Warrior's Heart

Book 20: Panorama of the Old West

by Georgina Gentry

Genres: Historical Fiction; Sagas; Historical Romance

Synopsis

HE LIVED WITH SAVAGE ABANDON. . . A half-breed wanted for murder among his own native Shoshoni, Rider is hard and bitter from the injustice that has sealed his fate. Now, His only goal is survival. But When he sees lovely, vulnerable Emma Trent, a woman heartlessly denied passage on a wagon train bound for the Oregon trail, he offers to lead the train- but only if she is permitted to come along. And though he plans only to sate his lust with her, Rider soon finds that the spirited beauty has challenged him to love. . . .UNTIL SHE CAPTURED HIS PASSIONATE HEART Emma invested all her life savings in the wagon train, only be cruelly cast out by a greedy bunch of greenhorns. The dark, powerful half-breed came to her rescue, demanding an impossible price: she will share his bed. Desperate to make it to Oregon, she surrenders to his touch, while secretly vowing to seek revenge. Yet as the train moves through the treacherous territory, as hate softens in the sensual embrace of a skilled lover, and tender intimacy replaces false pride, Emma discovers a love she cannot deny.

Release date: May 16, 2014

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 349

Sample

Late June, 1862. The frontier settlement of Independence, Missouri.

Rider wanted the girl from the first moment he saw her standing by a covered wagon on the morning he rode into town.

The yellow-haired girl did not look back at him as if she desired him, too. What intrigued him as he rode past was the glare of utter hatred and revulsion with which she returned his hot glance.

Intrigued, he reined in his Appaloosa stallion and studied the blonde. If he were still among the Shoshoni, he would consider stealing the woman and using her to warm his blankets until he tired of her, then swap her for a rifle or a good horse. Clad in faded blue gingham, she clenched her small fists and glared back at him with eyes as pale as her dress, the gold band on her left hand reflecting the hot sun. It was almost a comic gesture, he thought, seeing that though she was tall and sun-browned, she would be no match against his strength.

However, since the white man who owned this beauty would surely fight to the death to keep her, Rider would forgo the temptation of her warm, ripe body. He didn’t need the kind of trouble the white girl would bring him—not with all the other problems he had right now.

Reluctantly, Rider nudged Storm into a walk and rode on past the motley cluster of covered wagons, touching the tips of his fingers to his black Stetson as he passed her. She didn’t return his nod, only frowned more deeply, pressing against the big wheel of her wagon, her body tense as if ready to fight should he dismount and approach her.

Rider didn’t look back as he rode down the dusty street. He had lived in two worlds, Indian and white, and was under a death sentence in both. At the moment, with those bounty hunters on his trail, what Rider needed most was a drink, some food, and a little rest for him and his horse before they moved on. Later, there would always be plenty of pretty women for his amusement and they wouldn’t glare at him with revulsion and hatred as the girl with sky-blue eyes had done. He could still feel those pale eyes burning holes in his back as he threaded his way through the bustling crowds of people, buggies, and wagons heading for the small saloon sign down the street.

Emma Trent glared at the grim gunfighter’s muscular back as he rode away. When he reined in to look her over, she had recognized the hunger—that man-need in his dark eyes—and it made her shudder with terrible memories that she had thought buried almost four long years. She must not allow herself to remember, but it was impossible when this half-breed gunfighter appraised her with cold, dark eyes as if he’d like to throw her down right there in the dust of the street and mount her.

Emma clenched her fists, her stomach churning, knowing instinctively that this big, silent man was someone who took what he wanted and dared anyone to stop him. The way he had stared at her made it very clear how much he desired her body, and she had no one to protect her should he decide to take her. The early morning sun reflected off the silver conchos on that hat and the fancy beadwork on the bridle as he rode away. Indians. She had plenty of reason to hate and fear them. Yet Emma could not stop herself from staring after the rider until his broad-shouldered back in its black shirt faded into the crowd in the street.

No ordinary cowboy, that one. The silver on his hat and gun belt, the good leather of his boots, the fine horse, but especially the pistol he wore low on his hip, told her this was a hired gun—a cold killer with a mouth like a slash across his weathered dark face, his ebony hair long, too long for a white man. She watched him as he disappeared into the bustle of the road, breathing a sigh of relief that he was gone and wondering if he’d been hired to gun down someone in the dust of this rough town’s streets? What difference did that make to her as long as he didn’t return to put those dark, capable hands on her.

A whimpering cry from inside her wagon made her turn, forgetting the gunfighter completely in her concern for her child. Hoisting her faded skirts, she climbed up on the wagon seat behind the patient oxen and reached down to pat the sleeping toddler. “Shh, Josh, it’s all right. Go back to sleep now.”

Her son quieted under the soothing touch of her hand as she patted his black hair and smiled down at him. Three-year-old Josh was a half-breed, too, just like the tough gunfighter who had just ridden past, but that was not the toddler’s fault. Even as Emma stroked Josh’s black hair, she couldn’t help but think that if this had been Ethan’s son, the boy would have been as fair and blond as her dead husband.

The child dropped off to sleep again and Emma took a deep breath and squared her shoulders as she climbed down from the wagon. The fat banker, Mr. Pettigrew, in his derby hat, and several men were walking toward her. She knew by the grim set of their mouths and the way they avoided her eyes that the news would not be good.

“Miz Trent,” Pettigrew wheezed as he took off his derby and fiddled with it, avoiding her eyes, “we men have talked it over, as well as our womenfolk, and well, as elected leader of this train, it’s my duty to tell you we don’t think you belong with us—”

“Belong? Tell me, Mr. Pettigrew, just where do I belong?” Her temper flared because she knew the answer: nowhere, not in any respectable white community.

The men shuffled their feet in the dust, ashamed to look at her.

The tall, elegant Southerner, Weatherford B. Carrolton, cleared his throat. “Now, see here,” he drawled in a deep Mississippi accent, “there’s no need for such resentment, young lady.”

“Don’t use that arrogant tone to me,” Emma shot back. “I realize none of you think a respectable woman would keep a child like mine—”

“It ain’t just the half-breed kid, Miz Trent—” the banker began apologetically.

“Josh,” she snapped. “His name is Josh.”

“Be that as it may,” Mr. Weeks said, “it’s a long way to Oregon—lots of problems ahead of us.”

“If you’re worried that I can’t pull my weight, that I’ll be too much trouble,” she said, facing them as adversaries, “I’m a frontier girl. I can tan hides, handle a rifle, milk cows, hitch up my own team, and—”

“It ain’t just that, Miz Trent,” Pettigrew said and wiped the sweat from the inside of his derby before putting it back on his thinning hair. “My Francesca, well, all the womenfolk are afraid men will get to fightin’ over you, seein’s as how you’re purty, real purty, and you got no man.”

The others nodded in silent agreement.

She had been right; the women had been gossiping about her. Francesca Pettigrew, Millicent Carrolton, and the others had appeared to be whispering about Emma since she’d pulled in here yesterday with her covered wagon. Emma had noted the cold looks from the other women. She knew the gossip would center on the parentage of her half-breed son.

She didn’t know whether to laugh or cry or start shrieking. Most of these men were looking at her as if they’d like to tear her clothes off. “Your women think I’m a slut? That I’ll fall into the grass with any man who looks at me?”

The men’s faces turned an angry, ruddy color and they glanced at each other, obviously not used to hearing women talk with such spirited defiance.

Weatherford B. Carrolton cleared his throat and adjusted the blossom in his boutonniere. “Now, ma’am. There’s no need for such unladylike talk,” he drawled. “It is a long trip, Miz Trent, and seein’ as how you don’t belong to a man—”

“I belong to me!” she flared back. “Don’t you people understand? I’ve sold what little I had to outfit this wagon and buy these oxen,” she gestured behind her. “I thought I’d get a fresh start in the Oregon country, but I can’t get there alone.”

A fat old farmer from Ohio sniffed disdainfully. “Most of us think we don’t need women like you in the Oregon country alongside honest, respectable folk. After all, there’s that half-breed kid—”

“And that’s the most of it, isn’t it, Mr. Adams?” Emma fired back. “You’ve heard the gossip and keep thinking, ‘if she was a respectable woman, why didn’t she kill herself and spare society the disgrace?’ Well, I got news for you folks. That’s the coward’s way out and I’m not takin’ it!”

“Nonetheless,” the banker said, “the train hopes to be pulling out this afternoon, soon’s our wagon master returns, and we done decided you can’t join up with us—”

“Just give me a chance.” She was down to pleading now, and it rankled her proud spirit. “I’ve already talked to Mr. McKade last night and he’s willing. I promise I’ll pull my own weight and won’t be a hindrance. I got all I own tied up in this wagon and if I can’t join the train, I don’t know what I’ll do.”

The men shook their heads slowly and avoided her eyes. “That ain’t our problem,” Pettigrew said. “I have promised my Francesca that she won’t have to mix with women like you, so now we’re done talkin’ about it. Soon’s Mr. McKade gets back, we’re pullin’ out and you ain’t goin’ with us.”

She had to get to Oregon, not for herself—she had long since grown immune to what people whispered about her—but for Josh. Her half-Cheyenne son was not welcome in frontier communities. Maybe things would be different out West where there was still plenty of room and the wind blew free. “But Mr. McKade said—”

“Don’t care what he says,” Adams, the old Ohio farmer, yelled back over his shoulder as the men walked away. “The wagon master is on our payroll and he’ll see the wisdom of our vote. Good luck to you, Miz Trent.”

Emma watched the men retreat and gritted her teeth so she would not cry, trying to decide what to do next. Sure, a single woman alone on a wagon train might cause some hardship if the men had to look after her, hitch up her wagon, and repair wheels and harness. But her ancestors had been tough pioneers coming through the Cumberland Gap generations ago; and she could do anything a man could do from plowing to hunting.

What was she going to do? Gossip said this was the very last train that would be leaving the “jumping off” places in Missouri and Iowa this year. All the others had left weeks ago. If this one wouldn’t take her, Emma wasn’t certain what to do. The Civil War was spreading all along the frontier, so she couldn’t return to her old farm, and besides, she’d sold the land and house to buy this big wagon and supplies. She didn’t have more than five dollars tucked away and now she was about to be stranded in this rough, wide-open town.

Mr. McKade. The train had just hired the reluctant old wagon master last night. He should be back in a few minutes and she’d talk to him again, implore him to convince the hostile pioneers to include her. No, she couldn’t give up. She might have to defend her honor against some of the men late at night after the camp was asleep, but she’d take that chance—she had to. There was nothing behind her but terrifying memories and humiliation. Hope and a new life for her and her son lay ahead in the wild freedom of the Oregon country. She was in a desperate situation and she’d do whatever it took to get to Oregon!

Rider swung down off his horse and tied it to the hitching rail next to the water trough in front of a saloon. Storm bent his head and drank gratefully. “Good boy,” Rider said and patted him as the horse nickered low in its throat. “I’ll get me a drink, too, and maybe we’ll find a place this afternoon where we can hide out and rest awhile.”

The horse was the only real friend Rider had in this world. Gunfighters didn’t make many attachments and they moved too often to grow any affection for a particular woman. Now, women in general, that was something different. Rider paused in front of the saloon and assessed it. This wasn’t one of those fancy places that had girls upstairs, the friendly kind who made no demands and asked for no commitments. Oh, yes, those were his kind of women—the ones who knew how to smile and warm a man with their soft white skin and big breasts. Never mind that in a few hours, they’d be spread beneath some other sweating, gasping cowboy.

The tanned, sturdy girl back at the wagon train crossed his mind in contrast. “Forget that,” he warned himself as he pushed through the creaky swinging doors. “You’d have to take it from her by force and that’s not your style.”

Still the woman both intrigued and mystified him. Why such hatred in those pale blue eyes? Women had always been eager to pleasure him and make him forget that he had no real home to hang his hat and that he would always have to sit with his back against the wall when he ate or gambled so that no one could come up behind him sudden-like.

Rider stood in the doorway, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, studying everything and everybody a long moment before he moved inside. It was a small, miserable place, reeking of dust, stale beer, and cigars. A half-dozen men leaned against the mahogany bar, their weather-beaten boots on the brass rail. Over in the corner, a drunk pecked his way across the keys of an out-of-tune piano: “Oh, Susanna, oh, don’t you cry for me, I come from Alabama . . .”

Satisfied that the place contained no enemies that he recognized, Rider strode over to the bar, moving to the far side so he could watch the swinging doors. He took off his black hat and slapped it against his leg before putting it on again. “Gimme a whiskey,” he said to the mustachioed man who wiped at the dust of the scarred mahogany.

The bearded old man next to him laughed and sipped his beer. “A bit early in the morning for whiskey, ain’t it?”

Rider frowned at him, decided he meant no harm. The old-timer wasn’t even wearing a gun. “Who thinks so?”

“McKade,” the other man said and held out his hand. When Rider didn’t take it, he combed through his white beard instead. “I meant no offense, stranger.”

“Then none taken.” Rider was bone tired and in no mood to fuss with anyone. Rider accepted the drink, threw a silver dollar on the bar so that it rang as it spun. “What goes on in this town anyway?”

The older man shrugged. “Not much this late in the season. A month ago, there was wagon trains pulling out by the dozens.”

Rider sipped his whiskey, savoring the way it cleared the dust from his throat, thinking about the yellow-haired girl. “I passed a train gettin’ ready as I came in.”

“Oh, yeah, that one.” McKade nodded and sighed. “Last night, they offered me plenty to guide them, but I’m gonna go back in a minute and tell them I’ve changed my mind.”

“Oh?”

“I just got a bad feelin’ about it, that’s all. In the first place, it’s too late to be takin’ the trail. The trip takes four months at best, six or seven at the worst, so they’ll never get to Oregon without gettin’ caught in the autumn snows up in the mountains.”

“That’s Shoshoni country.” Oyer’ungun. Land of Peace and Plenty, his people had named it. Rider sipped his whiskey and remembered the crisp snow and the clean, cold air of the mountains that he knew so well. It had been hotter than hell with the lid off down in Texas.

“Shoshoni, yes,” McKade nodded in agreement. “And other hostiles along the way—good place to lose your scalp. I been thinkin’ about that all night. Gold don’t do you no good if you ain’t alive to spend it. You know that land?”

Rider didn’t answer as he rolled a smoke. Yes, he knew those rugged peaks and high plains as well as he knew the back of his own hand. Long ago, he had hunted buffalo and enemy Cheyenne, Blackfoot, and Lakota there, but of course, Rider couldn’t return to the land he loved. He was under a death sentence from his mother’s people, the Shoshoni. “I know the country,” he said finally. “A man would be risking his hair traveling through there unless he had lots of rifles and men with plenty of guts who knew how to use them.”

“Well, that shore ain’t this train of whiners and losers,” McKade said. “Don’t seem to have much grit or gumption to the lot of them.”

Rider didn’t answer, thinking about the yellow-haired girl. She had looked feisty and stubborn as hell. Just what was she doing in a train like this? Maybe her man was lazy and no-account.

“Yes, sir,” McKade raked his fingers through his beard thoughtfully. “That’s why after thinkin’ it over, I’m goin’ back and tell them I’ve changed my mind, even though they offered five hundred in gold.”

Rider whistled low and long. “That’s mucho dinero.”

“More than most wagon masters get,” the other agreed and sipped his beer. “The goin’ rate is about five dollars a wagon. But I got me a bad feelin’ about this bunch. First of all, there’s only half a dozen wagons.”

“Not enough to stand off an Injun attack,” Rider said and struck a match across the bar, lighting his cigarette.

“You got that!” McKade scowled and shifted his weight. “But I doubt many of this bunch would fight—I think they’d run first.”

Rider laughed. “What happened to that brave pioneer spirit?”

McKade shook his head. “These people is all rejects from other trains for one reason or another—that’s why they’re still stranded here tryin’ to take the trail.”

He didn’t want to ask, but he couldn’t help himself. “What about the girl, the one with yellow hair?”

“Ah, yes, that one.” McKade sighed and a look of wistfulness crossed his weathered face. “Now there’s a woman. Spunky little thing, but I can tell you right now this bunch ain’t gonna take her along.”

“Why not?” Rider blew smoke into the dim light and watched it hang on the air, remembering the beauty of her, like sunlight and blue skies.

“Well, she’s too purty, to begin with—that’s bound to cause some trouble on a long trip like that.”

“Can’t her man protect her?” Rider said. “If not, he ain’t much of a man. If I had a woman like that one—”

“Oh, there’s something you don’t know about her,” McKade said. “You see, she—”

“Who owns that Appaloosa tied out front?” a voice shouted from the doors.

Rider looked up. A man had just entered the saloon—no, more of a boy, Rider decided. “Who wants to know?”

The boy sauntered over to the middle of the worn floor and paused, his thumbs stuck in his gun belt.

Rider felt a prickle of warning go up his back. He always listened to his inner feelings; they had saved his life more than once. He tossed away the smoke and heard it sizzle as it hit the brass spittoon, then turned slightly so that his lean, experienced hand hovered just above his gun belt.

“I’m the Missouri Kid,” the stranger said, and paused for effect. “I reckon you heard of me?”

“Can’t say that I have,” Rider answered softly. “But then, I haven’t been in these parts much.” He didn’t want any trouble with some young stud who was looking to build his reputation. There had been too many like this one in the past five years—way too many.

The kid ran his hand through dirty brown hair and swaggered toward the bar, his hand on his gun belt. “Well, I know who you are. I heard about that stallion—finest on the frontier, they say.”

The Shoshoni were famous for their fast horses. Old Chief Washakie himself had given Storm to the warrior Rides the Thunder. That had been in his other life, more than five years ago, when Rider was still an honored dog soldier.

“He’s a good horse,” Rider conceded and watched the kid’s hands. Those hands were shaking slightly.

“I wanna buy him off you.” The young cowboy bellied up to the bar and banged loudly for service. The bartender rushed to fill his glass, glancing nervously at Rider, sweat gathering on his lip above his mustache.

Rider shook his head. “Storm’s not for sale. He’s saved my life too many times.”

The boy half-turned to face Rider and his hand shook a bit more as he raised his drink to his lips. “I heard of you, Rider—down in Tascosa and San Antone, over in St. Joe and the Territory. Folks say the lowdown gunfighter that rides that horse would kill anyone for a price.”

A deep, shocked gasp ran through the other men at the brass railing and they began to edge away from the bar.

Rider took a deep breath. “Don’t push me, kid, I’ve had a bad week.” It’d be even worse if those bounty hunters were as close behind him as he figured.

The kid turned, his hands shaking even more as he slammed his empty glass down on the bar. “Maybe you didn’t hear me. I hear the lowdown polecat who rides that horse would gun down anyone for a price.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Rider said. Even in his own ears, his voice sounded cold and hard as the Colt hanging low on his lean hip. “Sometimes I kill a man for free.”

The tension hung on the air like the dust that danced in the sunlight flowing across the weatherbeaten planks from the swinging doors. Men hesitated, looking at each other uncertainly. Rider could read their faces. They knew they should run, but they were afraid they would miss the action. After a moment, they began to clear away from the pair.

McKade was the only one besides Rider and the boy who didn’t retreat. He moved between them, making a soothing gesture toward the newcomer. “Now, son, back off a little. There ain’t no need to throw your weight around. You can see this other gent don’t want no trouble. We’re just havin’ us a friendly drink and I’ll buy you one—”

The kid snorted. “I ain’t drinkin’ with him.” He nodded toward Rider. “They all say you’re the fastest gun on the frontier, but you seem yellow to me.”

“Kid,” Rider said, his voice so soft it seemed like the warning of a coiled rattler, “back off now and we’ll let it go at that.”

The boy looked incredulous. “You’d let a man call you yellow and take it?”

“You ain’t a man,” Rider said. “Come back in a couple of years when you’re grown. Now get out of here. It’s too nice a morning to die.”

“You threatenin’ me?” The boy backed away from the bar, his hands hovering just above his pistol.

So there was going to be no way around it. In the five years since he’d joined the white man’s civilization, his reputation had built until there was no town he could ride into peacefully without some young buck calling him out. Rider was not yet thirty winters old, but this morning he felt ancient and tired. In his mind’s eye, he was Rides the Thunder again, galloping along the ridges, thrilled with the beauty of the morning, wild and free, no posse on his tail and no smart aleck kid begging for a chance to die in a dirty little saloon. “Look, there’s no sense in shootin’ up this place. Just move on and we’ll forget it.”

“No, I ain’t gonna let you order me around. Let’s take this out in the street!” The kid had moved to the middle of the floor, backing toward the doors, the other men watching silently as if holding their breath.

“I just came in from the street,” Rider said softly, “and I ain’t interested in going back out there just yet.”

McKade made a placating gesture toward the boy. “Look, son, can’t you see he’s tryin’ to avoid a fight?”

“Stay out of this!” The kid’s hand hovered near his pistol—too near. “You gonna come out?” he shouted at Rider.

Rider sighed. “You really want to die in front of all those people out there?”

The boy threw back his head and laughed. “We’ll see who’s gonna die, you son of a bitch!”

“All right then, we’ll do it your way,” Rider said and finished his whiskey. He gestured to the old man to move to one side as he started for the swinging doors.

Even as he did so, the kid drew. It was a slow, clumsy draw, a dead man’s draw. Rider reacted instinctively. His hand slapped leather and came up spitting fire as the Colt flashed in the dim light. His bullet caught the Missouri Kid in the heart a split second before the kid’s Colt cleared its holster. The boy was dead but still firing wildly as he fell.

The mirror behind the bar shattered in a tinkling shower of glass and McKade cried out, clutching his chest as he went down. Rider took a deep breath of air that suddenly reeked of gunpowder, fear, and blood, all scents that wiped out the faint smell of stale cigars and beer. His ears still ringing from the gunfire, Rider holstered his pistol and knelt beside the old man. Cursing softly, he lifted McKade’s head. “Somebody get a doc!”

Around them, men were shouting and people crowded into the saloon, asking what happened.

McKade shook his head, choking on his own blood. “Stray bullet . . . helluva way to go.”

“I’m sorry as hell, oldtimer,” Rider said and meant it.

“Not your fault,” the old man whispered. “Your reputation... Someday, there’ll be somebody faster—”

“And it’ll be me lyin’ here,” Rider agreed. In his mind, he saw himself older, slower. Like McKade, he’d be lying in a pool of blood in some dirty saloon. It wasn’t much of a future, but he’d play the hand he’d been dealt. “Can I do anything for you?”

“... worried about that girl.” McKade’s voice was a whisper from deep inside. “She ...” Then he smiled and died quietly, crimson staining the white beard.

Very gently, Rider laid the old man down. “I’m sorry as hell, oldtimer,” he whispered again and patted the thin shoulder.

Ignoring the gawking men crowding into the saloon, Rider stood up and walked over to the Missouri Kid. The boy lay with his hazel eyes wide open in surprise as if he had known he was a dead man as he fell and could not quite believe it. Rider kicked the gun away from the still hand and cursed softly. “You all saw it,” he said to the silent crowd.

They nodded and a farmer pushed back his straw hat and shook his head. “We saw it, we sure did. The kid drew first. Never in my born days seen such fancy shootin’.”

“Why, don’t you know who that is?” another murmured. “That half-breed is the gunfighter....”

Rider was suddenly sick of being who he was. He pushed through the swinging doors and out into the bright light of the morning. Sweat plastered his shirt to his muscular body and he thought how hot the day was in the white man’s dirty, crowded little town. The air in the far mountains would be cool and fresh and as Rides the Thunder, he would wear little more than a breechcloth and moccasins, his long hair trailing coup feathers to show his brave deeds as a warrior. For a long moment, he ached for the life he had known among the Shoshoni, the life that was dead to him now.

Then he caught the hushed, excited conversation around him as he stood in the middle of the dusty street and realized people were staring at him and whispering. “Somebody better get the sheriff,” he said. “It was a fair fight—anyone in the saloon will tell him that.”

But it hadn’t been a fair fight and Rider knew it. No one could handle a gun like the legendary Rider. He’d been taught by the best, Trace Durango, down in the Texas hill country. Still, the Missouri Kid had pushed him into the duel. Life was hard and the weak couldn’t survive.

Rider gritted his teeth and mounted up, turning his horse to ride through the gathering crowd back down the street. He saw people running to spread the gossip about the action at the saloon. Rider wasn’t quite sure where he was going, but of course he had to move on now that people had recognized him. Besides, those bounty hunters would probably be here by tomorrow.

Ignoring the curious stares, Rider stared straight ahead as he rode out. However, as he passed the stranded wagon train, he looked with curiosity toward the girl’s wagon, wondering what it was the old man had been trying to tell him.

The blond girl stood there, arms folded, chin sticking out defiantly, but there were tears on those long lashes. He wondered for a split second what had happened to make her cry. She looked too stubborn to let life defeat her. Again he nodded and touched the brim of his hat as he passed.

A fat man in a derby hat hurried from behind a wagon and hailed him. “Hey, stranger, is it true?” he puffed. “Did McKade just get hisself shot?”

Rider reined in. “Yeah. He got in the way of some young kid tryin’ to build a reputation.”

“Damn it all to hell! Did you see it?”

Rider nodded. “I was there.”

A shadow crossed the blond girl’s expression. Now the hardness left her small face and for just a moment the blue eyes widened and he saw vulnerability and pain. “Mr.—Mr. McKade is dead?”

Rider nodded, looking into those eyes, thinking how they could be frozen ice one minute, and deep, warm pools the next. No, endless skies. Sky Eyes. “I’m afraid so.”

For a moment, she sagged against the side of her wagon, her shoulders drooping as if she had no hope left and no friend in the whole world.

“Was he kin?” Rider asked, curious to know more about her and then annoyed with himself that he cared. A gunfighter didn’t dare care about anything or anybody.

She swallowed hard and shook her head. “No, but he seemed like a nice old man and it’s just. . .