Too Soon to Die

Book 2: Jensen Brand

by William W. Johnstone, J.A. Johnstone

Genres: Action & Adventure; Historical Fiction; Westerns

Synopsis

With their acclaimed novels of the Jensen family, best-selling authors William W. Johnstone and J. A. Johnstone have captured the pioneering spirit of America itself. Now, a new generation of Jensens prepares to take the reins - and live the dream their ancestors fought for....

There's nothing like a wedding to bring families together. And there's no place like the Sugarloaf Ranch to throw a foot-stomping hoedown - even if it turns into a gun-blazing showdown. Smoke and Sally Jensen are delighted that their son, Louis, is marrying the lovely widow he met during a perilous stagecoach journey through the Donner Pass. The whole family welcomes the bride and her young son with open arms.

In fact, everyone is invited to the party - even the handsome stranger who rescued Louis' twin sister, Denise, from a runaway mustang. Who is this mysterious hero? No one knows. But there's going to be a lot of gunshots along with the wedding bells when this stranger makes his deadly moves. Once more, the Jensens band together to fight for what's theirs. And it just might be till death do they part....

Release date: August 27, 2019

Publisher: Pinnacle Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Sugarloaf Ranch, Colorado, 1902

The door slammed so hard it shivered in its frame. The echoes of its violent closing mingled with the sound of a loud, disgusted, very unladylike snort coming from the hallway just outside Smoke Jensen’s study and office, followed by angry footsteps stomping away.

“Well”—Sally Jensen looked at her husband from the depths of a comfortable armchair across the room—“aren’t you going to go after her?”

Smoke leaned back in his chair behind the desk and looked at his wife, still slim and beautiful more than a quarter of a century after he had first laid eyes on her. The faint lines around her eyes and mouth, the streaks of silver here and there in her thick dark hair, were invisible to him.

“And do what?” he asked. “Denny’s a grown woman. I can’t exactly put her over my knee and paddle her.”

“I don’t recall you ever doing that even when she was a child. But you could give her a stern talking-to.”

Smoke cocked his head a little to the side and frowned. “You know our daughter as well as I do. Do you really think that would do any good?”

“So you’re just going to let her be headstrong and stubborn?”

“At this point, I don’t reckon we have a whole heap of choice in the matter.” Smoke shrugged. “But that doesn’t mean she’s going to ride in that race.”

“How are you going to stop her?” Sally wanted to know.

“The Sugarloaf is still our ranch. I reckon we’ve got some say in what happens around here.”

“I’d like to think so.”

Smoke stood up. Like Sally, he looked a good ten or fifteen years younger than he really was, a powerful, broad-shouldered man apparently in the prime of life. In his study in his own house, he wasn’t wearing a gun, but a walnut-butted Colt lay on the desk within easy reach and on a rack behind him rested several fully loaded Winchesters and shotguns. He was the fastest, deadliest man with a gun in the history of the West, and having shooting irons all around him was as natural as breathing, although these days he considered himself just a middle-aged, peace-loving rancher.

Sally stood up, too, and moved to put a hand on his arm. “I’m too protective of her, aren’t I? She’s proven more than once that she’s her father’s daughter.”

“She’s tough and capable when she needs to be,” Smoke agreed. A wistful smile touched his face. “But she’s still my little girl, too.”

“She and Louis spent so much time away from here while they were growing up, it seems like we missed their childhood.”

Smoke rested his hands on his wife’s shoulders, then drew her into an embrace. “We did what we had to because of Louis’s health problems and to give him the best chance for a normal life. Look at him now, studying law, marrying a fine young woman, and getting a son of his own in the bargain. I’d say things turned out all right.”

“But you’re an optimist, Smoke. You always think things turn out all right . . . and if they don’t, you make them turn out all right, at the point of a gun, if need be.”

“Well, I always said that a gun’s just a tool, so you’d better use it the right way.” His voice hardened slightly as he added, “I’ve known plenty who tried to use one the wrong way, and we might run into hombres like that again.”

“Oh,” Sally said, “I don’t think there’s any doubt of that.”

Denise Nicole Jensen was headed for the corral behind the biggest of the Sugarloaf’s barns when she realized she was still stomping her booted feet against the ground like a little kid throwing a tantrum. She halted for a moment and drew in a deep breath, willing herself to calm down. She wasn’t sure why she was so upset. She had expected her mother to react in exactly the way she had.

It wasn’t like being forbidden to do something had ever stopped Denny in the past.

Moving at a more deliberate pace, she approached the corral. In her early twenties, Denny was a very attractive young woman with curly blond hair she wore loose at the moment under her brown Stetson perched atop her head and tilted back slightly. She knew her mother thought she didn’t like to wear dresses, but that wasn’t strictly true. She just preferred to dress appropriately for whatever the situation in which she found herself. On the ranch, that meant jeans and boots, and currently, a man’s red-checked shirt with the sleeves rolled up over her tanned forearms.

Three people stood outside the corral, leaning on the fence watching as one of the Sugarloaf hands worked with a horse inside the enclosure. One of the spectators was Calvin Woods, the ranch’s foreman who had gone to work for Smoke as a young man—little more than a boy, really—many years earlier. He had grown to be a top hand and a more than capable ramrod for the ranch’s large crew.

Next to Cal stood Denny’s twin brother, Louis Arthur Jensen. The resemblance between him and Denny was strong, although Louis’s hair was a sandy shade of brown, darker than Denny’s blond curls. He took more after his mother Sally and lacked the rugged features of many of the Jensen males, although his jaw had a hint of toughness and his eyes were keen, penetrating, and intelligent.

Plagued by ill health growing up—a bad heart and an assortment of other ailments—Louis had spent much of his childhood living with relatives in England while seeking medical treatments from a variety of doctors there and on the continent. Denny had lived with him on the country estate, and it was there she had learned to ride.

In the past year, since the two of them had returned to live on the Sugarloaf, Louis’s health seemed to have benefitted from the sun and the fresh air and the generally more active life he led, although he still had to be careful not to overexert himself. A specialist in San Francisco had warned that his heart could still give more trouble any time. Louis tried not to let that hold him back too much. His stubborn streak might not be as wide as his sister’s, but he was still a Jensen, after all.

Next to Louis stood a dark-haired, nine-year-old boy. Wearing range clothes and a cowboy hat, Bradley Buckner leaned forward and grasped one of the corral rails as he watched what was going on. Inside the corral, the ranch hand had just finished saddling a young horse. The animal was dark brown, with white stockings on the left foreleg and right hind leg and a white blaze on its face.

“When can I ride him?” asked young Brad with excitement in his voice.

Cal chuckled. “Don’t get in a big hurry. We don’t know how he’s going to take to this whole process. He’s still pretty green, you know. But there’s nobody better than Rafael at getting a horse ready to ride.”

The ranch hand, Rafael De Santos, was a middle-aged Mexican in ranch clothes. A small, pointed beard adorned his chin and gave his leathery face a mark of distinction. He ran a hand along the horse’s slightly quivering flank and murmured to the animal in a mixture of soft, liquid Spanish and English. Some men broke horses. Rafael preferred to take his time and build them into being good saddle mounts.

Denny leaned against the fence on Brad’s other side and looked down at the boy. “How you doin’, kid?”

Brad pointed and said, “That’s going to be my horse.”

“I heard. A top hand needs a good mount, more than just about anything else.”

Brad turned his head to look up at her. “You think I’m gonna be a top hand?”

“Of course. Everybody who works on the Sugarloaf is.” Denny grinned. “I think it must be something in the air.”

“I hope so.” Brad added solemnly, “I want to earn my keep.”

“You’ll do that just by being my son,” Louis told him.

“That’s because you’re about to marry my mother. That’s not anything that I did.”

Denny chuckled. “I like that. Kid’s got an independent streak.”

“I wonder who else around here does,” muttered Louis. The comment drew a smile from Cal.

Inside the corral, Rafael continued talking to the horse. He put his left foot in the stirrup and rested a little weight on it. The horse shied, but Rafael stayed with him, hands stroking just like his voice. The horse settled down. Rafael took hold of the saddle horn and swung up.

Instantly, the horse exploded into wild bucking. Sunfishing, switching ends, twisting and writhing, and doing everything in its power to dislodge the unexpected weight on its back. Rafael stayed right where he was, stuck tight as a burr, until the horse slowed its frenzied bucking. Then he slipped smoothly from the saddle and started stroking and talking to the horse again.

Brad’s eyes were wide as he said, “He woulda killed me if he did that while I was trying to ride him.”

“That’s why it’s going to take some time before he’s ready,” Cal explained. “Sorry it won’t be in time for the wedding, but you can keep riding that mare you’ve been riding until Rafe’s got this young fella used to the idea.”

“That’s all right.” Brad paused, then added, “I wish I could ride in the race.”

Still grinning, Denny gave him a friendly push on the shoulder and said, “Even if you did, you wouldn’t beat me.”

Admiration shining in his eyes, Brad looked up at her. “You’re going to ride in the race?”

“I sure am.”

Louis gave her a dubious glance. “Mother and Father agreed to that?”

“I don’t have to ask their permission,” Denny replied with a trace of anger in her voice.

“So in other words, they didn’t agree. Especially Mother.”

“Don’t you worry about that. You just wait and see what happens tomorrow.”

A new voice spoke up from behind them. “I know what’s going to happen tomorrow. Louis and I are getting married.”

Denny looked around to see that Melanie Buckner had come up to the little group at the corral. She was a very pretty, brown-haired young woman, several years older than Louis. That gap in their ages wasn’t enough to make any difference, and it certainly hadn’t stopped them from falling in love during a perilous journey from San Francisco through the Sierra Nevada Mountains the previous December. Nor had the fact that Melanie was a widow and had a young son given Louis any pause when he decided to ask her to marry him.

Denny, for one, was glad that her brother had worked up the gumption to pop the question. She liked Melanie a great deal, and she was looking forward to having Brad as her nephew.

All that was left was the actual wedding, which would take place at the ranch the next day. Of course, the ceremony itself wasn’t all that was going to happen. There was also an honest-to-goodness fandango to be held, the likes of which the Sugarloaf had never seen before. Since Smoke was the most famous resident of the area, scores of folks would come from the nearby town of Big Rock and from all over the valley to help celebrate the union of Smoke’s son Louis to Melanie Buckner. All of Smoke and Sally’s friends would be there to watch the ceremony and then participate in the huge feast and party to follow.

Before that, however, would be a horse race in which the riders would gallop a couple of miles up the valley from the ranch headquarters before making a big turn and heading back to the finish line as fast as possible. That was drawing a lot of interest, too, as well as plenty of wagers. Nothing cowboys liked better than betting on their favorite horses and their own skill as riders. Louis had worried a little that his and Melanie’s wedding was being turned into a rodeo, but she had assured him that she didn’t mind.

Denny happened to know that Melanie’s late husband Tom had been a cowboy and had died as a result of a riding mishap, so she suspected that Melanie might be putting on a brave face, at least to a certain extent, because she didn’t want to kick up a fuss.

Denny admired her for that, but Denny’s main interest in the race was winning it. She knew she could do it if she rode the black stallion called Rocket.

Louis went to Melanie and put his arm around her shoulders. “You’re right. The most important thing is our wedding.” He gave Denny a warning glance. “So we don’t want any big arguments spoiling everything.”

“There won’t be any argument,” she said. “I’ve thought about it, just now, and you’re right, Louis. This is a special day for you and Melanie. I don’t want anything taking away from it. There’ll be other races I can ride in.”

A surprised frown creased Louis’s forehead. “Really?”

Brad said, “You’re not going to ride after all?” He sounded disappointed.

“Not this time,” Denny said.

“Well . . . thank you,” Louis told her. “I know Mother will be relieved.”

“I’m sure she will.” Denny turned away before Louis could see the sly smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. He was always a mite gullible while we were growing up, she thought. It was true that she didn’t want to ruin their wedding day, and honestly, she didn’t want to upset her mother, either.

But what none of them knew . . . until it was all over but the shouting . . . wouldn’t hurt them, now would it?

Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, Big Rock

The battered old hat was tipped far back on the man’s rumpled thatch of rusty hair. All his clothes, from the old boots to the patched jeans to the faded blue shirt and brown vest, showed signs of long, hard wear. The gun belt strapped around his lean hips had been gouged and torn in places by thorny brush. The Colt .45 that rode in the attached holster was clean and well cared for, though.

Steve Markham picked up the glass from the bar in front of him and threw back the shot. The whiskey burned all the way down his gullet. The Brown Dirt Cowboy was popular with range riders in the area because the who-hit-John sold there was cheap and packed a punch, not because it was smooth as silk going down.

Steve stood there for a moment, letting the booze kindle a fire in his belly, before he followed it with a healthy swallow of foamy, bitter beer from the mug next to the empty shot glass.

One of the bartenders ambled over, nodded toward the glass, and asked, “Another?”

“I’m all right for now,” replied Steve. Still holding the mug, he turned so his back was to the bar and leaned on it, hooking his elbows on the hardwood as he surveyed the smoky, noisy room.

The saloon was packed. Men stood two deep at the bar in places, and every table was full. Gals with painted faces and wearing short, spangled dresses carried trays and made their way through the crowd delivering drinks to the tables. They were pawed almost nonstop, but there was no way to avoid those groping hands.

And truth to tell, most of them looked like they didn’t mind all that much. From time to time, a customer would pull one of them down to lean over a table, whisper something in her ear, and then the two of them would adjourn to an upstairs room to complete the transaction.

Steve smiled faintly as he observed one of the saloon girls leading a nervous-looking youngster up the stairs. It had been a while since he had enjoyed any female company himself, but he wasn’t in the mood for a soiled dove. He had other things on his mind tonight.

Turning his head to look at the big, florid-faced man on his left, Steve said, “The whole town looked fit to bust when I was ridin’ in. Is it always this crowded?”

“What? No.” The man shook his head. He was no cowboy, might have been a blacksmith or a freight handler. “Naw, Big Rock’s busy sometimes, but not like this. A lot of folks have come into town for the big shindig tomorrow.”

“There’s a celebration here in town? It’s not the Fourth of July yet. Or is it? I haven’t been payin’ a lot of attention to the calendar, bein’ on the drift like I have been.”

“No, no, the shindig’s not here in town. It’s out at the Sugarloaf. You know, Smoke Jensen’s spread.”

Steve arched an eyebrow and said, “Smoke Jensen? The gunfighter and outlaw?”

The man glared at Steve. “Watch your mouth, mister. Smoke’s no outlaw. Yeah, there might’ve been some reward dodgers out on him years ago, but those were fake, put out by some fellas who had a grudge against him. He’s always been a law-abiding sort. Well, other than going ahead and killing a bunch of lowdown skunks who needed killin’, without waiting for the law to do it.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Steve said. “I didn’t mean no offense. And I notice you didn’t find any fault with me callin’ him a gunfighter.”

“Well, it’d be plumb foolish to argue about that. There’s never been anybody slicker on the draw than Smoke Jensen.”

Steve swallowed some more of the beer and asked, “Why’s he throwin’ a party?”

“Say, you did just ride in, didn’t you? Smoke’s son is getting married. There’s gonna be a big feast and a baile afterward, and kickin’ things off in the morning before the ceremony, they’re gonna have a horse race.”

Steve’s interest visibly perked up. “Is that so? I’ve never been much for dancin’, so I’m not sure I’d be welcome at any baile, but I’ve got a fast hoss.”

The red-faced man laughed. “If you’re thinkin’ about entering, friend, I’d advise against it. The fastest horses in the state will be in this race. I don’t reckon some saddle tramp’s nag would stand much of a chance.”

Steve drew in a sharp breath. He didn’t want to lose his temper, but it was hard not to in the face of a comment like that. Keeping a tight rein on his words, he told the man, “My horse ain’t no nag—”

Before he could continue defending his mount, someone bumped heavily against his shoulder. The impact was enough to make Steve take a staggering step to his left. The mug in his hand tipped, and the beer that was still in it splashed over the feet of the big, red-faced man.

“What the hell!” he roared, but the noise level in the room was already so high, the shout was less deafening than it might have been. “What in blazes do you think you’re doin’, stranger?”

If the man wanted an apology, he wasn’t going to get one. Steve jerked his head toward the man who’d bumped into him and said, “It’s not my fault. It was this jasper who’s to blame for bein’ so damn clumsy.”

The offender was tall and kind of skinny. Steve probably outweighed him, but the man had broad shoulders, long arms, and big, knobby-knuckled hands. “What’re you talkin’ about? I didn’t do a damn thing.”

“The hell you didn’t. You bumped into me and made me spill beer on this hombre.”

“I barely touched you,” the tall man said. “If you can’t hold your liquor and start stumblin’ around, it ain’t my fault.”

The red-faced man took hold of Steve’s left shoulder and half-turned him. “I didn’t see anybody run into you. You just up and dumped beer on my feet, probably because I called your horse a nag!”

For a second, Steve wondered if these two were working together, trying to provoke a fight for some reason that was beyond him. When he glanced back and forth between them, however, he didn’t see any sign of such a conspiracy in their faces. They both looked genuinely angry and upset.

“I’m the only one who lost out here,” he snapped. “I lost part of a beer, but it’s not worth fightin’ over, so let’s just forget it.”

“The hell we will,” said the red-faced man. “I’m gonna have to get these boots shined before I go out to the Sugarloaf in the morning. That ain’t gonna be free, you know.”

Steve set the empty mug on the bar and inclined his head toward the tall man again. “Talk to him. It was his fault, like I told you. I’m gonna go find some friendlier place to drink.” He stepped away from the bar, toward the saloon’s batwinged entrance.

Both men caught hold of him, a hand on each shoulder, and jerked him back.

The tall man said, “The hell you are,” and the red-faced man declared, “You ain’t goin’ anywhere!”

They shouldn’t have done that, thought Steve. And then he didn’t think anymore. Instinct took over.

He lashed out with his right arm, holding that hand stiff so that the fingers dug deep under the tall man’s ribs and forced the air out of his lungs. As the man gasped, turned pale, and bent forward a little, his hand slipped off Steve’s shoulder.

The red-faced man yanked hard on him. Steve made use of that and allowed the sharp tug to turn him. He lowered his head as he came around and then bulled forward, ramming his right shoulder against the man’s barrel chest. Steve balled his fists and slammed a left and a right into the man’s thick belly.

Unfortunately, the layer of fat soaked up most of the power from those punches. The man roared again and threw a punch of his own. Steve jerked aside so the blow missed his face, but he took it on his left shoulder and it landed with enough force to make that arm go numb for several seconds. The impact also knocked Steve backward, and his feet slipped on the sawdust-littered floor. He sat down hard as the crowd along the bar quickly scurried back to give the combatants room.

“Fight! Fight!” The inevitable shouts echoed from the high ceiling.

The red-faced man charged at Steve, evidently intending to stomp him into the floor. Steve recovered quickly and rolled aside, thrusting a leg between the red-faced man’s calves and tripping him. With a startled yell, the man went down face-first and landed hard enough to stun him.

Steve didn’t get any break, though. The tall man had recovered from having the breath knocked out of him and grabbed Steve’s empty mug off the bar. He swung it at Steve’s head.

Steve ducked under the sweeping blow and dived at the tall man’s legs, tackling him around the knees. That should have knocked the man down, but the crowd still pressed in closely on that side, and several men caught him and shoved him back up.

Steve got one hand on the brass rail and reached up with the other to grab the front edge of the bar. He pulled himself to his feet just in time for the tall man to crash both clubbed hands down on his back. The brutal blow drove Steve’s chest against the bar. The tall man raised his arms, intending to strike again from behind.

Steve pushed off the bar, lurched back, and rammed his right elbow into the man’s midsection before the blow could fall. That knocked the tall man back a step. Steve whirled and hooked a right to the man’s jaw. Steve was fairly tall himself and his punch landed cleanly, followed with a left to the body. He had his opponent backing up, giving ground, and was confident that he could continue boring in until he put the man on the floor.

He might have succeeded if the red-faced man hadn’t recovered enough to reach out, grab Steve’s ankle, and jerk his leg out from under him.

Steve windmilled his arms but couldn’t keep his balance. As he toppled to the floor, the red-faced man clambered up onto his feet and the tall man stopped backpedaling. He shook out the cobwebs from the battering Steve had given him and clenched his fists again so the big knuckles stuck out prominently.

Steve was sprawled in the sawdust. He pushed himself into a sitting position and saw the two men stalking toward him from different directions. A snarl twisted his face and his hand started toward the holstered gun on his hip. The last thing he wanted to do was shoot his way out of there, but he was sick and tired of those hombres whaling away on him for something that wasn’t even his fault.

His hand had not yet touched the Colt’s grips when the batwings slammed open and a loud, commanding voice said, “Everybody step back! Step back, damn it, and clear a path!”

The Brown Dirt Cowboy’s customers, who had been yelling encouragement to the battlers, fell silent and pushed back to give the newcomer room. Steve looked in that direction and saw a solidly built man in a white shirt with a string tie and black trousers and vest standing just inside the entrance cradling a double-barreled shotgun in obviously capable hands. His gray hair was still thick under the black Stetson he wore. His lined, weathered face showed his age, but clearly, the man was still a ways away from being ready for a rocking chair.

The star pinned to his vest proclaimed him to be a lawman. Steve would have known that even without the badge. He had seen plenty of star packers in his time.

The lawman walked toward Steve and the two men with whom he’d been trading punches. Steve moved his hand farther away from his gun butt and made sure to keep it there. He didn’t want to give the new-comer any excuse to get antsy with that scattergun. The sheriff, marshal, whatever he was, still had plenty of bark on him, that was plain to see.

Addressing the stocky, red-faced man, he demanded, “Hiram, what the devil are you doing?”

Looking a little embarrassed, the man called Hiram cleared his throat and said, “Uh, sorry, Sheriff. This fella here”—a thick finger poked toward Steve—“spilled beer on me and then wouldn’t even say he was sorry.”

Steve said, “I didn’t say I was sorry because it wasn’t my fault. This long-stretched galoot bumped into me and caused the whole thing.”

The sheriff looked at the tall man. “That true, Parry?”

“Well, uh . . . it’s mighty crowded in here, Sheriff Carson. You know, on account of so many folks being in town for Smoke’s boy’s wedding. I might’ve jostled this fella a little, but I don’t think it was enough to have caused all this ruckus.”

Steve stood up and slapped sawdust off the seat of his pants. “You can see how it is, Sheriff. I got caught in the middle here, and then these two decided they’d both try to whip me.”

“Looked like they were on their way to doing it,” the lawman commented dryly.

“No, sir,” Steve said with a shake of his head. “It might’ve looked that way, but that ain’t how the hand would’ve played out.”

“Well, the hand’s over now,” said Sheriff Carson. “Emmett Brown!”

A slick-haired gent in a tweed suit stepped out of the crowd. “Yes, Sheriff?”

“You’ve got men working for you who are supposed to keep the peace. They need to do a better job of it. I know the town’s crowded and everybody’s in high spirits because of the fandango at the Sugarloaf tomorrow, but that doesn’t mean the lid’s coming off tonight.”

Emmett Brown, the proprietor of the Brown Dirt Cowboy Saloon, swallowed and nodded. “Yes, sir. There won’t be any more trouble.”

“Better not be,” growled the lawman. He had lowered the shotgun’s twin barrels to point at the floor. As he tucked the weapon under his left arm, he jerked his right thumb at Steve. “You be on your way.”

“I told you, I didn’t do anything,” Steve insisted.

“And I believe you. But you staying here is like an ember in a fire. It’s liable to flare up again after a while.”

“You’re not making them other two leave,” Steve said sullenly.

“Yes, I am, as soon as you’ve had a few minutes to drift. Parry, you go back home to your wife. Hiram, you head for that boardinghouse where you live. No more ruckuses tonight, and for damn sure, none out at the Sugarloaf tomorrow.” Sheriff Carson narrowed his eyes at Steve. “That is, if you’re planning to go out there, which I wouldn’t recommend.”

Steve drew in a breath and calmed his raging emotions again. Quietly, he said, “Unless that’s an order, Sheriff, I was sort of thinking about it. I heard there’s gonna be a horse race.”

“That’s right.”

“Can anybody enter?”

“As far as I know.”. . .