Authors: Georgina Gentry
Colt (29 page)
“There'll be a scene,” the major warned. “My daughter is used to getting what she wants.”
“But not this time,” Colt promised and went out.
First he walked to his quarters and changed into jeans, a denim shirt, and cowboy boots; then he walked to the barn and saddled up Rascal. Now the part he dreaded. He didn't really want to hurt the girl, but he was following his heart, not his brain, with this decision.
He rode over and tied up Rascal at the hitching post, knocked on the door at the major's quarters.
Olivia answered. “Oh, Colton.” She threw her arms around him. “I've been so worried about you.” Then she stepped back and stared. “Why are you out of uniform?”
Colt took a deep breath and looked down at her. “Olivia, I've decided not to reenlist. I've already talked to your father. He'll do the necessary paperwork.”
She shook her head. “No, you can't do this. Why, I've got our lives all planned out, the big wedding in Philadelphia, the posh post in Washington, theâ”
“I'm sorry, Olivia. I'm not gonna marry you. I apologize for behavin' like a cad, but I just don't think we could make a marriage work. My plans and your plans don't seem to mesh.”
Now her beautiful face went livid. “How dare you? You can't just break our engagement like this, not when I had such plans for usâ”
“I'm sorry if I've hurt you, Olivia, but I'd like to make my own plans and mine include stayin' in Texas. I couldn't be happy anyplace else.”
“I'll be the laughingstock of the fortâ”
“Tell everyone you broke the engagement. I won't dispute it.”
About that time, he heard a door open in the back and Olivia's maid called, “Ma'am, I'm returned from the wedding, butâ”
“Weddin'? What weddin'?” Colt asked.
Olivia smiled most evilly. “Oh, didn't you know? Mrs. Brownley got married down by the river about noon andâ”
Colt didn't hear the rest. He turned and ran out the door, swung up on Rascal's back, and took off at a gallop for the river. He could only hope he wasn't too late. He intended to marry Hannah himself.
He galloped up to see a handful of people including a big fat farmer in an ill-fitting suit standing talking to what must be a preacher, judging from his somber black suit. Doc stood nearby, visiting with a trooper.
Colt reined in and dismounted, ran up to Doc. “Where is she? Did she get married?”
The farmer turned toward him, his face red and angry. “That slutty bitch! She changed her mind, and here I was ready to overlook her sleepin' with an Injun buck and take in her half-breed kid, too.”
Colt hit him then, knocking him backward into the dirt.
Doc grabbed his arm. “Easy there, Colt. Say, what happened to your uniform?”
“Never mind.” Colt shook his hand off, rubbing his knuckles. “I decided not to reenlist. Where's Hannah?”
Doc grinned at him and shrugged. “You heard the man. She decided not to marry him, even though he has a big farm. She said the only man she'd ever love was marrying the major's daughter, so she's on her own and headed east to the nearest town.”
Colt looked around. “On foot?”
Doc nodded. “She's a stubborn one, a real Texas gal. It's about twenty miles, but she says she and Travis will walk all night if she has to.”
“Now just what the hell will she do there?” Colt griped.
“Oh, clean houses, work as a cook in a café, whatever she has to.” Doc winked at him. “If you hurry, you might catch up with her. She's only been gone about fifteen minutes.”
Colt needed no more urging. He shook Doc's hand. “Good-bye, Doc. Maybe we'll meet again sometime. I'm aimin' to get a little ranch, maybe join the Rangers.”
“Quit jawing and get riding,” Doc said.
Nodding, Colt swung up in the saddle; then he turned and headed for the road that led away from the fort. After riding about ten minutes, he saw a woman's figure walking ahead of him. She was tall and slender, and her yellow hair shone in the sun. She carried her head high and proud, and she walked with a stubborn stride. In one hand she carried a small bundle. With the other, she held onto the hand of a small, dark boy, and he in turn, carried a small wooden horse dangling from chubby fingers.
Colt's heart swelled and his eyes misted. Hannah's life had not been easy, but her spirit would never be broken because she had courage and grit like every Texas girl.
He rode up beside her. “Where do you think you're goin'?”
She glanced up at him and kept walking, straight and proud. “If it's any of your business, Lieutenant, I'm going to the next town and see if I can find a job.”
He kept riding next to her. “You passed up a good offer back there. I understand that farmer has a big place, plenty of money.”
“I didn't love him so it wouldn't be fair to him. Besides I had a feeling he wouldn't be good to Travis.”
He dismounted and walked alongside her, leading Rascal. “You and Travis can't walk twenty miles to the next town.”
“I'm a Texas girl, born and bred. Just watch me.”
“Damn it, will you stop walkin'?” He confronted her and for the first time, she seemed to notice he was dressed like an ordinary cowboy.
“Whatâ?”
“I didn't reenlist.” He shrugged. “I've got some money saved so I thought I'd buy a little spread of my own, and then if war comes, I'll join the Rangers. They're gonna need all the help they can get.”
“Congratulations, but I don't think the major's daughter will like ranching.”
“I don't give a damn what she likes.” Colt leaned over and picked up Travis.
The little boy hugged his neck with glee. “Colt,” he laughed. “Colt.”
Colt kissed the child on the forehead and put him on Rascal's back, then turned to Hannah. “At least let me give you a ride to the next town.”
She frowned. “We don't need your help. Your fiancée isn't going to be happy to find you out here.”
“Hannah, I told you I broke up with Olivia. She wouldn't accept it, but this time she'll have to because I'm in love with somebody else.”
Her pale blue eyes grew wide. “You're turning your back on an easy life.”
He shrugged. “You just did the same thing. Would you settle for a small ranch with a Texan who hasn't got much to offer?”
For a moment, it appeared she could not speak. “Are you asking meâ?”
“I'm not good at this, because I never did it before, but I want to marry you and look after you and Travis. There's bound to be a preacher in the next town. What do you say?”
She looked up at him and she couldn't help it, the tears began to build. She had not let herself be vulnerable in all these years, but she loved this man so.
“Did I make you unhappy?” His tanned face grew anxious. “Hannah, I love you, I wouldn't do anything to make you cry.”
“You just did,” she sobbed and, abruptly, he held out his arms. She went into them and he held her tightly and kissed her hair while she wept against his broad shoulder. All these years and now she had finally found a man she could depend on, who would always love and defend her and she let herself be vulnerable. Slipping her arms around his neck, she held him tightly as she unleashed a flood of tears.
She heard Travis say. “Why is Mama crying?”
And Colt said gently. “I reckon she's happy, Travis. Women are funny that way. You want to be my son from now on?”
“Yes, daddy Colt.”
Hannah pulled away from Colt and looked up at him through a blur of tears. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Damned sure!” And he pulled her to him again and kissed her like she had never been kissed before, his mouth warm and possessive on hers, his big frame protecting her from anything that might ever harm her. She was no longer on her own, a slender woman fighting the whole world. She now had a protector and a partner, and his embrace held all the promises of a warm, wonderful life ahead.
Colt lifted her up on Rascal's back. “Honey, I'll buy us another horse at the next ranch we pass and once we get to town, we'll get married. I aim to buy a nice spread somewhere.”
“In Texas?” she asked, smiling down at him as they started off with Rascal plodding along.
“Of course in Texas.” He winked up at her as he led Rascal down the road. “We're Texans and always will be! Isn't that true, Travis?” He looked back at his new son.
“True,” lisped the little boy, who grinned, holding tightly to his mother and the precious toy horse as the trio crossed over the ridge and into the bright future ahead.
Fans of Western historical romances won't want to miss any books in Georgina Gentry's exciting new series, THE TEXANS. Read on for samples of:
D
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R
IO
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IABLO
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Zebra paperbacks on sale now!
DIABLO
On a northbound train to Wyoming, early April 1892
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Diablo paused between the swaying cars, looking through the door to see who was inside before he entered. No gunfighter worth his bullets would enter an area without checking out the lay of the land, especially since this car was full of Texas gunfighters, all hired killers like himself.
He had come a long way since Trace Durango had found him fifteen years ago when he was a Santee slave known as He Not Worthy of a Name. Well, he had earned a name now, and when men heard it, they turned pale and backed down from the big, half-breed gunfighter with the scarred face. He dressed all in black, from his Stetson down to his soft, knee-high moccasins. The superstitious peasants along the Rio Grande had given him the name: Diablo, the devil. It suited him just fine.
Now finally he was headed north to take care of unfinished business. He had waited a long, long time for this, and all these years he had been planning and perfecting his aim. Though the Wyoming Stock Growers Association was paying exorbitant money to bring this trainload of killers north, the money did not interest Diablo. What interested him was vengeance, and now, finally, he would have it. He was no longer the small and weak half-breed slave. No, now he had a name and was respected and feared throughout the West. Diablo had gained a reputation as a fast, deadly gunman.
Trace Durango had done well in teaching him to use a Colt, and he had used it time and time again in range wars and saloon showdowns. His gun was for hire, and he had fought side by side with men like Billy the Kid. Billy had been dead more than ten years now. Many of the others were dead too, before they reached middle age. In the end, that would probably be his fate, but for now, all that mattered was finishing his business with four men. His biggest fear was that they might now be dead and no longer able to face a showdown.
Diablo swung open the door and stood there watching the others inside. The shades had been ordered drawn, and the light in the swaying car was dim. Most of the men turned to stare at him, unsmiling, cigar smoke swirling above their heads. They did not nod a welcome, and he had expected none. These were hired pistoleros like himself, Texas gunfighters, on a special train to Wyoming where a range war was about to start. An hombre named Frank Canton had come down to hire twenty-five of the best, offering great pay and bonuses for every rustler and nester killed.
The train swayed, and the tracks made a rhythmic click-clack as conversation in the car ceased. All the men were looking at him, but he stared only at the men in the first row of seats. Diablo liked to have his back against the wall. The two men withered under his frown and hurriedly got up and retreated down the car. Diablo took the space they had vacated as if it were his right.
“Who in the hell is that half-breed?” The growling voice drifted toward him.
“Shh! Be quiet, Buck; that's Diablo. You don't want to make him mad.”
“The Diablo?” Now he sounded impressed.
“There's only one,” said the other.
“He don't look like so much.”
“You challenge him, you'll find out.”
“Maybe I'll just do that when we hit Wyoming.”
Diablo sighed, pulled his black Stetson down over his eyes, and leaned back against the scarlet horsehair cushions, then opened the shade, stared out the window at the passing landscape. Quickly he averted his eyes, not wanting to see the reflection of his scarred face, and closed the shade again.
He probably didn't look like much to the others, who sported noisy, big spurs, fancy silver conchos and pistols, and boots of the best leathers in bright colors. Diablo dressed in the color of the night, and he wore moccasins, the better to move silently against an enemy without them knowing he was coming. Silver conchos and pistols had a way of reflecting light that an enemy could see for a long way. He not only moved silently, but his appearance was as black as a thunderstorm, with no bit of reflected light to give him away.
Now he stuck a slender cigarillo between his lips, but he did not light it. He never lit them. The flash of a match or the slightest scent of tobacco smoke would also give a man away, and he had learned from the Santee Sioux that he must move as silently as a spiritâkill and be gone. No wonder the Mexicans averted their eyes and crossed themselves as he rode past.
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Hours later, Diablo decided he would have a drink and moved toward the club car. Balancing lightly in his moccasins as the train rumbled and click-clacked along the rails, he was acutely aware of each man he passed, sensing whether each was a threat or not. One or two eyed him, hands fidgeting nervously, as if thinking of being the one who killed the infamous Diablo, but each seemed to think twice and let him pass unchallenged.
In the club car, five men hunched over a table playing cards. Diablo paused in the doorway, looking them over. Then slowly the conversation ceased as each turned to look at him.
“Good God, look at his face!” the big, unshaven one muttered. He had red hair, and freckles showed through the balding spots.
“Be quiet, Buck,” warned a pudgy one with missing teeth, and a greasy ponytail of brown hair. “You want to die before you ever get to Wyoming?”
“But he looks like a monster.”
Nobody else said anything, waiting to see if the newcomer would take offense, but Diablo pretended he had not heard the remark. If he killed or challenged everyone who commented on his scarred face, his six gun would never be in its holster. Instead, he walked softly to the small bar and addressed the black waiter. “Beer.”
He felt the gaze of the others on his back, but he ignored them.
“Hey,” the one called Buck asked, “you got a big rattlesnake hatband and rattles on that Stetson. You kill it yourself?”
Diablo nodded as he took his beer and moved across the scarlet carpet to a comfortable chair with its back against a wall and sat down. Play at the poker table seemed suspended.
“Hell,” snorted a short man in a derby hat, “it ain't no big thing to kill a giant rattler. Anyone can shoot them.”
Diablo drilled him with his hard stare. “I didn't shoot it. When it struck at me, I put my foot on its head and killed it with my knife.”
The man with the ponytail raised his bushy eyebrows, and the light reflected off the silver conchos on his leather vest. “Man has to be fast as greased lightnin' to kill a snake that way.”
Diablo didn't answer, and he knew they all stared at his rattler hatband with the dozen rattles still attached. Now he took out a fresh cigarillo, stuck it in his mouth, and gazed out the window.
“Hey, half-breed, you need a light?” The one called Buck half rose from his chair, his voice challenging. He wore big spurs, and when he moved, they rattled like the tin pans on a peddler's cart.
The others tried to shush him.
Diablo was in no mood to kill someone today. He merely looked at the challenger, dark eyes glowering, and the man sat down suddenly.
“Well, boys,” Buck huffed, his dirty, freckled hands as nervous as his unshaven face, “let's get this game goin', shall we?”
Diablo watched the country gliding past the train windows for a long moment. They were only hours from Wyoming, and he was weary of the long trip. He reached for a newspaper on the nearby table. Cimarron Durango had taught him to read, and that made up for his loneliness. The others raised their heads and watched him as if astounded that a gunfighter was reading, then returned to their poker game.
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Sunny sat between her father and Hurd Kruger as Hurd drove the buggy along the dusty road toward the train station in the town of Casper. Early spring flowers now bloomed along the way and in the fields where hundreds of cattle grazed.
“Thank you, Mr. Kruger, for inviting me along,” she said politely, looking up at him. He was a big, beefy man with yellow teeth that he sucked constantly. His hair and mustache were coal black, and when he sweated, little drops of dye ran down the sides of his ruddy face.
“Now, Sunny, dear, you ought to at least call me Hurd. I'm not really your uncle.”
The way he looked at her made her feel uneasy. He'd been looking at her that way ever since she'd gone into her teens, and now that she was eighteen, he looked at her that way more and more often. She brushed a blond wisp back under her pale blue bonnet. “All right,” she agreed and looked over at her father. Swen Sorrenson did not look pleased.
“Hurd, I still don't think much of this idea,” he said, his Danish accent still strong after all these years.
“Now, Swen, we've been through this before, and anyway, we shouldn't discuss this in front of our Sunny, should we?”
It upset her that her father seemed uneasy. Her mother had died giving birth to her, and Sunny felt obliged and guilty about Dad's loss. If it hadn't been for his obligations in raising a daughter in this rough land, he might have remarried or even returned to Denmark. He had always seemed frail and ill suited to this wild wilderness.
“Uncle Hurd, I mean Hurd, why are we going to town?” she asked.
“Business. The Stock Growers Association business. You know I am the president. But don't you worry your pretty little head about that, Sunnyâyou can go shoppin' while your dad and I tend to it.”
That didn't account for the unhappy look in Swen's pale blue eyes, but she decided not to ask any more questions. A trip to a big town was a rare treat for a ranch girl.
They were approaching the town, and her excitement built. In the distance, she heard the distinctive wail of a train whistle. “Oh, a train! Who do you suppose is coming in?”
Her father started to say something, then closed his mouth.
“Some men,” Hurd said, sucking his teeth, “part of the cattlemen's business.”
They came into town on the main road and headed toward the train station. Others were gathering, too. The arrival of a train in this small, isolated town was big news.
They pulled into the station, and Hurd got down and tied the horse to the hitching rail. Then he came around to help Sunny out of the buggy, but her father got there first.
Hurd frowned. “Now, Sunny, dear, you go along and shop. Your dad and I and some of the other members will meet the train.”
“But it's so exciting!” she protested, shaking the dust from her pale blue cotton dress and readjusting her skewed bonnet, “I want to see who's getting off.”
“Next year,” Swen said to her with a smile, “maybe you will ride the train to Boston and go to college.”
Hurd frowned. “Aw, don't put such highfalutin ideas in her head, Swen. Maybe she'll want to get married instead. There ain't much need for a ranch wife to get an education.”
Swen looked like he might disagree, but instead, pulled his Stetson down over his sparse hair as pale as Sunny's and turned toward the station.
The crowd of curious onlookers was growing on the platform as the trio joined them. In the distance, Sunny could see the smoke from the engine and hear the whistle as it chugged toward the town.
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“Casper! Coming into Casper!” The conductor walked up and down the aisle and into the next car, “Casper next stop!”
On the sidewalk near the station, Sunny Sorrenson smiled at her father. “Oh, Dad, I never saw a train up close!”
“Yes, dear.” Swen smiled back at her with eyes as blue as hers. “Hurd's been expecting it.”
“Yep, this is a special train.” Hurd walked toward them, smiling. “Now we'll get some action.”
“What's going on?” Sunny smiled up at him. She was petite next to the big man.
“Now, sweetheart, never mind.” Hurd paused in sucking his yellow teeth and nodded. “It's just cattle businessânothing to worry your pretty little head about.”
“All right, Uncle Hurd.” She saw a slight look of worry pass over her father's tanned face. He didn't often disagree with Hurd Kruger, their neighbor from the big K Bar ranch, especially since Hurd held the mortgage on their small spread and had been extra nice to them.
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