No One But You (27 page)

“I hate to leave so soon,” Rose said as she allowed her husband to help her into the wagon, “but George won't get a minute's peace until I'm back with a doctor. You'd think a woman never had a baby without a sawbones standing over her.”

Sarah had enjoyed Rose's company as well as her help during the last three days, but she was also anxious for life to return to normal. The friendship of the Randolphs was a blessing, but they had so much energy they overwhelmed everybody around them. She wanted to get back to just her family—Jared, Ellen, and Salty. Maybe Arnie and Dobie, too. She was also anxious for Salty to take his rightful place as her husband. She'd given up her room so Rose and George could have her bed, but then she'd shared with Ellen, Salty with Jared. Considering their respective wounds, they didn't trust themselves to be in the same bed. That would happen tonight.

“I expect Salty would feel the same if I were having a baby,” she said.

“You can be sure I would.” Salty had entered the room, and from the look in his eye it was possible another baby or two might be in her future. That was all right with her. She wouldn't mind a couple of little boys who looked like him. Now that they finally would be sharing the same bed, that was a real possibility.

Salty winked at her. “If we get to buy Wallace's ranch, I'll need extra cowhands. Of course, they'll have to grow up real fast.”

Seeing the work that had been done here, George had offered to lend Salty the money to buy the neighboring ranch if he could get it at a decent price. Just thinking about this caused Sarah to shake her head in wonder. Only two months before she had been on the verge of losing everything. Now it was possible she and Salty would become the biggest landowners in the area. With the two bull calves George had given them, they would definitely have the best herd. And all because Salty's name had fallen from her lips when she meant to say Walter.

“If you have any more trouble, I'll lend you Monty,” George said as they all went outside. He climbed up next to his wife in their wagon. “He's been bored ever since the McClendons stopped stealing our cows and Cortina was driven back across the border.”

“Can you bring Zac next time?” Ellen asked.

“I'll let you have him.” Rose laughed and patted her stomach. “I'll soon have a replacement.”

Sarah and Salty stood waving until the Randolphs' wagon passed through the trees surrounding the house. Ellen ran alongside it—she would probably run all the way to the main trail—but Jared took up his favorite place: at Salty's side.

Sarah put her arm around Salty's waist and hugged him. He placed a kiss on the top of her head.

“Tired?”

“A little,” she said. “I love Rose, but she wears me out.”

Salty laughed. “She's a perfect wife for George. She's probably the only woman alive with more energy than his brothers.”

“I prefer you.” She looked up at Salty. It scared her to think how close she'd come to choosing someone else, how the difficulties of the past had almost closed her up to the possibilities of the future. If she hadn't taken a chance on Salty, she would never have found her dreams. “I can't believe how lucky I am.”

“How can it be lucky to have a husband who's so full of holes he looks like he lost a fight with a cactus?” Salty joked.

“Because he got those holes protecting my daughter.”

“
Our
daughter.” He put his arm over Jared's shoulder. “With quite a bit of help from
our
son.”

The look of happiness on Jared's face filled Sarah's heart to overflowing. Roger had given her children, but Salty was both her husband and their father. He loved her, and she him. Together, the future was theirs.

No one but you could have done that, she thought. No one but you.

Leigh Greenwood is the award-winning author of over fifty books, many of which have appeared on the
USA Today
bestseller list. Leigh lives in Charlotte, North Carolina. Please visit his website at
www.leigh-greenwood.com
.

Read on for a sneak peek of the first book in the brand-new Men of Legend series by
New York Times
bestselling author Linda Broday:

To Love a Texas Ranger

Central Texas

Early Spring 1876

Wind sighing through the draw whispered against his face, sharpening his senses to a fine edge. A warning skittered along his spine before it settled in his chest.

Texas Ranger Sam Legend had learned to listen to his gut. Right now it said that the suffocating sense of danger that crowded around him had killing in mind. Deep in the Texas Hill Country, he brought the spyglass up to his eye and focused on the rustlers below. All fifteen had covered their faces, leaving only their eyes showing.

Every crisp sound swept up the steep incline where he hid in a stand of cedar. “Hurry up with those beeves! We've gotta get the hell out of here. Rangers are so close I can smell 'em!” a rustler yelled.

Where were the other rangers? They hadn't been separated from each other long and should've caught up by now.

Letting the outlaws escape took everything he had. But there were too many for one man, and this bunch was far more ruthless than most.

He peered closer as they tried to drive the bawling cattle up the draw. But the ornery bovines seemed to be smarter. They broke away from the group, scattering this way and that. Sam allowed a grin. These rustlers were definitely no cattlemen.

A lawman learned to adjust quickly. His mind whirled as he searched for some kind of plan. One shot fired in the air would alert the other rangers to his position if they were near. But would they arrive before the outlaws got to him?

Or…no one would fault Sam for sitting quietly until the lawless group cleared out.

Except Sam. A Legend never ran from a fight. It wasn't in his blood. He would ride straight through hell and come out the other side whenever a situation warranted. As a Texas Ranger, he'd made that ride many times over.

From his hiding place, he could start picking off the rustlers. With luck, Sam might get a handful before they surrounded him. Still, a few beat none. Maybe the rest would bolt. Slowly, he drew his Colt and prepared for the fight.

Though winter had just given way to spring, the hot sun bore down. Sweat trickled into his eyes, making them sting. He wiped away the sweat with an impatient hand.

A half second from taking his first shot, cold steel jabbed into his back and a hand reached for his Colt. “Turn around real slow, mister.”

The order grated along Sam's nerve endings and settled in his clenched stomach. He listened for anything to indicate his fellow rangers were nearby. If not, he was dead. He heard nothing except bawling steers and men yelling.

Sam slowly pivoted. Cold, dead eyes glared over the top of the rustler's bandana.

“Well, whatd'ya know. Got me a bona fide ranger.”

Though Sam couldn't see the outlaw's mouth, the words told him he wore a smile. “I'm not here alone. You won't get away with this.”

“Well, I reckon we'll just see.” The gun barrel poked harder into Sam's back. “Down the hill.”

Sam could've managed without the shove. The soles of his worn boots provided no traction. Slipping and sliding down the steep embankment, he glanced for anything to suggest help had arrived, but saw nothing.

At the bottom, riders on horseback immediately surrounded him.

“Good job, Smith.” The outlaw pushing to the front had to be the ringleader. He was dressed all in black, from his hat to his boots. “Let's teach this Texas Ranger not to mess with us. I've got a special treat in mind. One of you, find his horse and get me a rope. Smith, march him back up the hill. The rest of you drive those damn cattle to the makeshift corral.”

The spit dried in Sam's mouth as the man holding him pushed him up the steep incline toward a gnarled oak high on the ridge.

Any minute, the rangers would swoop in. Just a matter of time. Sam refused to believe that his life was going to end this way. Somehow, he had to stall until help arrived.

“Smith, do you know the punishment for killing a lawman?” Sam asked.

“Stop talkin' and get movin'.”

“Are you willing to throw your life away for a man who doesn't give two cents about you?”

“You don't know nothin' about nothin', so shut up. One more word an' I'll shoot you in the knee.”

Sam lapsed into silence. He could see Smith had closed his mind against anything he said. How far would he get if he took off running? He'd be lucky to make two strides before hot lead slammed into his leg. Even if he made it to the cover of a cedar, what then? He had no gun. No horse.

His best chance was to spin around and take Smith's weapon.

But just as he started to make a move, the ringleader rode up beside on his horse and shouted, “Hurry up. Don't have all day.”

Sharp disappointment flared, trapping Sam's breath in his chest. His fate lay at the mercy of these outlaws.

They grew closer and closer to the twisted, bent oak branches that resembled witch's fingers. Those limbs would reach for a man's soul and snatch it at the moment of death.

Thick, bitter gall climbed into his throat, choking him. The devil would soon find Sam'd already lost his soul, a long time ago.

The steep angle of the hill made his breathing harsh. The climb hurt as much as his looming fate. He'd always thought a bullet would get him one day, but to die swinging from a tree had never crossed his mind.

The outlaw sent to find and bring Sam's horse appeared as they reached the top. The buckskin nickered softly, nuzzling Sam as though offering sympathy or maybe a last good-bye. He stroked the face of his faithful friend, murmuring a few quiet words of comfort. He'd raised Trooper from a colt and turned him into a lawman's mount. Would it be too much to pray these rustlers treated Trooper well? The horse deserved kindness.

“Enough,” rasped the black-clothed boss with an impatient motion of the .45. “Put him on the horse and tie his hands.”

Sam noticed a crude drawing between the man's thumb and wrist—a black widow spider. Not that he could do anything with the information where he was going.

One last time, he scanned the landscape anxiously, hoping to glimpse riders, but saw only the branches of cedar, oak, and cottonwood trees swaying gently in the breeze. He strained against the ropes binding him, but they wouldn't budge.

Thickness lodged in his throat as they threw him on Trooper's back. His heart pounded against his ribs. He sat straight and tall, not allowing so much as an eye twitch. These outlaws who thrived on violence would never earn the right to see the turmoil and fear twisting behind his stone face. Advice his father had once given him sounded in his ears.
“When trouble comes, stand proud. You are a Legend. Inside you beats the heart of a survivor.”

Sam Legend stared into the distance with unseeing eyes, the muscle working in his jaw.

The ringleader threw the rope up and over one of the gnarled branches.

Bitter regret rose. Sam had never told his father he loved him. The times they'd butted heads seemed trivial now. So did the fights with big brother Houston over things that didn't make a hill of beans.

Yes, he was going to die with a heart full of regret, broken dreams, and empty promises.

The rope scratched, digging into his tender flesh as the outlaw settled the noose around Sam's neck. “You better find a hole and climb into it, mister,” Sam said. “Every ranger and lawman in the state of Texas will be after you.”

A chuckle filled the air. “They won't find us.”

“That wager's going to cost you.” Sam steeled himself for pain, wondering how long it would take to die. He prayed it was quick. He wondered if his mother would be waiting to soothe him in Heaven.

“Say hello to the devil, Ranger.” With those words, he slapped the horse's flank. Trooper bolted, leaving Sam dangling in the air. The rope violently yanked his neck back and to the side as his body jerked.

Choking and fighting to breathe, Sam Legend counted his heartbeats until blackness claimed him. As he whirled away into nothingness, only one thing filled his mind—the tattoo of a black widow spider on his killer's hand.

A month after Texas Ranger Sam Legend almost died, an ear-splitting crash of thunder rattled the windows and each unpainted board of the J. R. Simmons Mercantile. The ominous skies burst open, and rain pelted the ground in great sheets. A handful of people scattered like buckshot along the Waco boardwalk in an effort to escape the thorough drenching of a spring gully-washer.

Sam paid the rain no mind. The storm barely registered—few things did, these days. The feeling of the rope around his neck was still overpowering. He reached to see if it was there, thankful not to find it.

The nightmare had him in its grip, refusing to let go. More dead than alive, he moved toward his destination. When he reached the alley separating the two sections of boardwalk, he collided with a woman covered in a hooded cloak.

“Apologies, ma'am.” He glanced down by rote, then blinked. All at once, the world and all its color came rushing back as Sam stared into startling blue eyes.

She nodded and opened her mouth to speak. But before she could, a man took her arm and jerked her into the alleyway.

“Hey there!” Sam called, startled. He'd been so focused on those blue eyes he hadn't realized anyone else was there. “Ma'am, do you need help?”

He received no answer, as her companion forced her toward a horse at the other end of the alley where a group of mounted riders waited. The hair on the back of his neck rose.

Intent on stopping whatever was happening, Sam lengthened his strides. Before he could reach them, the man threw her onto a horse, then swung up behind her. Within seconds, they were gone.

Sam stood in the driving rain, staring at the empty street. It had all happened so fast he could hardly believe it.

Hell, maybe he'd imagined the whole thing. Maybe she'd never existed. Maybe the heavy downpour and gray gloom had messed with his mind…again. Ever since the hanging, he'd been seeing things that weren't there. Twice now he'd yanked men around and grabbed for their hand, thinking he saw a black widow spider between their thumb and forefinger. The last time almost got Sam shot. Folks claimed he was missing the top rung of his ladder. Now his captain was sending him home to find it.

Crippled
. The word clanked around in his head, refusing to settle. But even though he had full use of his legs, that's what he was at present. The cold fear washing over him had nothing to do with the air temperature or rain. The sudden appearance and disappearance of the woman seemed suddenly so fantastical that it couldn't possibly have been real. What if he never recovered? Some never did.

His hand clenched. He'd fight like hell to be the vital man he once was. He had things to do—an outlaw to hunt down, a wrong to right…a promise to keep.

Sam drew his coat tight against the wet chill, forcing himself to move on down the street toward the face-to-face with Captain O'Reilly. It stuck in his craw that they thought him too crazed to do his job. The captain thought him a liability now, a danger to the other rangers. Wanted him to take a break.

His heart couldn't hurt any worse than if someone had stomped on it with a pair of hobnail boots. Maybe the captain was right. If he'd imagined that woman just now—and he really couldn't be certain he hadn't—then maybe he
needed
the break. Sam Legend, who had brought in notorious killers, bank robbers, prison escapees and the like, had become a liability.

But one thing he knew he hadn't imagined, and that was the blurred figure of Luke Weston standing over him when he'd regained consciousness that fateful day. There had been no mistaking those green eyes above the mask. They belonged to the outlaw he'd chased for over a year—he'd stake his life on it.

When his fellow rangers had ridden up, Weston disappeared into the brush, leaving Sam with questions. Who cut him down from the tree? Was Weston with the rustlers? Why had the outlaws left Trooper behind? Awful considerate of them.

So what the hell had happened, dammit?

Rangers who'd ridden up told Sam they'd seen no one. He lay on the ground with the rope loosened around his neck, drifting in and out of consciousness.

Those questions and others haunted him, and he wouldn't rest until he got answers. Somehow he knew Weston was the key.

At ranger headquarters, he took a deep breath before opening the door. He pushed a mite too hard, banging the knob against the wall. Captain O'Reilly jerked up from his desk. “What the hell, Legend? Trying to wake the dead?”

“Sorry, Cap'n. It got away from me.” It seemed a good many things had, recently.

The tall, slender captain waved him to the chair. “I haven't heard this much racket since the shoot-out inside that silo with the Arnie brothers down in Sweetwater.”

“I hope I can talk you out of your decision.” Sam sat down.

O'Reilly sauntered to the potbellied stove in the corner and lifted the coffeepot. “What's it been? A month?”

“An eternity,” Sam said quietly.

“Want a snort of coffee? Might improve your outlook.”

“I'll take you up on your offer, but doubt it'll improve anything. I need this job, sir. I need to work.” Revenge burned hot. He'd not rest until he found the men who'd hung him and when he did, they'd pay with their blood.

“What you
need
is some time off to get your head on straight. I can't have you seeing things that aren't there.” O'Reilly sighed. “You're gonna get yourself or someone else killed. I'm ordering you to go home for a while, then come back ready to catch outlaws.”

“Finding the rustlers and catching Luke Weston is my first priority.”

“That wily outlaw has been taunting you for the last year.” O'Reilly's eyes hardened as he handed him a tin cup. “It seems personal.”

“Hell yeah, it's personal!”

Weston had been there, that much he knew. The outlaw could have strung him up himself. Why else would Sam remember those green eyes?

In addition to that, and though it sounded rather trivial when compared to a hanging, a year ago Weston had taken his pocket watch during a stagecoach holdup. Sam'd tried to protect a payroll shipment, but Weston'd done the oddest thing. The outlaw had only taken exactly fifty dollars, a paltry sum compared to what he'd left behind, and the passengers' belongings untouched. But he'd seemed to take particular delight in pocketing Sam's prized timepiece. Memories of the intent way Weston had flipped it open and stared at the inscription before tucking it away drifted through Sam's mind.

“Makes me mad enough to chew nails, and him calling himself Luke Legend half the time! Does it just to taunt me. I have a reputation to protect.” The thought filled Sam's head with so many cuss words, he feared it would burst open.

The captain leaned back in his chair and propped his boots on the scarred desk that Noah must've brought over on the ark. To make up for a missing leg, someone had cut a crutch and stuck it under there. “Sometimes we all get cases that sink their teeth into us and won't let go.”

“I just about had him the last time.” And now the captain was forcing him to take time off. Sam would lose every bit of ground he'd gained.

Luke Weston had led him on a chase this past year from one end of Texas to the other, and Sam still had yet to glimpse anything except a pair of cold, pale green eyes glaring over the top of a bandana. Eyes that only held contempt, and anger. Except for this last time, when they'd seemed to hold concern. But maybe he'd imagined that.

Damn! He really didn't know what was real and what wasn't anymore.

Maybe the captain was right.

Reaching for a poster that lay atop a pile on his desk, Captain O'Reilly passed it to Sam. “Got this yesterday.” Bold lettering at the top of the page screamed:
WANTED! Luke Weston a.k.a.
Luke Legend—$1,000 reward for capture and conviction.
Below, it stated the crimes: robbery and murder.

The murder charge was new since the last poster Sam had seen. The reward had only been two hundred dollars then. He stared at the thick paper and narrowed his eyes, wondering whose fate had intersected with Luke Weston's.

“Who did he kill?”

O'Reilly's face darkened. “Federal judge. Edgar Percival.”

“Stands to reason Weston would turn to outright murder eventually. Seems every month he's involved in a gunfight with someone, though folks say they were all men who needed killing.”

And yet the new charge did shock Sam. He'd come to know Weston pretty well. A period of four months separated all of the outlaw's robberies, with only one fifty dollars taken. And in each instance, Weston had never shot anyone. Maybe he did it out of boredom…or to taunt Sam.

“A bad seed.” The ranger captain's chair squeaked when he leaned forward. “Some men are born killers.”

The line at the bottom of the poster, also in heavy bold print, read:
Armed and Extremely Dangerous
. As with all the others, it didn't bear a likeness, not even a crude drawing. There were no physical features to go on. Frustration boiled. The lawman in him itched to be out there tracking Weston. The need to bring him to justice rose so strong it choked Sam. Weston was
his
outlaw to catch, and instead he'd been ordered to go home.

Hell! Spending one week on the huge Lone Star Ranch was barely tolerable. A month would either kill him or he'd kill big brother Houston. The thought had no more than formed before guilt pricked his conscience. In the final moments before the outlaw had hit his horse and left Sam dangling by his neck, regrets had filled his thoughts. He'd begged God for a second chance so he could make things right.

Now it looked like he'd get it. He'd make the time count. He'd mend bridges with his father.

Family was there in good times and bad.

Despite his better qualities, Stoker had caused problems for him. Sam had driven himself to work harder, be quicker and tougher, to prove to everyone his father hadn't bought his job. Overcoming the big ranch, the money and power the Legend name evoked, had been a continuing struggle.

Captain O'Reilly opened his desk drawer, uncorked a bottle of whiskey, and gave his coffee a generous dousing. “Want to doctor your coffee, Sam?”

“Don't think it'll help,” he replied with a tight smile.

“Suit yourself.” The hardened ranger put the bottle away. The white scar on his cheek had never faded, left from a skirmish with the Comanche.

Sam studied that scar, thinking. Although Sam had intended to keep quiet about the woman he may or may not have bumped into on the way over out of fear of being labeled a lunatic for sure, he felt a duty to say something. He wouldn't voice doubts that he'd imagined it. “Cap'n, I saw something that keeps nagging. I collided with a young woman a few minutes ago. Before I could react, a man grabbed her arm and shoved her into the alley between the mercantile and telegraph office. I saw fear in her eyes. When I followed, they got on waiting horses and rode off. Can you send someone to check it out?”

Sam winced at how quickly doubts filled O'Reilly's eyes. The captain was wondering if this was one more example of Sam breaking with reality. Hell! If he'd conjured this up, he'd commit himself into one of those homes where they locked up crazy people.

O'Reilly twirled his empty cup. “After the bank robbery a few weeks ago, we don't need more trouble. I'll look into it.”

“Thanks. I hope it was nothing, but you never know.” Relieved, Sam took a sip of coffee, wishing it would warm the cold deep in his bones.

“When's the train due to arrive, Legend?”

“Within the hour.” Sam would obey his orders, but the second the month was up, he'd hit the ground running. He'd dog Luke Weston's trail until there wouldn't be a safe place in all of Texas to even get a slug of whiskey. He'd heard the gunslinging outlaw spent time down around Galveston and San Antone. That, Sam reckoned, would be a good starting point.

O'Reilly removed his boots from the desk and sat up. “I seem to recall your family ranch being northwest of here on the Red River.”

“That's right.”

“Ever hear of Lost Point?”

Sam nodded. “The town is west of us. Pretty lawless place, by all accounts.”

“It's become a no-man's land. Outlaws moved in, lock, stock, and barrel. Nothing north of it but Indian Territory. Jonathan Doan is requesting a ranger to the area. Seems he's struggling to get a trading post going on the Red River just west of Lost Point, and outlaws are threatening.”

“I'll take a ride over there while I'm home.”

“No hurry. Give yourself a few weeks.”

“Sure thing, Cap'n.” The clock on the town square chimed the half hour, reminding him he'd best get moving. Relieved that O'Reilly had softened and allowed him to still work, Sam set down his cup. “Appears I've got a train to catch.”

O'Reilly shook his hand. “Get well, Sam. You're a good lawman. Come back stronger than ever.”

“I will, sir.”

At the livery, Sam hired a boy to fetch his bags from the hotel and take them to the station. After settling with the owner and collecting his buckskin gelding, Sam rode to meet the train. He shivered in the cold, steady downpour. The gloomy day reflected his mood as he moved toward an uncertain future. He was on his way home.

To bind up his wounds. To heal. To become the ranger he needed to be.

And he would—come hell or high water, mad as a March hare or not.

Right on time, amid plumes of hissing white steam, the Houston and Texas Central Railway train pulled up next to the loading platform.

Sam quickly loaded Trooper into the livestock car and paid the boy for bringing his bags. After making sure the kerchief around his neck hid the scar, he swung aboard. Passengers had just started to enter so he had his pick of seats. He chose one two strides from the door.