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Overview
The west heats up in Sara Orwig’s epic romances, showcasing three breathtaking stories of a lawless land and untamable hearts.
In Denver, a man flees west to escape his past, only to lose his heart to a woman with the power to destroy him, or give him his one shot at redemption. Albuquerque brings together a pious woman and a shattered man who only have their passion in common. And in San Antonio, a man’s quest for revenge will take him into the home of his most hated enemy, and into the heart of that enemy’s beautiful daughter.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9781626816282 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Diversion Books |
| Publication date: | 02/06/2019 |
| Series: | The Southwestern Sage |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 1200 |
| Sales rank: | 553,306 |
| File size: | 5 MB |
Read an Excerpt
CHAPTER 1
February 1846 Near Raton Pass, New Mexico Territory
A blue sky bright with sunshine and fluffy white clouds belied the turmoil of the scene below, on the flat land that spread for miles before reaching the distant Sangre de Cristo Mountains. A brown trail cut across the land, a thin gash in the sparse cactus, winding unbroken except for a spiral of dust rising in the air.
A wagon train was in a small circle, wheels locked together to keep the animals inside the enclosure and to provide a bulwark of defense against the attackers.
Gunshots and human cries sounded in the open space. Beneath a wagon, a sixteen-year-old boy lay on his stomach, his green eyes round as he watched the fighting. In the wagon above him his mother, Harriet Danby, was huddled along with one of the other women.
Lucius Townsend Danby looked incongruous in his elegant eastern clothing, his lanky frame encased by a white silk shirt, black trousers and coat, and a beaver hat that lay in the dust beside him. Orange flames roared and crackled as the wagon next to him burned — their wagon. With a fleeting regret he realized that his father's law books were burning.
Lucius wrestled with new emotions. For the first time in his life, he felt that he might die a violent death. The terror was accompanied by another, unique experience; for the first time in his life, he questioned his father's teachings.
Elmer Danby, a lawyer who had been a lay preacher in his early days, had instilled in Lucius a love of books. Lucius had never held a gun in his life. Born in Boston, raised by his soft-spoken mother and gentle father, he wished now he had learned the basics of firearms. All his life he had been told to read, to broaden his mind, because he would grow up and become a lawyer. Now he realized that such a philosophy might prove to be fatal.
Choking on the thick dust, Lucius shifted his weight. While guns blasted, terror made him grow numb. They had only four wagons; there had been nine men counting himself, seven women, and six children.
Lucius twisted to look over his shoulder, taking a swift tally: six men dead, two women, and two children killed. Only four children were left and two of them were babies. One of the women, Alice Stein, could use firearms and she fought alongside the men, but they were still far outnumbered.
Lucius scooted forward, inching along on the hard, dry ground so he could see the attackers instead of merely the milling hooves and legs of their horses. His mother had been terrified of Indians: an ironic note, because the attackers were white men. Lucius had heard one of the men call the assailants Comancheros, another had said they were filthy renegades. Whatever they were, there were at least ten of them, and he knew they were closing in for the kill.
Lucius glanced over his shoulder at the last man who had fallen. Dr. Jordan had planned to go West with his wife, his son, and his baby girl. Now he lay sprawled in the dirt, his arms outstretched, the fallen rifle lying across his chest.
Lucius scrambled over to him, yanking up the rifle and turning to aim beneath the wagon. He jerked the trigger and heard a click, but no shot fired. Frustrated, filled with rage and fear, he ran to one of the men who was firing at the attackers.
"Tell me how to load this."
"Get the powder and rod, boy!" Sean Raines snapped. Lucius scrambled to do as he said, then came racing back to the protection of the wagon wheel as Sean fired again. He watched Sean reload, studying every movement, following it himself as he shouldered the weapon and yanked the trigger. The shot deafened him and the butt of the rifle slammed into his shoulder and knocked him backward to the ground. Sean sprawled beside him, blood pouring from his chest and throat.
Lucius's hands shook as he reloaded and flopped down, inadvertently yanking the trigger again. As the gun fired, the shot ricocheted off a pan hanging on the side of the wagon and Lucius swore. He heard a cry and turned to see another of the men running toward an attacker whose horse had jumped the barrier and the man rode inside their tiny circle. Abe Waters, from Boston, fired and missed.
The man wheeled his horse, rode down on Abe, swung his rifle, sending Abe sprawling in the dirt, then shot him. When Abe's wife, Georgia, jumped screaming from the wagon, the man snatched her up in his arms. And then it was over.
The gunshots stopped. The thud of horses' hooves on the ground and the deep-voiced calls of the triumphant attackers were the only sounds except for the crackle of flames from the burning wagons. Then the screams began as women were yanked from the wagons.
The powder was gone, and Lucius ran to a slain man to take his powder horn when a rider loomed in front of him and pointed a rifle at his heart.
For an instant Lucius thought his life was over. Then the man yanked the rifle from Lucius's hands and motioned to him.
"Get over there!" he ordered, jerking his head toward the huddled group of captives.
Lucius knew his mother still hid in the wagon, and horror gripped him. The depth of fear for his mother made his head swim. He heard his own voice as if from a distance as he yelled in protest and began to run. He saw the butt of the rifle only seconds before it smashed against his temple.
When he regained consciousness, dirt filled his mouth. Dazed, he shook his head, trying to focus on what was happening. Then he saw his mother caught between two men, struggling with them while two more danced with glee. The familiar black metal box lay open on the ground, and their one thousand dollars in gold was scattered in the dust while the men tossed coins in the air.
Lucius lurched to his feet, yanking a pistol from the holster of a rider who was busy watching the women.
"Let her go!" he shouted. The men turned to stare at him, then one of them laughed bitterly.
"If it isn't Sir Galahad hisself. Look at the green dandy!"
"Please, leave him alone!" his mother pleaded. "I'll do whatever you want."
"No!" Lucius shouted while the men laughed. Enraged, he fired the gun. A puff of dust kicked up yards away from any of the men, and taunts followed as Lucius tried to aim, firing first too high, then too low, until his shots were gone. Their raucous laughter added to his humiliation.
"Ever fired one of those things before, sonny?"
Frustrated, Lucius threw the pistol at one of the men. The rider ducked, and the man in command wheeled his horse closer. A rope in his hand snaked out as the loop dropped over Lucius. It was yanked tight instantly, pinning Lucius's arms to his side. The rider backed his horse, keeping the rope taut. He looked down with cold brown eyes, his thick black mustache drooping over full lips. His body was hard muscled and broad shouldered, his skin burnished the color of teak. A pale scar ran across his cheeks and nose.
"Kill him, Domingo," one of the men called. A woman screamed and Domingo looked over his shoulder. "Tie her up," he ordered. "Put them with the children in a wagon. But don't hurt them!"
Domingo wheeled his horse around while Lucius wiggled his arms free. Again the rope was yanked tight. "Hold the woman for me," Domingo said, pointing to Hattie. "I want her for myself."
Lucius had never hated a man before, but he felt the emotion burn hotly in him now. The bellow that tore from his throat seemed to come from somewhere else, a primitive sound of rage that rang in his ears.
Dimly he heard his mother scream, saw her struggling with two men who held her, and then the rope bit into his flesh and he was yanked off his feet. He hit the ground, the breath knocked from his lungs as he twisted and clutched at the rope. For an instant he looked up at the dark-haired Domingo.
"You better kill me," Lucius said, "If I live, I'll kill you for this."
"You dumb gringo. I'll gladly oblige." He spurred his horse and whipped around, urging it to a gallop. The rope bit into Lucius's flesh as he was pulled behind the horse. Rocks and cactus tore at him. His body bounced and dust made him gag as the pain engulfed him.
Lucius tried to turn his face so his arms protected him, but in seconds cactus tore his arms and he rolled, the rope twisting, his body tumbling wildly after the horse. He saw the big cactus looming ahead, the horse veering at the last second, causing Lucius to slam full force against it. He felt as if his face were being ripped away. He heard a scream without realizing it was his own voice.
Wishing he would die, he drifted in and out of consciousness. Then he stirred, and suddenly the ground was gone. He tried to open his eyes and look, but all he could see through one eye was a slit. The world was a blur of red. He was falling in space as the horse plunged down an embankment ahead of him.
Lucius hit the ground with all his weight on his shoulder and arm. Pain exploded like a ball of fire, and merciful oblivion engulfed him.
Domingo Esquillo Leon de Piedra looked over his shoulder at the body bouncing behind him. He reined in his horse as one of his men caught up with him. Juan stared at the body on the ground.
"I think he's dead."
"Cut him loose."
Juan dismounted and pulled out a knife to make one sweeping slash, cutting the rope. He strode over to the figure in the dust, knelt down and placed his hand against Lucius's bloody throat.
"He's alive, boss."
"Mount up. I'll finish him."
Domingo drew his pistol and cocked it. As his horse pranced, he yanked up the reins, raising the pistol to squeeze the trigger. The shot echoed in the silence, then Domingo spurred his horse to head back to the wagons.
He could hear one of the women screaming before he reined and climbed down, but his attention was on the silent, golden-haired woman who stood beside a wagon. Staring straight ahead, she stood with her hands tied behind her. Domingo's dark eyes swept over her as he strode to her. Her blue eyes met his, but he didn't think she actually saw him. She seemed to stare through him, to some unseen point beyond him. Tears streamed steadily from her eyes, but there was no sound, no grimace from weeping. She was a beautiful woman with silky yellow hair and wide blue eyes. Her son had borne little resemblance to her.
"Get her in the wagon!" he called to one of his men. "Let's move out!"
Soon they were underway, on the trail to Santa Fe and a place where they could sell the women and children. The captives were tied together, huddled in a wagon stripped of its cover. Turning in his saddle, Domingo looked at them without feeling the usual surge of satisfaction. He stared thoughtfully at the woman. He had learned her first name from one of the women. Harriet. Hattie.
The next night they rode into Rayado, a town on the trail. As they meandered down the dusty road that was the main street, a crowd began to gather to look at the captives. Domingo had sold people many times before, and it was easy in towns where there was not yet a lawman or where there were soldiers anxious to get captives back from Comancheros or Apaches to try to reunite them with their families.
They drove to the back of one of the saloons, and as they pulled the women and children from the wagon, offers were made. A man leaned against a post at the corner of the saloon, and watched as the women climbed down. In a short time he sauntered up to Domingo, who was in charge.
"How about that one?" he asked, pointing at Hattie. "What do you want for her?"
Hattie heard the words, but she had been numb since she had watched the one called Domingo gallop away dragging Lucius behind his horse. She hurt in a manner she hadn't dreamed possible. Deep down she had known for a long time that her husband was probably no longer alive. He wouldn't have gone months without a letter, but she hadn't ever given up hope until she lost Lucius. All hope had died with him. She listened to the two men and realized she was going to be the wager in a game of poker. She glanced fleetingly at the lean gambler dressed in elegant clothing, his silver eyes startling. She almost hoped he won her in a game. She wanted away from Domingo Piedra, who gazed at her with hunger in his eyes. If he kept her, it was only a matter of time until he possessed her. She had never before in her life hated and loathed a man, but she did Domingo. With a speculative glance from Domingo, both men disappeared around the front of the saloon.
While she waited with the remaining captives, the children were silent, some of the women quietly weeping. She stared at a dusty barn across the road, refusing to close her eyes because when she did, images of Lucius haunted her.
The men returned, striding toward her. Domingo cut her bonds. "You belong to him now. He's Coit Ritter." He stepped back and she gazed up into black eyes that gazed over her boldly and were filled with regret. She realized he had had no intention of losing her, and he was disappointed and angry at the outcome of the gambling. She shifted her gaze to the lean, silver-eyed stranger, who studied her with curiosity. He smiled and offered his arm; at the moment, she was thankful she was going to leave with him. She lifted her chin and took his arm, pausing in front of Domingo.
"You'll sell your soul someday for what you have done."
He frowned and blinked, then shook his head as if warding off a blow. "You can do nothing to me." Domingo experienced a chill as he looked down into her blue eyes.
"May your dreams be haunted and Lucius avenged," she added quietly.
Rage flared in Domingo, and he reached up to strike her. Instantly the gambler drew his revolver aimed at Domingo. "Don't touch my woman."
Domingo inhaled swiftly as he dropped his hand, his eyes raking over her again. He hadn't intended to lose her. He wanted to possess her. He cursed the fact that he hadn't done so back on the road, but he had wanted her to come willingly to him, and that took time.
The gambler mounted a horse and swung Hattie up in front of him. As they rode away from the saloon, he said to her, "We'll head north to the next town. I want to get you away from Domingo before he changes his mind. What's your name?"
"Hattie. Harriet Danby."
"He said he killed your son. What about your husband?"
"I came West to find my husband, but I suspect he too is dead," she said quietly. The thought of escape crossed her mind fleetingly, but she knew she couldn't escape Coit Ritter easily or quickly, she had seen the way the gun jumped into his hand, and she could feel the coiled muscles beneath the cloth of his sleeves as he held her.
At the next town he got a hotel room and took her to eat, buying them both large steak dinners. Hattie had little appetite and he ate quietly and quickly. Then he leaned back, studying her, asking her questions about her past. When he took her back to the hotel room, he turned her to face him. "You're my woman now," he said quietly.
She nodded, feeling neither grief nor fear. She felt nothing, as if all emotion and feeling had been taken from her.
He pulled her into his arms gently and held her. "I won't rush you, Hattie," he said in a deep voice, "but you're my woman."
"I would rather be with you that him," she said, standing woodenly, wondering if she would ever have charge of her own life again.
"I'll tell you now. I'm not a marrying man." He leaned back to look down at her, then he swung her into his arms, and carried her to the chair. Sitting down and placing her on his lap, he turned her around so he could massage her back, his strong hands rubbing her tense muscles. Though she wanted to be free of him, she was grateful, suspecting he had enabled her to escape a far worse fate. As his hands massaged slowly and deliberately, the tenseness went out of her and when it did, all her reserves broke. Great, wracking sobs came, and he pulled her into his arms to hold and stroke her. Carrying her to the iron bed, he lay down on the blue coverlet beside her and held her close.
She clung to him, dimly aware of his warmth and strength, his hands moving slowly over her. He sat up once and left her, only to return in minutes. "Take a drink of brandy."
"No — "
"C'mon. You need it."
She let him hold the glass and she placed her fingers over his cool ones, drinking the fiery liquid that burned as it went down. Coit had shed his boots and coat and shirt. His chest was smooth, the skin stretched tautly over corded muscles. His belly was a washboard of rippling muscles, and the tight trousers fit like a second skin. He refilled the glass and held it while she drank again.
(Continues…)
Excerpted from "The Southwestern Saga"
by .
Copyright © 2014 Sara Orwig.
Excerpted by permission of Diversion Publishing Corp..
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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