Ballad Beauty (Lawmen of the West Book 4)

Book 4: Lawmen of the West

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Historical Romance; Western Romance; historical romance; western historical romance; texas ranger; American Historical Romance; romantic heroines historical; schoolmarm

Synopsis

A lawman chasing down the man who almost charmed him into a life of crime.

An abandoned daughter finally reuniting with her beloved father.

Two individuals seeking the same man—for very different reason . . .

After ten years apart, Boston schoolmarm Jenny McShanahan receives a letter from her father that instructs her to join him in Texas. She has no idea that he's become Famous Sam McShan, the Robin Hood of the West. She arrives to find Sam already gone, but he left instructions for Jenny to hire a guide and rendezvous with him in Nevada.

Texas Ranger Noah Daniel Webster knows Sam personally because Noah's father—Pistol Pete Webber—was Sam's longtime partner in crime. When Pete is killed during their last big score, Noah requests the assignment to bring Sam to justice. Going undercover, he volunteers to act as Jenny's escort across the dangerous prairie, using her to track her outlaw father's location.
    
As they journey through rough country, love blossoms—but Noah knows the second he arrests Sam, his betrayal will kill Jenny's love for him. Should the lawman do his duty as a Ranger, or should he let love rule? The choice Noah makes will change their lives forever.

Ballad Beauty is a standalone western historical romance from Alexa Aston's Lawmen of the West series, which features heroes of the American west in various law enforcement positions and the strong heroines who bring love into their lives.

*This is a second addition of Ballad Beauty, which was originally released under the pen name Lauren Linwood.

Release date: September 14, 2021

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 270

Sample

PROLOGUE

Texas—1875

 

 

Flattery would get him killed. Why in hell hadn’t he stayed with the Frontier Battalion?

Noah Daniel Webster figured it was too late to second-guess himself at this point. Especially as McNelly’s company crossed the Rio Grande illegally, under cover of the dark November night.

Captain McNelly himself had sweet-talked him, convinced that Noah was the crack-shot he needed to shoot thieving Mexicans along the border. Noah had served as a Texas Ranger four years now, mostly defending settlers from the rambunctious Comanche that roamed in menacing bands across the state. He figured a change of scenery couldn’t hurt.

He’d only reported to Special Forces that morning when the message came from McNelly. Company D rode the sixty dusty miles to the border in less than five hours. Now Noah’s horse was winded but good, he was dead-dog tired, and here he was following the captain on what even that gentleman termed “a dubious project, from both a legal and tactical view.”

Thank God they were in the south of Texas. Even at that, the water was cold as it lapped against his long, muscular legs. He stroked Star’s mane, as much to reassure the horse as himself.

McNelly was known for his bold actions and his men would crawl through hellfire for him—but Noah wasn’t too sure about this endeavor. The army boys had chosen to remain behind on the U.S. side of the river. Hell, they didn’t want to start another war with a piss-poor place like Mexico. Why should McNelly and his Rangers?

Of course, the man did stand on principle. Every Ranger that served under McNelly idolized him, despite the captain’s short stature and poor health. The commanding officer had guts. And dreams. Noah admired him for that. At least he was one man who was as good as his word.

Unlike Noah’s father.

They reached the Mexican side of the river and quietly dismounted, ready for their instructions. Fifty men gathered in the pale moonlight around McNelly. As always, the captain was soft-spoken. Noah leaned closer to catch the commander’s words.

“Las Cuevas is known for harboring cattle rustlers. There’s about two hundred fifty, up to three hundred, at the ranch.”

McNelly coughed, the spasms racking his small frame. He cleared his throat and continued. “Our only hope is to take possession of the first house and hold it until the federal troops come to our assistance. I told them this before we crossed the Rio Grande. And,” his eyes glittered as he finished, “I told them not one of us would get back alive without their aid.”

McNelly signaled his scout, Casoose Sandoval, who stepped forward. Noah had no reason not to trust the guide but he’d never liked the man.

Sandoval held up a hand and flicked his wrist twice before he turned and mounted his horse.

“Fellow of few words,” snickered someone behind Noah.

The men quickly slipped onto their horses and rode toward Las Cuevas. His stomach began churning, flip-flopping faster than his pulse. His gut screamed to turn Star around. But orders were orders. As he rode, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

Something was off.

The Rangers moved closer to their target. He could see a few outlying buildings outlined in the moonlight. The main ranch house lay beyond them. A handful of lanterns lit on its porch cast a small circle of dim light. No guards were in sight.

A squawking chicken ran loose as it crossed the path of the Texans. Sweat broke out across Noah’s forehead, despite the night chill. His fingers tingled as he drew his Colt from its holster. The men reached the patio when the whoop went up. Within moments, the clear night air filled with the smell of smoking guns.

Noah swung from Star, gun cocked, and raced toward the doorway. Mexicans spilled out into the night, their own guns in hand. He fired twice and saw a man go down. The moans of the dying quickly filled the air. He fired again and a second man fell. Suddenly, McNelly waved them away. Confused, he jumped on Star’s back and followed his commander away from the ranch. The dust of their horses’ hooves billowed clouds behind them.

Mistake.

It was the first word he caught. He realized Sandoval must have led them to the wrong ranch as they fell back into a thicket. He heard the rumble of horses in the distance and saw at least two hundred riders stream across the open land before them. He instinctively knew these men traveled from the real Las Cuevas.

Then who lay dead a mile back? Had he killed innocent men? He swallowed hard as the bile rose in his throat, threatening to erupt in a thick stream. He shook his head hard to gain control.

The first wave of men came over the rise in the moonlight, led by Juan Flores, owner of Las Cuevas. Even at this distance, Noah recognized the alcalde, then watched as he fell from his saddle.

The air soon stank with the tinny smell of blood. No matter how many times he inhaled it, he never quite hardened himself. He could look at blood as it poured from a man’s wounds. He could even feel it as he turned over a body to insure a felon was dead. But he’d never become accustomed to the smell.

Especially the blood of the blameless. It weighed heavily on his soul that a mile back lay men brought down by his hand, men that would never see another sunrise or kiss their babies and women—thanks to him. He vowed in that moment to quit Rangering and find something else to do with his life. As long as it was different from his daddy’s chosen path.

Noah took aim and fired his Winchester. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

 

 

CHAPTER 1

Boston

 

Jenny McShanahan tried to still her trembling fingers. She placed the letter in her lap and folded her hands tightly together, willing them to quit shaking. She had become an expert at controlling her feelings. She had to be. One didn’t allow bullies to see how their words stung. No matter what raged inside her, she learned at an early age to place a placid look on her face and blankly stare at those who wished to hurt her.

She resorted to those lessons now.

Finally, her emotions under control, she lifted the letter with a now-steady hand and re-read its contents. Her heart raced as she scanned the words her father had penned.

 

Dearest Jenny -

I hope this letter finds you well. I have at last come into some money through a recent venture and I would like nothing more than for you to join me here in Texas. I have sent a bit of money with this missive for I suspect you’ll need to get a few clothes and some sturdy boots. The streets of Boston are nothing like those here in the dusty Southwest. Texas is a rough country, still fighting against being tamed, but I think you’ll grow to love it as I have.

I also send to you something for safekeeping, which I will explain when I next see you. Please guard it closely. I will send you a telegram as to what transportation you’ll need to take and wire you the money to pay for your tickets.

Thank dear Miss Thompson, too, for allowing you to stay on these past two years. I know you must have enjoyed teaching the young ladies, even if it was only for room and board. But Jenny, work is now a thing of your past. You’ll never have to do without again.

I love you, my darling girl. I always have, just as I love your dear mother to this day. Say a prayer for me each night and perhaps we’ll be together by the New Year, singing a chorus of The Irish Rover together.

Your loving Papa,

Samuel McShanahan

 

Jenny brushed away a falling tear. Finally. She’d waited ten years for this one letter. At first, Pap told her she’d be in school only for a little while, as he handled all the arrangements for her mother and settled his own affairs. Then it had been postponed for a year while he tried a few new business opportunities.

Eventually, his excuses numbered so high she no longer bothered to count them. They’d been as numerous as fleas on a dog. Yet she never gave up hope, certain he would one day send for her. She’d been only ten when she last saw him. Another ten years had now passed. Would he recognize her? Did he really still want her? Could they truly be a family once more?

She’d been incomplete for years. She lost the precious love of her mother with Suzannah’s untimely death and then her father all but abandoned her for the last decade. She’d lain awake far into the night, wondering if she wasn’t good enough or smart enough or pretty enough for him to want her.

The girls at The Thompson School teased her unmercifully. They always looked at a new student as fresh bait for their deadly hooks. They taunted her endlessly in the months after her arrival when she’d been so alone and resentful.

Gradually, Jenny developed a hard shell. She proved to be an excellent student and lost herself in her studies. Only holidays hurt because every girl had somewhere to go. Except her. Her father paid extra for her to remain at the school year-round.

Thank goodness for Dr. Randolph. The school’s physician struck up an unlikely friendship with her, even allowing her to assist him in the infirmary and later the free clinic he ran. She gained both practical knowledge and self-esteem in the many hours they spent together. He was also kind enough to invite her to his home during long vacations for a meal or a few days’ visit. He had four children of his own, all younger than she, and Jenny lived for the times she spent in their rambling, boisterous home. For a short while, she became part of a real family.

Guilt ate at her when she found herself wishing Dr. Randolph could be her father. His amiable, gentle manner, his trusting eyes, his words of wisdom—they all helped mold her character and provided her with love. His guidance gave her the courage for what she was about to do.

Jenny set her father’s note on the desk before her and without hesitation jotted a few sentences in her neat hand. She stared out the window as the ink dried, barely taking in the falling snowflakes that drifted through the late afternoon air as she hummed The Irish Rover softly to herself.

She rose and changed into a fresh gown. She had come from Dr. Randolph’s clinic, where she had assisted him with the birth of a child. She tidied her hair, as well, wanting to look polished and serene, despite the frantic beating of her heart.

Taking the letter she’d written, she ventured downstairs. Before her courage failed, she knocked firmly on Miss Thompson’s door.

“Enter,” called the familiar voice.

Jenny pushed open the massive oak door and closed it behind her. Miss Thompson looked up from her stack of correspondence, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

“Yes?” The headmistress’s voice held the impatient tone that Jenny had come to know. The woman was all business, without a nurturing bone in her body. Instead of kindness and encouragement for her students and teachers, Miss Thompson only thought about how to turn a greater profit.

The older woman glanced at the timepiece pinned to her gown and frowned. “You realize it is not my usual hour to receive anyone. If you would be so kind as to leave?”

Instead, Jenny crossed the room under Miss Thompson’s unwavering gaze and handed her the page.

“I’ve come to give you my letter of resignation.”

***

Bone weary, Noah Webster rode up to headquarters with his patrol, feeling much older than his twenty-five years. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and stubbled cheeks, a week’s worth of beard coating his tanned face. His clothes remained wrinkled and stained from sweat and blood, courtesy of the stand-off at Las Cuevas last night. He had three things on his mind—a bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a long night with a soft woman.

Not necessarily in that order.

He waved a greeting to those he knew, nodded politely in passing to those he didn’t recognize, and made his way toward his tent. The Rangers almost always were on the move. Pitching tents in a central location was a huge concession by those in command. Noah figured they had to have a base of operations and this patch of barren, dusty land was as good as the next. At least it gave him a place to stash what few personal possessions he owned.

He saw the tent flap raised when he got there. He lowered his tall frame into the opening. Patch Manning was stretched out on his cot, his long feet dangling off the bottom.

“Yer looking might pretty, boy.”

Noah grinned. “Good enough for us to head into town?”

Patch snorted. “Gawd, boy, you might be a fine specimen of manhood and the Rangers’d always be proud to claim you—but you ain’t that good.” He shifted on the cot.

Noah pushed aside a stack of books and sat on the trunk at the end of his own cot. “Guess I could use a bit of sprucing up before I go to Miss Sally’s.”

Patch shook his head. “Rose and Lizzy done been missing you bad, boy. They nearly had a cat-fight talking ‘bout which one of them would get to service you first when you returned.”

Noah beamed at his friend. “There’s plenty enough of me to go around. I’ll service whichever gal needs it, I reckon.”

The older Ranger chuckled. “Or read ‘em some of your fancy-pants poetry.”

Noah picked up a book of sonnets from the pile next to him. He stroked it lovingly. “You’d be amazed how successful reading a few of Mr. Shakespeare’s poems can be.”

Patch whooped with delight. “Then get all fixed up, sonny, ‘cause we’re gonna have us a good one tonight.” Patch slapped his knee and then turned away, trying to hide a frown.

Instantly, Noah was on the alert. He knew that look. “What’s up?”

His friend hesitated before he spoke. “Got some news for you. Thought I could take yer sweet mind off work for a while but the guilt would probly eat me up.”

“Give it up, Patch.”

The Ranger whistled low. “Yer always trying to glean tidbits about Famous Sam and Pistol Pete.”

His gut tightened. “You got some news?”

“Yep.” Patch stared into Noah’s eyes. “They done pulled a doozy of a bank robbery, nigh on two days ago. Up in Deep Creek. Looked like the jackpot of their careers. But,” he added, his voice dropping low, “Pistol Pete done took a bullet in the getaway. He’s deader ‘n dead. Sam and another fella escaped. Vanished without a trace.”

The news stunned Noah. From the time he’d been able to walk, Pete seemed invincible to him. He sadly realized that even his father was mortal—like all the rest of the gunslinging outlaws that peppered the west.

And Pete was dead, courtesy of that no-good charmer.

When his uncle Johnny, Pete’s longtime partner, passed from a sudden heart attack, Pete immediately brought home a new partner. Sam McShan. The quick-witted Irishman was full of fun and mischief, everything that appealed to a boy of fourteen.

It didn’t take long for Noah to realize that his father’s new friend was Famous Sam, the west’s version of a modern-day Robin Hood.

Sam captured the public’s eye with his daring robberies. What captivated them more was how he gave most of it away. Widows, orphans, the aged and infirm—many made it by just a bit longer thanks to the generosity of Famous Sam McShan.

Sam encouraged the young Noah to participate in their escapades—larks, according to Sam. Noah’s mama, Sarah, had hit the roof. He could still remember her eyes wild as she reached over and drew Sam’s own gun on him.

“There won’t be anyone taking my son and bringing a life of crime upon him, Sam McShan. I don’t care how amusing your adventures seem. It’s wrong. No son of mine will ever follow his father into a sordid life of crime.”

Of course, being young, it was exactly the kind of thing Noah wanted to do. He’d always been a good boy. Listened to his mama. Went to church regularly. Even faintly disdained his father’s lifestyle. But now he was ready to see if there was more to life than hanging onto his mama’s apron strings and getting educated. A whole new world waited out there for him. He knew he was almost a man. He was ready to take on life.

It was an unmitigated disaster.

 

Noah shifted from one foot to the other. He was nervous but would never have admitted it. Sam had talked Pete into letting Noah come on this lark. At the time, it seemed like a terrific idea. Now, he wasn’t so sure.

He stood next to the horses, which were hitched to the railing in front of Shaw’s General Store. Directly across the street stood the First National Bank. Actually, the only bank in town. He glanced at the clock above the structure. He was to give them two more minutes before he unhitched the horses—in order to make a speedy getaway.

But the girl sure was distracting him. He’d watched her go into Shaw’s with her mama. She came out again, lingering in the doorway, casting sideways glances at him.

He decided there was no harm in speaking to her. “Hey, there.”

“Hey.”

She smiled shyly at him, blushing furiously. He knew it was because of his good looks. Mama always told him how handsome he was, with his dark hair and sky blue eyes. She warned him never to trade on those looks and never to break a young lady’s heart. It was left unsaid how her own heart had been broken by her husband. Noah promised her he’d never be unkind to anyone, least of all a woman.

“Are you waiting on your mama?” He nodded at the store. “I saw you go in together.”

She looked over her shoulder and then back at him. “Mama’s getting some thread. She’s making me a new dress for the barn dance. You from around here?” She grinned at him. “You look like you’d be a good dancer.”

Suddenly, a loud boom sounded. Sam and Pete raced from the bank in his direction. Noah stood dumbfounded as the men came his way.

They jumped on their horses and turned to speed off, only their reins were still wrapped around the post.

“Boy!” Sam shouted at him. “You done been flirting and not manning your post.” He struck Noah hard with the pistol still in his hand.

Stunned, he fell to the ground as Sam and Pete quickly untied the reins. Without a backward glance, both men rode off.

He stumbled to his feet, wiping at the blood that dripped from the lump at the top of his forehead. He couldn’t believe they left him behind.

“Papa!”

He turned, as if under water, and saw the pretty girl lift her skirts and dash across the street. He watched a tall, thin man wearing a silver sheriff’s badge and holding his bleeding gut slowly fall to the street. The crying girl dropped to her knees and cradled his head in her lap.

People ran out from the few storefronts and as he fumbled to untie the reins and leap onto his horse, he heard the piercing scream of the girl’s mother. He quickly rode past the commotion. But as he went by, his eyes met the girl’s.

Her look of anguish still haunted his dreams.

He’d never known such fear as when he hightailed it out of the sleepy town. He managed to reach Sam and Pete before a posse could form and track down the three of them for robbery. And murder. He was reasonably sure that Pete had never shot anyone before. He might be a thief but he was an honorable one. He’d supposed Sam was of the same caliber. Now, he wasn’t sure about anything. The only thing he did know was that he’d never do wrong again. He’d stay on the right side of the law—even past the right side—but he never wanted to be on the lam. He would never become a man like Famous Sam McShan or Pistol Pete Webber.

He now looked at Sam with new eyes as they rode hard, hundreds of miles to Prairie Dell, to lie low for a few weeks. Sam’s sister, Moira, lived there and he guaranteed she would take them in.

Most people would have been afraid of Moira, due to her having only one eye, but Noah took to her like a duck to water. He never bothered asking her how she lost her eye—though he did beg to try on her patch.

Moira had a few long talks with him during the time they stayed with her in Prairie Dell. She realized how shocked he’d been by the events surrounding the robbery. She encouraged him to continue to grow straight and strong. She promised him he would grow into a better man than his father. And Sam.

 

Noah fingered Moira’s last letter that sat in his pocket. She’d made a habit of writing to him a few times a year for the last ten years. His friendship with her was the one good thing that came from his association with the outlaw Famous Sam McShan.

It almost surprised him how little he felt at hearing that Pete was dead but the hate for Sam that coursed through his veins didn’t surprise him at all.

He pulled himself together and asked Patch, “Who drew the assignment?”

“Not quite sure, sonny boy. I just heard the news not ten minutes ‘fore you waltzed in.”

He looked the older Ranger square in the eye. “I’m taking it, Patch. And no one’s going to stop me.”

Noah thought again of the young girl from long ago. How she’d been raised without her daddy. How the sheriff hadn’t been there to walk her down the aisle on her wedding day or squeeze his own wife’s hand as their grandchild was baptized in the local church.

He thought of all the people who’d done nothing wrong yet they’d suffered the loss of their life savings in bank robberies too numerous to count. Maybe they’d gone bankrupt. Had to pull up stakes and move elsewhere. Maybe they gave up on what little dreams they had. But now he could finally do something about their devastation.

He’d toyed with the idea of his days as a Ranger being over after the disaster at Las Cuevas but he only fooled himself. He loved the work too much and was proud he was a part of a group of men who cherished honor and the law. He also knew he could never settle down. Rangering suited him just fine.

He squared his shoulders as he moved from the tent and made his way to HQ. He would be the one to bring in Pistol Pete’s sorry partner, the infamous Sam McShan. Maybe there was some justice in the world, after all.

 

 

CHAPTER 2

 

Riley Withers leaned against the building as the raw December wind whipped about him.

Damn. Wasn’t the girl ever going to come out?

He glanced up and down the quiet street as he rubbed his hands together for warmth. He hated winter. That’s why he left New York in the first place. And yet here he was in Boston, of all places, slowly freezing to death. He longed for a hot cup of black coffee. He could imagine the smell as it wafted up to his nostrils before he took that first, welcomed sip. The liquid would scald like fire going down, warming a trail to his belly.

He shivered again. His head ached from the cold. The cook said the girl would leave today. He’d spent enough time sidling up to the woman to know everything that happened at The Thompson School. He’d even kissed the homely creature more than once, all to get the information he needed. Sometimes, he amazed himself at the lengths he would go to but his mind had been set. A fortune hung in the balance.

And Jenny McShanahan was the key.

A cab pulled up and a man in his late forties stepped from it. He gingerly picked his way up the icy walkway and entered the school. Moments later he emerged, a valise in one hand and a young woman that Riley assumed was Jenny McShanahan on his arm. They climbed into the cab and signaled the driver to leave.

He didn’t panic. The train station was but a few blocks. He’d checked the departure schedule. He could walk to the depot and still be there in plenty of time to purchase his ticket and begin his task.

Riley could taste the money. And Jenny McShanahan would lead him to it.

***

“Thank you so much, Dr. Randolph. I do appreciate you escorting me to the train station.”

Jenny tugged on her hat, which the winter wind tilted slightly. She reached into her reticule for her ticket.

“No problem, my dear.” He smiled at her, his eyes twinkling. “I only wish I were going with you.”

“You? In the west?” She stared at him incredulously. “I can’t imagine someone being a less likely candidate.” She eyed Dr. Randolph’s immaculate white shirt and gray suit, the buffed nails and fresh haircut, and sighed. “You are far too well bred to consider it.”

“Now, Jenny, you aren’t the only one who longs to see the west. I have often thought that once the children are grown, Mrs. Randolph and I might travel there. If we like it, who knows? I can’t name a place on earth which couldn’t use a good doctor.” He grinned mischievously. “Especially with all those outlaws shooting innocent people. And each other.”

She laughed. “You get enough trouble in Boston, I’m afraid. I’ve learned so much helping you at the clinic.”

“And I have enjoyed your capable assistance, child.” He looked at her fondly. “Although you aren’t a child anymore, my dear.”

She gave him a nervous glance. “A part of me is afraid Papa won’t even recognize me. I’ve missed him so much, Dr. Randolph. I don’t know how we’re going to adjust being together after so many years apart.”

He squeezed her elbow affectionately. “You’ll get on admirably. I fear the only problem will be his regret in how long you’ve been separated.”

She swallowed hard. “It has been a long time.” She straightened her shoulders. “But there’s new country to see and a decade to catch up on. I know we’ll be fine.”

Jenny saw the shadow that crossed the physician’s pleasant features. She knew how upset he was with her father for practically abandoning her all these years. Dr. Randolph had warned her once he read Papa’s letter how she must temper her expectations.

“You’re a romantic, Jenny. Practical? Yes. Full of control. But you’ve built your father into something no man could live up to. You’ve got to take it slowly.”

“It’s almost time to board,” she said aloud, putting aside his warning.

He led her to the track and handed the valise to a porter. “Please telegraph me once you’ve arrived.” He enveloped her in his arms for a brief moment and brushed a fatherly kiss upon her brow. “We’ll miss you. And remember,” he said almost wistfully, “if things don’t work out, you’ll always have a place with us here in Boston.”

Quick tears sprang to her eyes. “Thank you.”

She stepped up carefully into the railcar, the porter guiding her gently. She turned and waved once and then entered the narrow hallway. As they had arranged, Dr. Randolph would now leave. She didn’t think she could stand the thought of seeing him fade to a small dot as the train pulled out from the station and picked up speed.

Her emotions were a conflicting bundle at this point. More than anything, she was ready to unite with her father, yet Dr. Randolph had been like a father to her these past few years. Guilt tore at her for leaving him—and at her conscience for the small part of her that wanted to stay in Boston.

The porter assisted her in finding a seat, placing her case above her.

“Let me know if you need anything, miss.” He smiled kindly at her.

She placed her sewing basket next to her and sat back in her seat, her reticule clutched tightly in her lap. She closed her eyes.

Jenny was scared to death.

***

Riley let her ride a day. He sat in the same car as she did but didn’t speak to her. Once or twice, she must have sensed him studying her because she turned slightly in his direction. He made sure he was looking out the window or at the newspaper in his lap. He didn’t want to tip his hand or frighten her in any way.

She was a pretty little thing. Or he supposed little wasn’t the exact word he had in mind since she was taller than a lot of men, maybe five-eight, five-nine. She hunched a lot, her shoulders rolled forward as if she were self-conscious of her height. She had a trim figure and thick, blond hair. She kept to herself, not starting any conversations, but politely answering when addressed.

A family of five had been seated around her, the three children climbing everywhere—even over her—but she didn’t seem to mind. He watched her mouth go soft when the mother asked her to hold the little baby for a moment. She cooed to it, rocking it gently, lost in the moment. He filed it away. He was used to looking for information and that included any weaknesses. He needed to know everything he could about Jenny McShanahan.

Riley shifted in his seat, tossing the paper aside. The family and their brats had disembarked at the last stop. He was glad. He hated kids. Couldn’t stand their non-stop prattle. He stood, stretched, and then moved down the aisle. As he neared Jenny, he paused and looked out the window.

“Mighty pretty,” he said softly.

“I beg your pardon?” Jenny looked up at the stranger hovering over her.

“Is this seat taken?”

She looked nervously about but no one came to her aid. One just didn’t begin conversations with strangers on a train. Especially with a woman traveling alone. It simply wasn’t done. Before she replied, the tall man seated himself across from her. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and then stared out the window. She hoped he wouldn’t address her again.

As he focused on some object outside the moving car, she fiddled with the needlework in her lap as she took surreptitious glances at him. He was what Mr. Johnson, The Thompson School’s janitor, would term slick as spit. She’d heard him use the expression a thousand times over the years but the living example now sat in close proximity to her.

The stranger was tall, very muscular, and probably in his mid-thirties. His dark hair was thinning, his mouth cruel, and his nose had been broken more than once. Of that she was certain. If not for the hard mouth and crooked beak, he would have been termed a handsome man.

But he made her nervous.

His easy motions and smooth tones seemed to hide something. What, she didn’t know. All she knew was that she was leery of him. He reminded her of Simon Legree from Mrs. Stowe’s novel, Uncle Tom’s Cabin. For all his comfortable airs, this man seemed out of place in his fancy suit. She recognized a slight drawl when he spoke to her but she refused to ask him about it.

“Where are you headed? Out west?” he asked suddenly, startling her into pricking her finger with her needle. She lifted the needlepoint away from her so as not to spill any blood on it.

Then the man boldly reached over and took her hand. He wrapped a handkerchief around it and pressed the injured finger tightly. Her skin crawled at his clammy touch. She tried to pull away but he held her firmly.

“Just a prick, ma’am. It’ll be fine in a minute.”

She very impolitely yanked her hand this time, which broke the contact between them. He smiled at her as she flushed, as if he knew how uncomfortable she was with her hand held intimately by a stranger.

She unwrapped the cloth. The bleeding had already stopped. She handed him the soiled handkerchief.

“Thank you, sir.”

He flashed her a smile. “Happy to be of service. Withers is the name. Riley Withers.”

“Then I thank you, Mr. Withers.”

“And your name?”

She sensed herself turning pink at his question. Surely, he didn’t expect a young lady traveling alone to divulge her name?

“Miss McShanahan, is it?”

She followed his eyes to her sewing box, where a tag prominently displayed her name. She blushed again.

“Don’t mind, Miss McShanahan. If you are headed to the west, things are a bit more informal there.”

She was on a train headed away from the east coast and could admit that much.

“Yes, I am.”

“Well, then, I hope you’re going to Texas. It’s the place to be. God’s country—that’s what we call it.” He smiled at her again.

A cold shiver swam through her. “If you’ll excuse me, Mr. Withers, I would like to catch up on my reading.” She’d been polite enough. She was ready to end this unwanted conversation.

At first, she struggled as she tried to read Mr. Dickens, her eyes simply glazing over the page. She turned them at periodic intervals. This man made her more than nervous.

Instead, she picked up Milton Mulholland’s Guidebook to the American West. Just the feel of it in her hands gave her confidence. She opened to a random page in the well-worn book and began reading—

Western woman are more outspoken than their counterparts in the East. Though polite, a Western woman knows her mind and isn’t afraid to speak it.

She smiled at the passage. She’d underlined it as a personal favorite. At the beginning of her time at The Thompson School, she had been in constant trouble. Miss Thompson, in particular, accused Jenny of being impudent toward her elders. Her parents raised her to be frank. She’d always spoken her mind, which delighted Papa.

The Thompson School’s staff had been less enamored with her ways. She found herself punished severely until she’d learned to curb her tongue, as should befit a child of ten. She may have learned to exercise caution when speaking in public but her candor still simmered just below the surface. As far as she was concerned, she was about to become a western woman. She might as well start practicing now. The rude stranger before her would be the first recipient of her new manners.

She didn’t wait long. The next time he tried to draw her into conversation, Jenny stared at him intently. No dropping of her eyes, no simpering or apologizing, as an eastern woman would do.

“Excuse me, sir. I do not know you, nor do I have any intentions of making your acquaintance. If you would be so kind as to leave me to my peace, I would be much obliged.”

She tacked on the last phrase so as to perhaps soften her tone but she continued to look him boldly in the face.

Mr. Withers stood. “Forgive me for intruding on your privacy, ma’am.” He tipped his hat, a snarl on his face, and exited the car.

She leaned her head against the window, a triumphant smile playing along her lips. She’d done it! Without mincing words, she’d graciously, yet firmly, let the gentleman know how she felt. She couldn’t wait to reach Texas. Maybe she’d been a westerner in spirit all along. She knew that she would fit right in.

Jenny settled back, Mulholland’s guidebook in hand, and reopened it to continue reading the now-familiar pages.

Mr. Withers continued to be her shadow for the next few days. He poked and prodded for tidbits of information, even eavesdropping when she asked the conductor questions, but she had been firm. She sensed his frustration but had no sympathy for him. She was proud to have put distance between them. Conversing with him without an introduction wasn’t proper.

And even if it were, something in his manner warned her not to do so.

They both disembarked at the same stop—along with three other passengers—and he tried to assist her with her luggage. She put him off so completely that he abandoned further attempts to speak with her.

Now she was tired, dusty, and irritable. A stagecoach had to be the most uncomfortable place ever invented. Her bottom was sore after two solid days of bumpy trails in Texas. Thank goodness the driver asked Mr. Withers to ride on top so an expectant mother could ride inside in his stead.

Although why anyone would want to be inside the compartment was beyond her. The windows were kept open, despite the cold weather, and dust poured inside the stagecoach. She constantly kept her handkerchief over her mouth, trading one hand for the other when her arm became too weary to hold up the cloth. The driver provided his passengers with dusters, which wrapped around them as a kind of protection over their clothing. Still, she seemed dirtier than a little boy who’d jumped headfirst into his first mud puddle. At least he could claim to be wet. She found it hard to swallow because she was so parched.

They began slowing. Jenny looked out the open window and saw a few scattered buildings. She spied a general store, a blacksmith, and a hotel as the stagecoach came to a halt.

“Apple Blossom!” called out the driver.

Jenny’s heart jumped. Apple Blossom was her destination. She stood with the others, throwing off the messy duster, clutching her reticule and sewing basket. Although her gloves were filthy, she was glad she wore them. Her palms were damp. She was horrified because ladies did not perspire.

Her sweating palms told her, as if she didn’t already know, just how nervous she was. Without realizing it, she began to hum Lanigan’s Ball under her breath.

The driver helped her down. Unsteady on her feet after being cramped in the stagecoach, she gripped a wheel with one hand as she motioned which valise was hers. She turned as the driver went to fetch it. Her eyes skimmed over the few gathered around, greeting those as they left the confines of the stagecoach.

Slowly, one by one, the crowd melted away. Jenny found herself standing alone. The song died in her throat.

He wasn’t coming.

Somehow she’d known it all along. Despite his letter, the telegram, the money for tickets, the directions on which trains to take and where to transfer to the stage, she’d understood her father wouldn’t meet her. Not that she blamed him. Who wanted to be saddled with a daughter he wouldn’t even recognize?

No, that was too harsh. Papa had simply been delayed. He wouldn’t have gone to such trouble to get her to Texas if he didn’t really want them to be together. And he always had run late. She remembered the times her mother was fit to be tied because he’d been tardy. He claimed it was part of his Irish nature and he’d usually been able to cajole her mother out of her foul mood with his charm and sunny smile.

What should she do? She thought of where she could wait for him. Or perhaps he’d left a message for her. Anything was possible with Samuel McShanahan.

Jenny glanced around the town of Apple Blossom. It didn’t seem like much of a town to her. Lying southwest of Fort Worth, it was flat, dusty, and she could swear it had never seen an apple blossom since before Noah’s Flood. If then.

The most likely place to wait seemed to be the hotel. She squared her shoulders, held her head high, and began walking up the street.