimate Metoo’s mysterious abilities. Throughout the woman’s hard life she’d cultivated the sixth sense she’d been born with into an ability to ‘see’ more than most sighted folks ever would. Saber got to her feet, needing every bit of her five feet eight inches to face the smaller woman. I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Uh, huh. Metoo was used to Saber’s lies, but for the moment wasn’t interested in pushing the issue. You sound like a bullfrog. What’s wrong with your voice?

Saber wrung her hands for a moment before folding them together behind her to stop the nervous gesture. Normally the concoction she poured down her throat to roughen and deepen her voice would have worn off by now. But she’d had to talk more during this holdup than ever before and her throat hurt like the dickens.

My throat’s a little sore, that’s all, she croaked. Most likely because I got my feet wet last night. She told the second lie as effortlessly as the first, then swallowed in an attempt to soothe the pain. It didn’t help, her mouth was as dry as sawdust. Is supper ready?

It’s ready. Metoo’s mouth puckered up dubiously on one side. You’re a mess. Do something with your hair before you come to supper. And don’t dally, Little Miss. Big Miss needs to eat before it gets cold.

Saber shook her head as she watched the old woman pivot on her petite, slipper-clad foot and soundlessly disappear down the hall. In spite of the fact that Saber was well past twenty-three years of age and three inches taller than her mother, Metoo still insisted on calling her Little Miss, and her mother, Cora Belle, Big Miss. It made Saber feel like a child. Nevertheless, she would never fuss about it.

From Saber’s earliest memory, Metoo had been as much a loving and nurturing parent as her mother. Her real name was Mai Chou. At the young age of 14, she was kidnapped and brought to this country as a slave. After repeated attempts to escape, the man blinded her. Saber’s grandfather, Charles Davis, learned about her plight while playing poker with a table of men that included her abductor. After raking in all the winnings at the table, he used every dollar to buy the girl’s freedom then brought her home with him. When his wife Belle died giving birth, the Chinese girl named the baby Cora Belle and took over the job of mothering her.

Saber had never known a time without Mai Chou’s love and influence. She was like a beloved grandmother. And Saber was responsible for her nickname. As soon as she could crawl, she followed the little woman everywhere, calling out, Metoo, Metoo. It was her first word and the name stuck. Mai Chou’s authority over the household stuck too. She was the only person who could tell Saber what to do and expect her to do it.

There was a time, around the age of 13, that Saber attempted to figure out how Metoo knew things that should have been impossible for her to know. Her uncle had been a respected practitioner of Chinese medicine in their village, but that didn’t explain the woman’s intuitive abilities, which seemed as normal as the sun rising in the east. Like now, Saber didn’t even question how Metoo knew her hair resembled a rat’s nest. She simply grabbed her brush and obediently tamed the mess into submission.

CHAPTER 3

By the time Saber joined her mother at the kitchen table, she presented a neat and calm front. Her hair was neatly braided and secured into a thick figure eight at the nape of her neck. Her cheeks were rosy from pinching. All the buttons on the bodice of her dress had been re-buttoned in the right holes.

Hello, darling. Cora Belle smiled lovingly as her gaze travelled over every inch of the daughter she cherished more than life itself. How’s Mister Rupert? Did you get his place all cleaned up?

Rupert’s as ornery as ever and glad to have his cabin all spit-shined. Saber croaked the lie with practiced ease. Not that she enjoyed lying, especially to her mother, but she had learned at a young age that lying was necessary for survival.

Her mother’s smile disappeared. What’s wrong with your voice? Are you sick? Metoo, listen to her. Oh, my God, why didn’t you tell me you were sick. Darling, you–

Momma, calm down. You’re upsetting yourself for nothing. Saber tried to raise her voice, but it made her throat hurt even worse. She must have used too many hot peppers in the mixture this time. I’m fine, really. Just a sore throat. I got my feet wet last night. The lies came so easily. She grabbed a glass of water from the table and took a sip. It did nothing to ease the pain. Metoo, tell her there’s nothing to worry about, she muttered in a whisper."

Little Miss not sick. The old woman thrust a spoon filled with one of her elixirs at Saber’s mouth and waited for her to open and swallow. Then she shuffled to the stove, picked up a steaming bowl of sticky rice and plopped a spoonful onto Cora Belle’s plate as precisely as if she could see what she was doing. She repeated the feat with Saber’s plate before returning to the stove for the rest of the meal.

Saber hoped her mother hadn’t noticed the singsong way Metoo had spoken. You see, Momma? Metoo isn’t the slightest bit worried. How about you? How are you feeling today? Are you in much pain?

As usual, her mother sidestepped the questions. You’re not getting enough rest, darling. Why must you work at night? Please arrange to do your cleaning jobs during the morning hours.

Saber cringed inwardly at the plea. Her cleaning jobs were more lies, told for the sake of her mother’s peace of mind. Ever since Saber had whisked Cora Belle and Metoo away from her step-father’s clutches, her mother had been guilt ridden over the fact that her daughter had to find employment in order to keep a roof over their heads. Saber had tried countless times to convince her that their freedom more than made up for the responsibility, but Cora Belle refused to hear it. Her guilt, like her crippled body, came from too many years under her callous husband’s rule.

Momma, Saber whispered as loudly as she could. We’ve talked about this. I’m not working too hard. I’m not tired. I got chilled when my feet got wet last night, that’s all. I feel perfectly well, honest I do.

Cora Belle’s pretty features slowly settled into grim acceptance and Saber was grateful there would be no more argument. Her mother’s damaged spine already brought her too many hours of agony; the last thing Saber wanted was to add even more.

Metoo finished dishing up the rest of their simple meal of chicken, carrots and peas, and sat down to join them. She might be annoyed with Saber at the moment, but she also would never say or do anything that would upset Cora Belle.

Saber’s mother had that effect on everyone. Ever since they’d arrived in Georgetown two years before, Cora Belle’s kind heart, generous nature and brave front while dealing with a crippled body had won the admiration and affection of all who met her. This made it easier to keep her from learning about Saber’s greatest deception to date… working as a whore in the most popular saloon and gaming house in town.

Of course, that position, like the cleaning jobs, was a complete fabrication, closely guarded by Saber and her very loyal, very satisfied, and very good paying customers. What she really did behind the closed door of her assigned room above the Ruby Slipper had nothing whatsoever to do with sex. In truth, Saber was a virgin and was determined to remain a virgin to the day she died.

Ruby Johnson, the saloon owner, knew the truth but fostered the deception in order to help protect Saber in case her stepfather ever found out she was in Georgetown. Their hope was that Paul Bradshaw would be so disgusted with Saber for sullying herself in such a reprehensible way, he wouldn’t want her or her mother back. The three actual prostitutes who worked at the saloon accepted Saber as one of their own. She hated deceiving them, but her stepfather’s vengeance could be lethal. The less people who knew the truth, the better off they’d all be.

A normal person would be worn out from dealing with so many falsehoods, but to Saber it was as natural as breathing. She’d been born a bastard and raised an outcast in the midst of a tightly knit religious community. Her handsome, charismatic stepfather was their beloved leader. He was kind and generous to his flock, strengthening their faith in him and his sermons on salvation. Behind closed doors, however, he was mean and ugly and, in Saber’s view, evil to the core.

When Saber noticed her mother studying her across the table, she jerked her mind back to the present and quickly forked a bite of food into her mouth. She had no appetite at all, but it was important to keep things as normal as possible right now. The achievement of her goal was getting closer. She couldn’t let her guard down for a minute.

Isobel, you look upset, Cora Belle said. Is something bothering you?

Saber stiffened. The only time her mother used her given name was when she was seriously troubled…or angry. She’d been named Isobel Sabrina after her paternal grandmother whom she’d never met. She’d never known her real father either because Manuel Santana had been murdered in his sleep the night she was born. According to her mother, they nicknamed her Saber when she outgrew baby talk and began cutting people down to size with retorts as sharp as a sword.

Deciding her mother must still be concerned about her health, Saber pushed away from the table and walked around to kiss her cheek. Please stop worrying about me. I’m fine, truly. I’m only quiet because talking hurts my throat. Well, that part was true.

Before her mother could respond, a loud pounding turned their attention toward the door. Saber moved to answer it, relieved to escape more talk of her hoarse throat. But as she swung the door open, a wave of dizziness nearly dropped her to the floor.

Shorty, the stagecoach driver brushed past her into the kitchen. Sorry to barge in at suppertime, ladies. Got a couple of injured people here.

In his wake, came the man Saber had forced at gunpoint to disrobe. He was carrying the heavy-set woman with the injured foot. His green eyes met Saber’s as he turned sideways and ducked down in order to fit them both through the doorway. He was no longer without trousers, but the pair he wore now obviously belonged to someone else; the too-large waistband was held together with a piece of rope, the cuffs barely reached his ankles. His feet were bare and one of them was wrapped in a filthy, bloody scrap of cloth. Saber recoiled. Had she done that? The woman’s husband trotted in behind them wailing that he couldn’t live without her if she dies.

The stagecoach was held up, Shorty explained. These folks were injured. He pulled out a kitchen chair for the woman. The docs are out on an emergency at one of the mines. I hoped Metoo could do something to help.

Metoo was used to nightly calls such as this. Other than Doc Sievers and the new doctor that had recently arrived in town, she was the only person with any curative skills. She kneeled in front of the injured woman, unwrapped the makeshift bandage and quietly asked a few questions as she used her fingers to gently examine the wound.

Saber was having a hard time catching her breath. Her stomach threatened to toss up the few bites she’d managed to swallow. She continued to clutch the open door with clammy palms, feeling like she’d fallen into a nightmare where the hands of time wound backwards. She’d never expected to see these people again, especially in her kitchen. Shorty was one of her special customers at the saloon. She’d known from the start the risk of holding up a stagecoach he might be driving. But she’d had no choice. Not if she wanted the money.

Thankfully, Shorty paid her no attention. He patted the shoulder of the injured woman and said, Folks, this here is Etta Bainbridge and her husband Hank. Etta was shot in the foot. He nodded toward the tall man. And this is Noah Kincade. He managed to cut the bejesus out of his foot when we chased down the horses.

The introductions continued and everyone muttered polite greetings, except for Saber, who continued clutching the door as if her life depended on it.

Cora Belle waved toward the spindle-backed chair across the table. Mister Kincade, please sit down. You must be in terrible pain. She began to stack the dishes within her reach. Isobel, clear the table.

Saber forced herself to shut the door. The man she now knew as Noah Kincade hadn’t stopped staring at her. Her mind screamed; does he know? Does he know? When she daringly met his scrutiny, his eyes held hers in a compelling duel that did