Written in the Cards (Sagebrush Brides Book 2)

Book 2: Sagebrush Brides

by Alexa Aston

Genres: Westerns; Historical Romance; Western Romance; western historical romance; western romance; American Historical Romance; Sagebush Brides; gamblers

Synopsis

An independent woman discovering herself as she travels through the American West.

A man of integrity broken by events in his past—and on the run from a bloodthirsty killer.

Two individuals drawn together who find a love that can never be . . .


Maggie Rutherford jilts her too-perfect society groom at the altar and flees New York for the American West, where she turns her travels into dime novels that she writes and illustrates under the pen name Lud Madison.

After the Civil War, veteran Ben Morgan marries his childhood sweetheart and takes her to homestead on the Great Plains. Losing her and their unborn child in an Indian attack, Ben detaches from emotion and becomes a roaming gambler. When he kills a cheating opponent in self-defense, the man’s gunslinger brother swears revenge upon Ben.

Ben hides on a cattle drive and brings in a herd to Abilene, where a waiting Maggie wants to find a rough and tumble cowboy to interview for her next story idea. Sparks fly as the dangerous drover and popular novelist wind up living in the same household, running a general store east of Abilene. But with Black Tex Lonnegan hot on his trail, will Ben run from his growing attraction to Maggie and the gunfighter’s promise of death—or will he make a stand for his life—and love?

Release date: November 2, 2021

Publisher: Oliver Heber Books

Print pages: 274

Sample

PROLOGUE

Kansas Prairie—Summer 1868

 

Ben Morgan breathed in the hot, still air as his gaze swept over the cloudless sky and flat prairie as he rode toward home from his monthly supply trip. He knew that Eliza would be happy he brought more sugar and coffee than usual, as well as the fabrics and threads her mother sent from Boston. He also carried two letters from her parents and another one from his mother.

They would sit together on the porch after dinner tonight and read these, first to themselves to think on the news shared in them. Then they’d read the letters aloud and talk about their contents. That night, Eliza would carry the letters to bed, slipping them under her pillow as she cried herself to sleep.

Again.

News from home always stirred up his wife. By tomorrow, the fights would begin. They sometimes lasted for days. Ben cursed under his breath, realizing once more what a mistake he’d made bringing his childhood sweetheart to homestead on the flat plains of Kansas after their marriage.

But he couldn’t live in Boston—or any crowded city. The war had traumatized him in ways he might never understand. He simply knew he couldn’t live in close confines ever again. Like many other soldiers from both sides of battle, Ben left civilized society to take advantage of the Homestead Act passed during the War Between the States. Now, he farmed his acres. The land would be his free and clear in another two years. He’d built their small house, a larger barn, even the chicken coop.

Ben liked the solitude and quiet of the endless prairie. He enjoyed working with his hands. He could go for weeks and not see another soul and be perfectly fine, just sky and space as his only companions.

Eliza, on the other hand, lived in misery. A city girl from a well-to-do family, she’d let love rule her head and heart. She’d thought moving west as a couple would start their grand adventure of marriage off on the right foot. Little did either of them realize what a fish out of water she would be in their new home.

Reality set in quickly. With no servants to wait on her hand and foot, Eliza became a housewife from scratch, learning first to boil water, before trying to add other new skills. She passed for a tolerable cook now, though Ben tired of the few meals she’d mastered. Her attempts to add color to the sod house by affixing magazine pictures to the walls became a disaster. Housekeeping seemed beyond her. The prairie dust settled into everything, from their curtains to their clothes to even the pores of their skin.

Now that she was pregnant after three years of marriage, Ben hoped the longed-for child would be the beginning of a new chapter in their lives. Eliza needed a baby to care for and cherish. Her selfishness and complaints dominated their lives. The woman she’d become irritated him with every passing moment and he worked hard to hide that irritation.

A baby would be totally dependent upon his mother and Ben was certain that his wife’s maternal instincts could only help their situation. She was the oldest of three girls. He’d seen Eliza mother her two younger sisters over the years. A baby could connect her to those feelings once more.

It was also time to learn how to open his heart and love unconditionally. Maybe the baby would work a miracle on him, too. He’d returned from the war numbed by his experiences. He went through the motions, pretending to be happy to see Eliza and his mother, but a vast emptiness sat inside him. The only feeling he could muster was for Adam. Thankfully, his brother arrived home in Boston alive with all limbs intact. Many of their friends never made it back.

“Please, God. Let the baby make a difference. Let this be a new start for us.”

The words, spoken aloud, rang hollow in his ears. Ben might never be the man he was before, the one Eliza had loved. The one she claimed disappeared on the day he marched down Boston Commons to go to war. As a soldier would, he needed to buck up and look ahead. He had a beautiful wife, a baby on the way, and a homestead to be proud of. It was up to him to make a new start, this day, with his wife. He alone would manage his destiny. He needed to think positive about the future.

Ben put a smile on his face. He urged the horse on as the burning orange sun inched toward the horizon. He would ask Eliza how she felt the minute he arrived and not grimace if she complained. He would be a dutiful husband and rub her tired feet and sore back before bed. He promised himself to cuddle her and coddle her. Carrying a baby these last seven months proved hard work. He appreciated her and would tell her to her face.

He spotted their house in the distance and wound up the road. Silence hung like a heavy blanket in the air. No birds sang. Not even a cricket chirped. Ben tensed, sensing something wrong. Eliza usually waited on the porch, ready to greet him when he returned from a supply trip, sewing baby blankets or darning his socks. Her absence troubled him.

Ben got closer and smelled the remains of something burning. He scanned the horizon and realized the barn behind their house had disappeared into a smoldering heap. Panic grabbed him quickly and wrenched his gut hard. Over the last few months, the Indian wars had heated up on the Great Plains. Settlers robbed. Cattle slaughtered.

Or worse.

He spurred his horse to a full gallop and reached the small corral. He froze. Blood seeped into the dirt. His cow lay in scattered pieces, her calf’s throat slashed. Chicken feathers dotted the pen and floated in the air. Ben’s stomach turned sour even as his mind raced, refusing to form unmentionable thoughts.

He jumped from his horse and ran to the cabin. Eliza liked to leave the door open to catch the breeze as she cooked. Their twin rockers lay broken, scattered in splintered pieces along the porch. He tamped down the fear and dread and stepped through the doorway.

Ransacked. Furniture smashed. Dishes busted. The lone windowpane shattered.

Then he saw her.

Ben walked shakily across the room. His knees threatened to buckle. He bent to Eliza, now a bloody, broken doll. Preserved on her face he saw the horror of her last moments. Bile rose in his throat as his gaze took in what remained of his wife. Then he saw the child in a bloody lump next to her. The savages cut his unborn son from her belly.

He stood, trying to make sense of the scene, stunned, frozen to the spot. It went beyond anything he’d witnessed in the war. A primal scream ripped from his throat, carrying across the empty prairie.

 

CHAPTER 1

New York City—August 1874

 

“Hit me again, Maggie! Harder now this time. Don’t be afraid, girl. Just haul off and swing.”

Maggie threw everything she had into the punch, spinning six-foot Patrick Kelly around as she connected with his jaw. She gave the middle-aged Irishman a satisfied smile as he regained his balance and gawked at her.

“I’m a lefty, Patrick. In case you were wondering.”

Her instructor whistled low. “Now, that’s a great gift, Maggie, me girl. Lefties be few and far between. If’n ever you’re in a fight, you’ll have a tremendous advantage over your opponent.”

He gave her his charming smile, his blue eyes twinkling. “Go again. Gimme all you’ve got.”

She threw a quick one-two punch with her right leading first, following up with her left.

“I think I would like it better if I didn’t have to wear these silly gloves. Don’t real men fight with their bare knuckles?”

Her older brother, Marcus, laughed. “Not anymore, Mags. The Marquess of Queensberry Rules have all but eliminated bare-knuckle boxing.”

Maggie glanced at where he sat on the loveseat, sipping Earl Grey tea and nibbling on finger sandwiches. “Who exactly is this Marquess of Queensberry and why did he get to make up these rules?”

Marcus shook his head. “Actually, the marquess merely endorsed the rules, isn’t that right, Patrick?”
            “Indeed, boyo. A sportsman named John Graham Chambers wrote ‘em but the marquess gained the claim to fame by putting his seal of approval on them. Is it bare knuckles you be wanting to try next?”

Maggie nodded enthusiastically. “I think it would be far more practical to learn how to fight that way, Patrick. When would I ever—if confronted with danger—stop and pull on giant boxing gloves? It’s not as if they would even begin to fit in my reticule.”

Marcus rolled his eyes. “Simply because you haven’t found one large enough yet, dearest sister. Although I would say from last month’s bills that you have purchased every size of reticule known to the New York fashion scene.”

Maggie snorted. “As if you would begrudge my looking fashionable, Marcus, being the clotheshorse you are. A lady simply must have a reticule for every occasion and I, for one, like to be prepared for whatever social event comes up on my calendar.”

“Enough, you two,” Patrick ordered. “Let’s try it again, Maggie. And remember if you ever found yourself in a street fight for some daft reason, you form a fist—but don’t let your thumb go inside it. Sure as you do, it’d be the first thing you break.”

Maggie drew her arm back, ready to show Patrick just how enthusiastic she could be. The drawing room doors opened. She heard the louder than usual gasp and cringed.

Aunt Harriet stood in the doorway, disapproval written all over her pinched features. Maggie glanced at Marcus, who’d promised her the old dragon would be gone until nightfall. He shrugged nonchalantly and returned to sipping his tea. Maggie steeled herself to take the brunt of the assault since everything was always her fault and never her brother’s crime.

“Good afternoon, Aunt Harriet. I —”

“Don’t you good afternoon me, Margaret Elizabeth Rutherford. How dare you stand there? My goodness. Are you actually wearing trousers? How can you pretend it’s a perfectly ordinary afternoon? What on earth possessed you to strap on boxing gloves? And who is this,” she raised her eyebrows and sneered, “gentleman?”

Marcus spoke up. “This is Patrick Kelly, Aunt. My boxing instructor extraordinaire.”

Patrick bowed. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance, ma’am.”

Harriet sniffed. “Well, it’s certainly not my pleasure to make yours, sir.” She turned back to Maggie. “I am horrified, young lady. Simply horrified. It’s the day before your wedding, with a million things left to do. How can you go traipsing about dressed as a man, fighting in a perfectly genteel drawing room? What would your parents think?”
            Maggie fought the eye roll that threatened to irritate her aunt even further and went with sarcasm instead.

“Mother died when I was only two, Aunt, so I have no idea what she would think. Papa ignored me for his publishing empire from the time I landed in my cradle. I heard it was something about my not being male, according to servants’ gossip. I think he took a general dislike to me since I’m said to favor Mama so much. Therefore, I have no idea what he would think. Knowing him, if he were still alive, he’d enter the drawing room. His eyes would pass over me as if I were invisible. He’d walk to the teacart to snatch a cookie before making a quick departure. He did have a sweet tooth, you know.”

Harriet sputtered at Maggie’s impudence, finally managing to get out, “You are the most insolent creature! Though I hate to speak ill of the dead and my dearest brother, I do blame Henry for your deplorable behavior. He let you run wild after Rose’s death.”

“No, Aunt. You are wrong,” Maggie said emphatically. “He would have to pay attention to me first in order to let me run wild. We both know he didn’t care if I existed or not.”

She glanced over at Marcus, ready to drag him into the conversation.

“Now, Marcus, on the other hand, did let me run wild from the time I was small. He allowed me to follow him and his friends about. He’s introduced me to all kinds of interesting things over the years. Yet, you never seem to blame him. So heap your wrath upon Marcus as the responsible one. He found Patrick for me. He takes boxing lessons from Patrick each week.”

Harriet collapsed upon the sofa. “It doesn’t mean it’s appropriate for you to do so, Margaret. The Rutherfords are one of New York’s oldest and finest families. You must act according to your station. And your age. You are twenty-three, dear. Not three.” She sighed. “I could understand the singing and dancing lessons. Those were a necessity. But the fencing lessons? The shooting lessons? And now this?”

“It’s wise for a lady to know how to defend herself, Aunt,” Marcus interjected smoothly.

Harriet shot him a look that surprised even Maggie. “You indulge her too much, Marcus. Margaret needs to act like a lady. She should be interested in sewing. Creating menus. Charity work. Like all women of wealth do.” Harriet’s glare extended to Maggie. “For heaven’s sake, you are about to settle down with Richard and be a wife.”

Maggie could feel the tightness in her chest starting. In a moment, she’d become short of breath and start feeling that loss of control. She gritted her teeth, determined not to give into it.

She looked over at Patrick, who seemed to have caught her mood. He nodded at her, raising his gloved hands in front of his chest for her. Maggie hauled off and launched a series of hits, each thrown connecting harder than the one before, trying to ease her fears and conquer her frustrations at the same time.

Can I really go through with this wedding?

***

Maggie looked at herself in the full-length mirror. The white wedding dress boasted the popular high neckline made of delicate lace that was removable. Aunt Harriet had convinced Maggie it would give her more freedom to move and be more appropriate for the evening reception. Until then, she found it irritating. And damn hot.

She fingered the white cameo brooch, her most prized possession. Marcus gifted her with it during their trip to Europe last year. Maggie wore it every day to remind her of all they had seen and done. She especially loved Tuscany, with its sweeping landscape and incredible foods and wines. Marcus thoughtfully found a drawing master there and she’d taken lessons from him, honing her skill.

In France she moved on to paints, enjoying them, but not nearly as much as the charcoal or pen and ink sketches. She continued drawing upon their return and thankfully put her talent to good use which no one—not even her brother—knew about.

A knock at the door interrupted her thoughts. Sarah Henry, her matron-of-honor, answered it.

Marcus entered, his dark tailcoat and top hat immaculate. Maggie smiled at him.

“You look more fashionable than the bride,” she told him. “All the single ladies of New York will take one look at you and fall madly in love.”

He gave her an admiring glance. “Mags, you are stunning in your wedding finery. I adore this cascade of ruffles. And the lace trimming is immaculate. Your dressmaker deserves a bonus for making you look the bride of the year.”

“I told her she’d be the most photographed society member of the decade,” Sarah said. “The press is already lined up outside, waiting for the happy couple to exit the church. You can see them from the window.”

Sarah paused and frowned. “Our bouquets should already have arrived by now. I’m going to check on them and take a peek inside the church. I trust you two will behave.” She gave them a wave and left the bridal dressing chamber.

Marcus pulled Maggie to a seat. “I know it’s almost time but I have a small present for you.” He pulled it from an inside pocket and handed it to her.

Maggie stared at the daguerreotype. “I don’t remember having this taken, Marcus. And why would I be wearing such an old-fashioned dress?”
            Then it hit her.

“Mama,” she whispered.

Maggie studied the picture, wishing she could reach across the years and touch the woman whose portrait she looked at now. Rose Rutherford had a faint flush to her cheeks. A smile, which hinted at knowing some secret, sat on her lips. Maggie’s same hazel eyes, a mix of brown and green, stared back at her. Even the copper-colored hair shone softly in the picture. It was as if Maggie looked into a mirror and saw herself.

“Where on earth did you find this?”

Marcus shrugged. “It was among some papers Papa left with his attorney. You so favor her, Mags. I look at this and you. It is as if Mama’s come to life again. She always said copper hair ran through her Scots ancestors. I remember being slightly jealous of you when you were born because you shared that with her.”

“You remember her much more than I do. I was not even three when she passed.”

He nodded. “I was six and a half when the fever struck her. Yes, I do recall her. She loved to laugh. When she got excited or even angry, gold flecks would appear in her eyes.”

“Just like me!”

“Yes. You are quite like Mama, Mags.” He hugged her. “Having you all these years after losing her was the best compromise possible. It’s as if she’s always been around, watching over the both of us. That’s why I waited until now to give this to you rather than when I first found it. I thought it would mean more to you on your wedding day.”

He squeezed her hand. “Now, place that in your reticule. Mama will walk down the aisle together with us.”

Maggie frowned as she put the picture inside her silk reticule and slipped it over her wrist. “I wonder what Mama would make of Richard.”

“Oh, Richard’s a good sort, you know, if a bit bland. You’ll spice up his life, Mags.” Marcus’ gaze pierced her. “Unless you don’t want to.”

Maggie bit her lip. “It is what Papa wanted. David DeForest was his best friend and Bethany has treated me as a daughter while I grew up. I’m very fond of Bethany.”

“And David?” Marcus asked. “He is Richard’s father.”

Maggie wrinkled her nose. “Not so much of David.”

“You’re not marrying Richard’s parents. You’re marrying him, for better or worse. You do love him, don’t you? I just assumed since you said yes and finally set the date that you did.”

Marcus studied her. “If you have doubts, dearest, don’t marry Richard. You don’t need to please Papa. He’s not here.” Marcus took her hands in his. “Please yourself, Mags.”

Maggie hesitated. She didn’t love Richard. She never had. He followed her around from the time they were children, even though he was two years older than she. She led him into scrapes too numerous to count. Richard was reliable, steady, and oh, so very boring.

Boring could be good, couldn’t it? No terrible highs or lows. No drama. Besides, Aunt Harriet might be right. Maggie had been a terror all her life. She did need to grow up and make her own adult decisions.

But wasn’t it wrong to marry a man she didn’t love in order to please one that never loved her?

Sarah entered the room, bouquets of calla lilies mixed with white roses in hand. “Here you are, Maggie. The church looks beautiful. So many flowers everywhere and packed with people. I can tell no expense has been spared. This is the society event of the season.”

Maggie took the bouquet. “I suppose it’s time.”

“Yes. Don’t look so nervous. You’re starting to make me nervous and I have to walk down the aisle before you and Marcus. Go on, Marcus. Give us our last bit of girl time. We’ll be out in a moment.”

Marcus walked through the door, looking over his shoulder at Maggie. She gave him a smile, encouraging him to leave.

Sarah took a quick glance in the mirror at herself, smoothing her hair, and then gave Maggie a long look.

“You are as lovely a bride as I’ve ever seen, Maggie Rutherford. I hope you and Richard have a happy life together.”

“As happy as you’ve been, Sarah?” Maggie asked.

Sarah shot her a hard look. “Don’t judge me, Maggie. Ronald and I suit one another. Besides, many couples lead separate lives. I have time for my baby. Hopefully, there’ll be another one on the way soon. I still see my friends and I’m active in charity work. I have a good roof over my head and a closet full of beautiful clothes. What more could I possibly want?”

Maggie thought there had to be more to life than what Sarah described. She didn’t want to settle. She wanted to live. To have adventures. To see things she’d never seen.

To love and be loved in return.

A sudden knock at the door startled them. Sarah stepped over and opened the door.

“I need to see Miss Maggie Rutherford at once, ma’am. It’s an emergency.”

“Sir, you have no business interrupting at a time –”
            “Let him in, Sarah.”

Maggie recognized the voice of the Pinkerton detective she’d hired several months ago. After she and Marcus returned from their extended stay in Europe, Richard seemed frantic to marry her after years of her putting him off. Since she enjoyed the status quo of their close friendship, she found his sudden interest in insisting upon a quick marriage between them a bit strange.

Society thought them a couple. That allowed Maggie to pursue her varied interests without having to fight off potential suitors badgering her with invitations to balls and garden parties. Richard escorted her to all social events so no line of boring beaux formed at her door.

His abrupt eagerness to marry gave her cause for thought and Maggie had hired a Pinkerton to get to the bottom of things. Once Aunt Harriet got wind of Richard’s wish to formalize their relationship with marriage vows, she conducted the wedding train as if it were a team of runaway horses galloping to their destination.

Soon, Maggie found herself caught up in a whirlwind of activities, from parties to fittings for her wedding dress and trousseau. Hiring this detective became lost in the shuffle. She’d actually avoided thinking about marrying Richard in the midst of everything, concentrating instead on her writing and other interesting activities when she could squeeze them in. Most of her friends were already married, and like Sarah, they led fairly separate lives from their husbands. Maggie assumed she would do the same.

The arrival of the Pinkerton, though, stopped her in her tracks. Being a good judge of character, her ability to read people came in handy. Maggie knew by the look on the man’s face that something was afoot.

Sarah exclaimed, “Maggie, what can you be thinking? It’s almost time for your march down the aisle! You can’t keep half of New York waiting.”

Maggie silenced her friend with a glance. “This is important to me, Sarah. Would you please give us a moment?”

Sarah let out a long stream of hot air to express her displeasure and turned sharply. She flounced past the detective and slammed the door as she exited.

“My apologies, Miss Rutherford,” the detective said as he swept off his hat. “My timing is not the best. My father recently passed up in Boston. I was called away to attend his funeral and settle his estate for my mother and my sister.”

He pulled an envelope from his inner coat pocket. “I allowed a colleague to finish compiling my report. He thought it best for me to present it when I returned due to its extremely delicate nature. When I called at your home just now and found you were at the church, I made haste to arrive before the ceremony.”

He handed her his report. “I feel you should read this immediately, Miss Rutherford. Before you take that walk down the aisle.” He bowed to her, then turned to the door. “I’ll take my leave. Best of luck to you—in whatever course you decide.”

Bewildered, Maggie sat and with shaking hands opened the envelope after the detective left. She skimmed the contents quickly and then read over the report more slowly. Hard up for cash, the DeForests had run up debts all over New York City and beyond.

Richard’s father had gambled to the point where it became a sickness. David DeForest’s gambling spun out of control until the fortune he inherited dwindled drastically. It meant Richard and his family urgently needed the money Maggie would come into when she turned twenty-five next year. Although that date was fourteen months away, Maggie knew Marcus would continue her generous monthly allowance until she began receiving her trust fund.

Her mother had thoughtfully drawn up the trust upon Maggie’s birth, the money being solely hers and not part of any dowry Henry Rutherford received upon their marriage. Rose Rutherford intended the same for her daughter, to have her own independent means and control of her own fortune.

Richard might love her but he’d never said the words, either in letters or to her face. Maggie assumed he was primarily interested in what she would bring to the marriage beyond the established dowry. Yes, the DeForests possessed breeding and prestige but their money was literally gone.

If Richard didn’t marry her quickly, the wolves would be baying at the DeForest door, demanding payment. His marriage to Maggie would hold that off since it was common knowledge she would come into close to half a million dollars in the near future.

She dropped the report on the seat next to her, stunned by its contents.

Marcus opened the door. “The music’s started.” He held out his arm. Maggie pasted on a smile and walked to him as if in a dream. She slipped her gloved hand through it.

Avoiding Sarah’s questioning eyes, Maggie looked around. The detective had departed from the church. Sarah stepped in front of them and they walked down a long corridor in silence. At the end, they entered a magnificent foyer and someone threw open the door. Sarah stepped through and glided down the aisle.

Maggie stood leaning slightly into Marcus for support. Suddenly, the music swelled. He began propelling her down the aisle.

She coasted by a blur of faces. She fought the dizziness with each step. A chill ran through her. Her pounding heart started up, beating more and more rapidly until she thought she might not be able to breathe.

She flashed back to being locked in the dark pantry and gave a small squeak. Marcus tightened his grip on her and gave her a reassuring smile.

They reached the altar and her brother handed her off to Richard. The groom took her hand to tuck through his arm and frowned.

“A bit cold, Maggie?” he whispered. “I can feel it through your gloves, darling.”

She looked at him. Richard’s blond hair fell perfectly into place. His moustache was trimmed neatly. She knew his attire to be made of the best silk and wool to be found. He stood tall and assured next to her. He was absolutely perfect.

At least to the outside world.

Reverend White joined their hands and began his opening remarks. Maggie’s panic and confusion grew until she visibly trembled. Richard looked down at her with obvious concern. She shook her head and tried to focus on what was being said.

“What’s gotten into you, Maggie?” he whispered through the side of his mouth.

“I know you’re poor,” she blurted out under her breath.

Richard turned to look at her, the shock evident on his face. “What do you mean?”
            “I know about your father’s gambling.”

Reverend White continued speaking, his voice rising above their hushed tones, trying to cover their conversation. Maggie could tell the man of God was perplexed but he gamely carried on about love and them joining together as one.

“That has nothing to do with us.”

“Doesn’t it?”

The malevolent look Richard gave her made Maggie cringe. His hand tightened painfully on hers. Gone in an instant was the handsome, dull, mannered gentleman she had known most of her life. Suddenly, Richard loomed large and menacing next to her.

“Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, Maggie. We will marry. You will be the dutiful wife with a large bank account that will save my family. I expect it. My parents expect it. End of discussion.”

His words undid her. Her panic blossomed fully now, her mind racing. She refused to be unhappy for the rest of her life. She was no puppet to dance on a man’s string. Marrying Richard DeForest would cause her to wither and die.

At that moment, Maggie caught Reverend White’s words, “And if any man has a reason why these two should not be married, you shall speak now or forever hold your peace.”

Maggie clawed at Richard’s hold on her. She loudly said, “No man—but this woman does.”

She turned to face her childhood chum, her groom, the man she thought she’d known. “Richard, I cannot marry you.”

Maggie tossed her bouquet aside and rushed back up the aisle. She bolted through the sanctuary. She raced over to the doors. Yanking one open, she hiked up her wedding gown. She galloped down the steps, past the crowd that had gathered, hoping for a glimpse of the happy couple as they left the church. A few newspaper reporters called after her. Maggie ignored them in her haste.

She reached the carriage parked in front of the church, waiting to take the newlyweds to their reception at The Fifth Avenue Hotel. She couldn’t afford to have him follow her there. Not now!

The driver leaned against the DeForest carriage, a newspaper in his hand. He gave her a puzzled look and called out, “Where to, miss? Aren’t we waiting for Master Richard?”

“Pennsylvania Railroad Station. Hurry. Be quick about it, sir!”

He doffed his cap to her, a wide smile appearing on his face. “With pleasure.” The driver helped her up the steps and closed the carriage door.

Maggie collapsed against the velvet seat, her breathing shallow. She swallowed hard, trying to calm her nerves. She shut her eyes and let her head fall back.

What on earth did I just do?

 

CHAPTER 2

San Antone—June 1875

 

Ben Morgan entered the saloon. His eyes skimmed the room quickly, sizing up the men present. A gambler needed more than charm and likeability. Keen intelligence was the key to survival. Over the last six years, he’d learned not only to calculate the odds in a card game but also to read his opponents’ eyes and their nuances at the table. He honed his intuition until he could spot the biggest fish in the room. He also figured out when to draw and when to fold.

And especially when to leave town.

Introspective by nature before his gambling days, with a great set of math skills in his repertoire, Ben often met with success. Lady Luck played a part but he took the lessons from his early days of roaming to heart. He played with confidence and dexterity. His hands possessed a skill and grace in their physical movements. His mental skills remained cunning and sharp.

Ben moved to the long bar. He signaled the barkeep and ordered a whisky. He took the drink in hand and turned to lean back against the polished mahogany, studying the room more slowly now. Scattered games continued at various tables. Ben watched each before choosing the one he would enter.

A sporting gal caught his eye. Dressed in red satin, she stood on the balcony above the room. Coal black hair fell down her back in waves. Ben tipped his hat to her. She gave him a promising smile. Maybe after his gaming tonight, he’d take her for a whirl.

He finished his drink, set the shot glass on the bar, and motioned for another. He wouldn’t drink much of this one. Instead, he’d use it more as a prop. Most players didn’t trust a man unless he had liquor in his hand. Ben knew alcohol dulled his senses so he drank sparingly when he played.

He set down his payment and nodded to the barkeep. “Anything you can tell me about the dandy over there?”

The bartender smirked. “That’s Jimmy Lonnegan, my friend. Watch him if you join in at his table. He cheats.”

Ben raised an eyebrow, surprised not only that Lonnegan’s cheating was so well known but that the barkeep spoke matter-of-factly about it. “How?”

“You name it. Jimmy does it. He’s small-time and only cheats about half the time so most players overlook it.”

Ben frowned. His strong sense of right and wrong had led him to lie about his age in order to enter the war at sixteen. In his book, cheaters should never be tolerated, especially when it came to playing cards.

“Why doesn’t someone stop him? Or call him out?”

A shadow crossed the barman’s face. “Because his brother is Black Tex Lonnegan. That’s why. People know better than to cross the likes of him.”

Ben nodded. A gunfighter by trade and occasional train robber, Black Tex’s reputation stretched far beyond his home state. He was said to be quick on the draw with nerves of steel. Half his gunfights ended with his opponent lying dead in the dirt. The other half got out of town fast before it began and knew never to look back.

Still, it intrigued Ben that Black Tex’s little brother thought he could play dirty and hide behind his brother’s long shadow. Perhaps, it was time someone taught Jimmy Lonnegan a lesson.

Maybe a man who had no fear of dying.

Ben picked up his whisky and ambled over to Jimmy’s table. Three other players sat with Jimmy. One threw down his hand and stood as Ben reached them.

“I’m out, fellas. I figure it’s time to find a sporting gal and call it a night.”

Jimmy reached over and raked in his winnings.

Ben motioned at the empty chair. “May I?”

Jimmy nodded. “Have a seat, stranger. What do you call yourself?”

Ben used many names as he moved from town to town. It wasn’t always wise to spill your name at a game. This time, though, he wanted Jimmy Lonnegan to know who bested him in the end.

“Ben Morgan. What’s the game?”

Jimmy shrugged. He brushed his expensive black suit sleeve, smoothing the velvet. Ben noticed the snow-white shirt and fancy brocade vest, along with the large-stoned stickpin that sparkled on the cheater’s chest. An enormous gold pocket watch dangled from a heavy gold chain studded with pearls. He seemed a walking advertisement for success.

It made Ben want to take him down even more.

“Poker. You in?”

“I am.”

Ben removed his gloves and cracked his knuckles, the only pre-game ritual he participated in. He worked hard to have no tells and show no emotion on his face. Some opponents claimed that ice water ran deep through his veins.

Jimmy shuffled the cards and handed the deck to the player on his left, a sallow-faced balding man. The man cut. Jimmy dealt the cards. The game was officially on.

Ben played conservatively at first, getting a feel for the other players and the cards themselves. He sandpapered his fingertips and wore gloves to protect his fingers at all times unless playing. Gamblers needed smooth hands, soft enough to be able to detect the smallest variation in the surface or shape of the cards.

Too many times card trimmers were used to strip cards, slicing off 1/32 of an inch from cards within the deck. This made certain cards have the faintest of curves, being slightly concave. With a delicate touch, a gambler could tell if the ends felt wide or narrow and know what a card’s value was, playing both ends against the middle.

At least Jimmy hadn’t doctored the deck in this way.

Each player won a round at first. Then Ben won two in a row. He could feel Jimmy’s frustration building. Ben won another—and that was when the younger man made his first move. He had talent. If Ben hadn’t watched him so carefully, he never would have seen Jimmy slide a card from up his sleeve, much less take the hand with three kings.

The winning spread evenly again between the four men. A fifth fellow joined them soon after that, his wide girth crowding the other players somewhat. Ben noticed the newcomer almost caressing the cards with his first deal, feeling for any punctured surface that would give away a high card. Ben had done the same when he first shuffled, happy that the deck proved clean.

He studied the cards carefully for any marks as play continued but discovered none. He was beginning to think that Jimmy wouldn’t cheat again until the latest addition to the table won three hands in a row. This seemed to irk Jimmy and he pulled blue-tinted spectacles from his pocket, wearing them for the next round.

Ben doubted at least two of the other players even noticed Jimmy’s move since they focused so intently on their cards. But the winning man did. He gave Jimmy a frown and then caught Ben’s eye.

Ben nodded slightly. He knew Jimmy had pulled out all the stops now. Spectacles such as these enabled the wearer to detect marks made on the backs of cards with phosphorescent ink. The marks would be invisible to the unaided eyes of Jimmy’s opponents but he would know every card they held. It was time to call a halt.

Ben watched cautiously as did the rotund gentleman. When Jimmy turned over four aces and leaned in to claim his winnings, Ben placed a hand over them and stood. “You didn’t win the pot fair and square, Jimmy.”

“Are you crazy? I won.” Jimmy pulled back and tore off the spectacles, waving them wildly. He motioned around the table. “Ask these men. They saw what I turned up.”

The large gentleman also stood. “You are a liar and a cheat.” He reached over and grabbed the glasses and handed them to Ben.

Ben slid them on and picked up several cards. He shuffled through them quickly and then gave the spectacles back. The gambler put them on and repeated Ben’s actions before taking them off.

“This deck is marked, young man. And you can see the markings with these.”

The room grew deathly quiet. Everyone watched for what would come next. Ben leaned over and grabbed Jimmy’s sleeve. He fished up it and came out with three high cards.

“I saw him pull a card from his sleeve. And the deck is marked. This man is a fraud.”

Sweat poured down Jimmy’s brow. “You’re wrong. I can explain.”

“Did we play with your deck?” Ben asked, looking around at the table.

The other players from the game nodded. “He offered his from the start,” the sallow man said.

Jimmy looked around the room, panic on his face. The very air grew ominous and heavy as all eyes stared at him. He shoved the table, turning it over. “You can’t do this!”
            “What?” Ben asked him. “Declare you a swindler and a fraud? The facts speak for themselves.”

“My brother won’t let you.”

Ben stared at him. “Your brother’s not here, son. And who is to say an outlaw and gunfighter like Black Tex would condone cheating? Not even for his little brother.”

The heavy player nodded in agreement. “Should we deliver him to the local sheriff or should we take matters into our own hands?” The man drew a gun and pointed it at Jimmy.

Jimmy wailed, a loud keening of desperation and fear at what would happen next. He dropped to the ground like a limp rag doll. His move embarrassed Ben. Before he could tell Jimmy to stand up and be a man, Jimmy rolled. In a blur, he pulled a gun and shot the man holding a pistol on him.

Ben reacted with instincts honed by his desperate war years. His gun magically appeared in his hand. A shot rang out and hit the young cheater just as he turned to fire at Ben. Ben spun, narrowly missing the bullet meant for him.

When he straightened, he saw Jimmy dead on the ground. Blood poured from a fatal head wound. Ben averted his eyes and looked to the other player sprawled beside a chair, blood pooling around his prone body.

A wave of dizziness engulfed him. He squeezed his eyes closed as the nausea rose. The sight of blood always affected him this way. Though he’d seen countless dying men during the war, he never got over his aversion to blood.

Suddenly, a low hum buzzed through the saloon. Ben swallowed hard, trying to calm himself. He opened his eyes and saw a man dressed all in black standing in the doorway. Madness gleamed in his eyes. Ben had no doubt he faced Black Tex Lonnegan.

The gunfighter raised a hand. The bar fell silent. The only sound came from a ticking grandfather clock.

“Your brother was cheating at cards.” Ben eyed the outlaw with caution. “When we confronted him, he shot a man in desperation and then tried to kill me. He got what he deserved.”

A collective gasp echoed throughout the room.

The gunslinger moved a few steps toward Ben and stopped.

“And you deserve worse.” Black Tex eyed him with malice. “I intend to skin you alive, the way Injuns do it. They take their time. After an hour, you’ll beg for mercy. After a day, you’ll beg for death. But I’ll take my time. I can make it last two or three days. It will seem like a lifetime.”

A shrill scream filled the air. Ben’s eyes flew to its source.

The sporting gal with the ebony hair.

As she screamed, she knocked over a lantern. It sailed through the air and hit a table and then the floor. Flames immediately sprang up, licking the old wooden floor. Another kerosene lantern struck the floor. A scrambling man tried to escape it and caught on fire. His screams sent men running. The crowded saloon became pandemonium.

Ben didn’t know if she’d knocked the kerosene lamp over on purpose or accidentally but the fire and confusion offered him a slim chance for escape. While he was fast with his gun, he would be no match for a professional gunfighter like Black Tex. And he’d decided he wasn’t ready for death just yet.

He had to get out. Now.

Fleeing, Ben rushed the opposite direction, up a flight of stairs. He glanced over his shoulder. He saw chaos on the floor below. Running down a hall, he raced into a room with an open window. He climbed out of it, dropping to a wagon below filled with feed. The bags of grain broke his fall. As he jumped from the wagon, he twisted his ankle.

He half-hobbled, half-sprinted down two blocks to where he’d stabled Prince at the livery. He quickly saddled the coal black horse and rode at a gallop out of San Antone without looking back.