Noble Savage

B Glad Judith

Description

Independent Katie Lachlan has caught the eye and heart of a rich suitor who won't take no for an answer. Luke Savage killed a man in a gunfight and swears he'll never carry a handgun again. A strong attraction and mutual dependence link them together for a journey along the brand new transcontinental railroad, as she flees the suitor who stalks her and he runs away from his past. Instead of safety, they find new danger as they are forced to travel on foot across a wintry landscape. While Katie learns that independence is no match for force, Luke discovers that saving Katie is more important to him than the vow he made. Striving together against wilderness, gunfighters bent on retribution, and a frontier town on the brink of riot, they find their strength, their convictions, and their very love tested by adversity and danger.

Sujets

• Westerns
• Historical romance
• Western (genre)
• Western

Informations

• Publié par: Uncial Press
• Date de parution: 13 octobre 2006
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781601740120
• Langue: English

Extrait

NOBLE SAVAGE
Behind the Ranges, Book IV
 
By
Judith B. Glad
 
Something hidden. Go and find it. Go and look behind theRanges-- Something lost behind the Ranges. Lost and waiting for you.Go.
Rudyard Kipling: The Explorer
 
 
Uncial Press       Aloha, Oregon 2006
 
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and events described herein areproducts of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed asreal. Any resemblance to actual events, locations, organizations, or persons, living ordead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2001,02006 by Judith B. Glad
Previously published by Awe-Struck E-Books
ISBN 13: 978-1-60174-012-0 ISBN 10: 1-60174-012-3
Cover design by Judith B. Glad
All rights reserved. Except for use in review, the reproduction or utilization of thiswork in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means nowknown or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the author orpublisher.
Published by Uncial Press, an imprint of GCT, Inc.
Visit us at http://www.uncialpress.com
Dedication
This one is for the Clan,
a wonderful, indescribable collection of relatives-by-choice,friends-through-thick-and-thin, and support-group-beyond-belief.It's about time I thanked you for helping memake it this far.
Drink deeply. I love you all.
Especially Neil.
 
* * * *
 
Author's Note
Andrew J. Russell documented the building of the first transcontinental railroadwith unforgettable images. His photographs were published and republished over theyears since East met West at Promontory Summit in 1869, but the man himself was allbut forgotten. In 1969 many of his original negatives were rediscovered, after havingbeen lost for almost a hundred years, and he was identified as the photographer.
Westward to Promontory (Crown Publishers, Inc., in cooperation withthe Oakland Museum and Union Pacific Corporation, 1986) contains many of hisphotographs, opening a window to a chapter of the past that had long fascinated me.Standing at the historical monument commemorating the long-gone town, I had thefeeling that the ghosts of people in Russell's photo were still walking the rutted street ofBear River City between shadowy log cabins and board-and-batten shanties.
The only trace of Bear River City, Wyoming, today is an interpretive signmarking its location. In its brief life it was perhaps the wildest of all the Hells-on-Wheelsalong the Union Pacific route and its sudden death on 19 November 1868 was as violentas its brief life--and even more dramatic than this book tells.
Chapter One
Luke stared at a pool of blood spreading in the dusty street. The acrid bite of hotgunpowder burned in his nostrils.
"Why?" he said hoarsely. "Why did you make me do it?"
The eyes that stared back into his were blank, the face slack. Japhet Breedlovewould never answer his question.
A hard grip on his arm caused an automatic reaction, one learned where to becareless was to die. His Colt's barrel wasn't six inches from the Marshall's belt bucklebefore the star pinned to the man's vest registered. Swallowing hard, Luke forced hishand down, loosened his fingers. The Colt dropped in the dirt.
"I saw it," the Marshall said, his hard face showing no pity and no blame. "Youwas forced into the fight, but that don't make no difference. The law says no gunfights inthis here town and my job's enforcin' it."
His voice caught somewhere in his tight chest, Luke could only nod.
"I'll let you keep your gun, seein' as how you might need it where you're goin'."The Marshall gestured. "Pick it up."
The body that bent over didn't feel like his, nor did the hand that grasped the gun."I...uh..." The dryness in his throat caught at the words and held them. "What'd youmean? Where I'm goin'?"
"Don't make no difference to me, just as long as it's somewheres else. If I seeyou in town after sundown, I'll have to arrest you. Fightin' in the street's worth sixty daysat hard labor, and bein' a public nuisance ought to get you another thirty."
Luke looked again at the man he'd killed. A green fly crawled across Japhet'ssunken cheek. On his belly, the blood, no longer bright red and glistening, was alreadycongealing in the afternoon sun.
"God!" Luke said, not sure whether the word was blessing or curse. He knelt andclosed the sightless, accusing eyes.
* * * *
"More roses, ma'am. And pink ones this time!"
Katie Lachlan took the bouquet and looked for a card. There was none.
It was the twelfth bouquet she'd received in as many days--except Sunday--andnone of them had a clue to the sender. "Throw them away!"
At first she'd been thrilled. A secret admirer. How romantic!
Her sister had agreed, when the first flowers arrived, a lovely posy of daintywhite roses in a silver filigree holder. Ellen had hugged Katie. "Oh, honey, a mysterysuitor. How exciting! Maybe he'll come to our box at the opera tonight,"
But he was still a mystery, and the flowers were no longer romantic. If the menof Boston were as proper as she'd been told, then why was one of them sending herroses? Once was romantic. Twice was perhaps a bit daring. Thirteen bouquets wasrude.
"Throw them away," she repeated handing the flowers back to the maid. "I don'twant them."
Walking to the window, Katie looked out into the small garden behind hersister's house. The Michelmas daisies were blooming profusely, but an early frost hadtouched some of the other flowers. Although it was only September, winter was giving itswarning.
"Katie? Oh, there you are. Colleen said you told her to throw your flowersaway?"
Not turning, Katie said, "Yes." She leaned her face against the cool glass. "I havea bad feeling about them, Ellen. I don't know why."
Her sister came to her and put an arm about her waist. "You're just feelinggloomy because the days are getting shorter. You never did like to see summer end."
Katie forced herself to smile. "Of course. That must be it." She linked arms withEllen and guided her sister to the sofa. "If I weren't so determined to see what you'rehiding in here--" patting Ellen's swollen belly--"I'd be back home already."
"And I'd be tempted to go with you, if I could convince Charles to let me." Ellenshivered. "I swear, Boston winters are twice as cold as Idaho's. And longer, too."
"And dirtier." Katie leaned back and stretched her legs out before her, a positionthat would have scandalized her classmates at Seminary. "I never saw gray snow until Icame East. Did you?"
"Never. But I came to talk to you about tonight. Charles just sent a note.Something has come up and he can't escort you to the theatre."
"To tell the truth, Ellen, I'm ready for a quiet evening at home. I've never gaddedso much in my life." For a moment she thought of the long evenings in the cabin whenshe was a child. Ma would read aloud while Pa carved. Or sometimes he'd play checkerswith one of the older children. How thrilled she'd always been when it was her turn.
She never had figured out whether he let her win or not, but when she did, she'dworked hard for it.
Ellen sighed. "I wish you weren't going home. It seems as if you just gothere."
"Just got here? Ellen, I've been East for nearly three years. That's almostforever!"
"And I've been here six. It doesn't seem possible, does it?"
They fell into reminiscences of home, and Katie forgot her unknown--andunwelcome--suitor.
Until the next bouquet arrived on Monday.
* * * *
From Manassas to the Siege of Mobile, Luke Savage had fought as he must, notknowing the faces or the names of the men he fired upon--only that they were the enemy.After the War, he came home to a ragtag Kansas farm and three graves. He built a fencearound the plot where his only family rested, then sold the farm and livestock to aneighbor. When a herd of longhorns passed nearby, he followed like a cocklebur on thetail of a cow.
In the next three years, he ate a lot of dust, and learned many things. That therewere harder ways to earn coffee and beans than in the Army. That no matter how much aman tried to forget the broken, bloodied bodies of friend and foe, some nightmares cameback again and again. And that the railheads were as dangerous as the battlefields, for aman took his life in his hands, just walking down the street.
As he had today. Now he couldn't sleep. Every time he closed his eyes, the lookon Japhet Breedlove's face as the bullet struck his chest haunted him.
All around him his fellow passengers slept, curled or slumped in their seats.Some snored, some shifted restlessly, as if trying to find a comfortable position. Down atthe end of the car, a baby cried fretfully, and its mother's soothing voice was a low,soprano murmur, barely audible over the clackety-clack of the wheels.
The train stopped once more. A lantern up toward the engine showed thesupports of a water tank. Luke wondered where they were. Somewhere between Topekaand Kansas City was all he knew.
His ticket was for Kansas City. After that maybe he'd go wherever the nextfreight was headed. It wouldn't be the first time he'd ridden the rods.
The train lurched once, twice, before setting out again. It all but threw Luke fromhis seat. Giving up any hope of sleep, he picked up his bedroll and saddlebags and madehis way to the end of the car, stepping over feet and legs and even one oblivious sleeperas he reeled down the narrow aisle.
The vestibule was noisy, but it was a simple, mechanical noise. There was noone to see him, no one to pay attention to what he did. Luke opened a saddlebag andremoved the gun belt he'd stowed before boarding the train. Its leather was supple, welloiled. The brass buckle was shiny with wear, catching light from the gibbous moon hecould see through the open vestibule window.
The revolver's grip felt familiar to his hand, a natural fit. This gun, an Army Colt.44, was an old friend. He'd carried it through the last year of the War, worn it night andday for the three years since. His hip f