by Zoë Archer
Lady X’s Cowboy
By Zoë Archer
Lady X’s Cowboy
Copyright 2012 by Zoë Archer
Published 2012 by Zoë Archer
Formatted by Ironhorse Formatting
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners.
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.
To Zack, for everything
Special thanks to the awesome Carolyn Jewel, for all her technical wizardry,
and Meghan Hogue, for keeping it clean.
Table Of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Epilogue
About The Author
Books By Zoë Archer
Bonus Excerpt: Warrior
Bonus Excerpt: Skies of Fire
Bonus Excerpt: Night of Fire
I am a pore cowboy, I’ve got no home,
I’m here today and tomorrow I’m gone;
I’ve got no folks, I’m forced to roam,
Where I hang my hat is home, sweet home.
—Diamond Joe, Traditional Cowboy Song
But “what am I to do with
my life?” as once asked me one girl out of
the numbers who begin to feel aware that, whether
marrying or not, each possesses an individual life,
to spend, to use, or to lose. And herein lies the momentous question.
—Dinah Maria Mulock,
A Woman’s Thoughts About Women, 1858
Chapter One
London, England
1883
“Don’t come any closer,” snarled “Black” Jack Cutler, leveling his Colt .44 pistol. He cocked the hammer of his well-used and deadly weapon. The sound echoed in the tiny cabin like a hundred lethal snakes waiting to strike.
Lorna Jane swallowed past the hard lump of fear that had lodged in her throat as she stared down the barrel of the gun. “You won’t shoot me, Cutler,” she cried, “because I know the secret of the map! And the secret is—”
“Lady Xavier! Lady Xavier!”
Sighing, Lady Olivia Xavier tucked Lorna Jane of Glittering Gulch; or The Map of Don Diego by Captain Frederick Livings into her reticule and attempted to smile at the woman approaching her. Olivia had been hoping to wait for her carriage undisturbed so she could catch up on the latest escapades of the often hapless Lorna Jane. But that was not to be. Her brewery, Greywell’s, had the immense misfortune of being located almost directly across the street from Prudence Culpepper’s Eternal Flame Mission. Though Olivia usually managed to avoid Prudence through judicious scheduling, sometimes their paths did cross.
Now Prudence, determined, gray and hulking like an iron-clad battleship, bore down on Olivia as she stood on the curb outside her brewery.
It was nearly six o’clock, and everyone at Greywell’s had gone home. The night watchman was not due for another hour, which meant that after she completed her paperwork and locked the gates, Olivia was alone.
Prudence locked the doors to the mission behind her and gave them a sharp tug for added security. There was nothing of value inside the mission—unless the thieves of Wandsworth were after stacks of Bibles and armloads of bunting donated and sewed by the fine ladies of the Eternal Flame Good Works Society—but Prudence rarely left anything to chance, including trapping Olivia in conversation when an opportunity presented itself.
“Lady Xavier,” Prudence said, “I had one day hoped you would finally come to one of our little meetings.” She gave Olivia a look that was at once smug and censorious, one of Prudence’s specialties.
“I have often meant to,” Olivia answered politely. “But business has kept me away.”
“Business?” Prudence’s expression left no room for doubt that she considered the thought distasteful, at the least.
“My brewery does keep me exceeding busy.” Olivia looked up and down the narrow block for her carriage. Where the devil was Arthur? She needed rescuing from the good intentions and harsh judgments of Prudence Culpepper.
“Most women would have ceded the actual running of a business to someone more suitable for the position,” Prudence reminded her. “When Lord Xavier left you this brewery, I am certain his intention was not to have you sully yourself with such vulgar matters.”
Olivia felt her patience begin to fray. Everyone had something to say about the terms of her late husband’s will. It wasn’t uncommon for a man to leave his wife some interest in a business venture or two, but it certainly was uncommon for that wife to involve herself in the daily running of the business, especially if that property was a brewery.
“Why, Mrs. Culpepper, I had no idea that you could communicate with the dead!” At Prudence’s bewildered look, Olivia explained, “How else could you possibly know what my husband’s intentions were?”
“Such impudence,” Prudence huffed, inflating.
“I find your judgment of my actions impudent,” Olivia returned. She was very, very tired of this conversation, since she had been having it for the past three years. Once Olivia left off her two years of deep mourning, everyone had an opinion as to how she should spend her time. Her parents urged her to move in with them and pursue a life of quiet emptiness and widowhood. Her friends wanted her to attend parties, operas, and outings. And society bulwarks such as Prudence wanted her to fill her days with useless, time-consuming charity work that produced little gain for those who actually needed it most.
“How can you defend your actions, Lady Xavier?” Prudence demanded. “Your business provides the lower classes with the means to ruin. Have you not read the temperance tracts?” She fumbled with her rather enormous reticule for just such an item, but Olivia held up a hand to stop her.
“I run a brewery, Mrs. Culpepper, not a gin palace. I ensure that the beer I produce goes to upstanding pubs that provide honest, hard working men and women a place to relax and enjoy themselves after a long day. Besides,” she added pointedly, “I fail to see how providing corsets and religious tracts assists the deserving poor.”
“Those pitiable wretches haven’t the sense to tend to themselves,” Prudence said tightly. “We must give them moral guidance to see them through the dark wilderness of their lapsed state. I do not thi
nk that offering demon drink shall improve their lives.”
“I offer employment at my brewery to those that seek it,” Olivia replied. “Men and women.”
“You would take a woman out of the sacred domain of her home?”
“I would give a woman a means of sustaining herself and her children, particularly if she has no husband. Can you say the same, Mrs. Culpepper?”
Just then, Prudence Culpepper’s carriage clattered to a stop at the curb and she snapped to her coachman, “You’re late! Everyone has gone.”
“Sorry, madam,” the coachman said without any remorse. A footman jumped down to open the carriage door for Prudence. After helping his mistress inside, the footman turned to Olivia, but a look from his mistress held him back.
“I shan’t offer you a ride,” Prudence said. “You may let your modern views provide you with a means home.”
Olivia would rather stare down the barrel of “Black” Jack Cutler’s .44 than be trapped in a carriage with Prudence Culpepper for more than four miles.
“Thank you for your trenchant assessment,” Olivia replied dryly.
Prudence pressed her thin lips together as the footman jumped back to his post on the carriage. With a frown, she rapped sharply on the roof. The carriage lurched forward and Olivia happily waved it off.
As soon as she was alone, Olivia gave a very unladylike roll of her eyes and started to reach for her dime novel. Finally, peace. She’d sat through a long meeting with the brewery’s managers and chemist before she’d endured Prudence Culpepper’s shrill jeremiad. She wanted some quiet time, just her and the savage outlaws of the American West.
Night was falling, however, and she was finding it difficult to read the print. Where could Arthur be with the carriage? He was running rather late at this point, and she started to grow worried. Wandsworth, located on the southern bank of the Thames, wasn’t a notorious slum like Whitechapel, but it was still very far from genteel Bayswater.
Peering into the settling fog, she became suddenly aware that she wasn’t alone. She nearly dismissed the feeling as exhausted nerves, but then three figures emerged from the growing shadows. Cold apprehension crept up the back of her neck. The men walked deliberately towards her, and she fought the urge to step back against the locked gates of the brewery. Don’t show fear, she reminded herself as she tipped up her chin. These men might just be factory workers heading home.
But no. They wanted her.
“Evening, madam,” one said, tugging on the brim of his hat. Though his tone was polite, his face was hard. He and his two companions gathered in a tight semicircle around her.
“Good evening,” she managed to reply.
“You alone?” another asked. He had slumped shoulders and watery eyes.
“No,” she answered.
“I don’t see nobody else,” said the third man, a collection of knobby joints. He looked around slowly and insolently before letting his eyes rove over her with the same disrespect.
“My carriage will be here any minute,” she said with more conviction than she felt.
“It ain’t here yet,” said Hard Face, “so we got a few minutes to talk.”
“I don’t see how we have anything to talk about.” She tried to keep her voice steady, as though she were merely telling Cook to order a roast today but no chops, thank you. As she did so, she began to edge away from the men. She didn’t know what they wanted but it couldn’t be good. And she did not intend to stand around and let them threaten her.
“I think we got a lot to talk about,” Slump Shoulders answered. He moved faster than he looked capable of and grabbed hold of her arm. Shocked, she dropped her novel. It made a quiet plop onto the pavement.
The pressure of his fingers on her made Olivia’s insides roil with disgust. “Let go of me!”
“Not until we deliver our message,” Hard Face said. “The man what gave us our marching orders, he ain’t too pleased about you staying on here.”
“He means the brewery,” Knobby explained.
“And he wants you to reconsider his offer,” Hard Face continued. “Otherwise, things could get kinda ugly.”
An even uglier realization dawned. “George Pryce sent you,” she said, horrified.
“We didn’t mention no names,” Slump Shoulders said.
“But I know exactly who you are talking about,” she snapped. Anger, fast and unchecked, began to flood through her. She began to shake with it. “And you can go right back and tell him to stuff his offer and his hired toughs right up his overbred bum! Now let go of me.” Olivia tried to snatch her arm away, but Slump Shoulders held her fast. She swung her reticule. It connected with Knobby’s face, then burst open and scattered coins in the street.
Hard Face decided it was time to make a play and lunged for her. A strangled scream tore from her throat as she braced for impact, extending her free hand like a claw. She was prepared to fight as hard as she was able, use anything available to her to gain some kind of advantage. But before Hard Face reached her, a dark shape intercepted him, throwing him to the ground with a thud. Stunned by this new development, Slump Shoulders released her.
Both Olivia and the other men watched in astonished surprise as Hard Face struggled on the rough pavement with another person—someone new whom nobody had seen or heard approaching. They wrestled back and forth until the newcomer sat up a bit and began punching her would-be assailant with vicious accuracy.
“The lady don’t want your company,” he said between punches, and she felt her heart stop. He spoke in the distinctive flat drawl of an American. She’d met a few businessmen from Boston and New York and their wives when her husband was alive, but unless she was wrong, this man, her protector, wasn’t from Boston, but from the West.
Her assailant’s companions managed to rouse themselves from their shock and launched themselves at the American. She thought for certain that the odds would be too great for him, but she heard him say with a laugh, “Come to join the party, huh, boys?” Good lord, he seemed to be enjoying himself.
The way he fought, it did seem like a game. She couldn’t tell much about the American—he was wearing a long duster coat and, yes, she realized with a bubble of hysterical glee, a Stetson—but he seemed much bigger and solid than Pryce’s toughs. He punched Knobby in the nose and the fellow tumbled over backwards, howling and clutching his face.
“Damn English nose,” the American chuckled. “Made out of pure deadwood.”
Slump Shoulders charged, but the American landed an elbow in his stomach. When the man bent over in pain, the American landed a solid uppercut to his jaw and laid him out flat.
“And you got a belly like an Arkansas sow.” The American grinned.
Hard Face unsteadily regained his feet and tried to feint at his opponent, but the American had size and speed to his advantage. Neatly sidestepping the man, he stuck out a boot and tripped him. Hard Face’s head thumped on the ground.
The American swung about, fists ready, but no one stood to meet his challenge. “Don’t quit now, boys,” he said, still laughing. “I’m just gettin’ my juices flowin’.”
“We don’t want no more of your juices,” groaned the knobby man.
Olivia wasn’t certain, but she thought the American looked disappointed.
“Then y’all better apologize to the lady,” he said.
A chorus of moaned Sorry’s rose up from the pavement.
“I don’t want your apologies.” She was still jittery with rage, and it strained her voice. “I want you to deliver a message of my own. Tell Pryce that I won’t stand for his bullying. Tell him my answer is no, and that’s final.”
“Now get the hell out of here,” the American commanded, “before I hog tie and brand your sorry asses.”
Muttering and swearing, the men gathered themselves and slumped away, arms around one another’s shoulders for support.
The American quickly turned to her. He had such a zeal and talent for fighting, she nearly expected those
powerful fists of his to swing at her, as well. “You okay, ma’am?” he asked instead, his voice now low and concerned. It was such an abrupt transformation, it was almost as if he had become another man. What a puzzle. She still couldn’t see much of his face, which was shadowed by the wide brim of his hat and hidden behind an enormous mustache, but he loomed over her by at least a half a head. She wished she could see his eyes, yet somehow she could feel them on her, palpable and alert.
“I think so,” she managed, still reeling from the odd turn of events. Olivia struggled with the peculiar desire to wrap her arms around him, this cheerfully bloodthirsty American who was as gentle as a wolfhound by the fire.
“You know those boys?”
Her mouth thinned wryly. “I’ve never met them before, but I know who sent them.”
“I bet they’ll all think twice before tangling with you again.”
“You deserve all the credit. Thank you.”
He tugged on the brim of his hat. “Anything for a lady.” She sensed those eyes of his on her, warm and assessing, taking in the details of her clothing, her face, even the ridiculous hat the modiste had insisted was the latest rage in Paris, and an answering flush began to spread through her body. His look felt completely different from the violating leers of the toughs. It was both gentlemanly and uncivilized. “You are a lady, ain’t you? I was startin’ to think that maybe all the talk of fine English manners was nothin’ but a dry wind blowing from the south.”
A little laugh jumped up from her belly. This man had a very colorful way of speaking, but she liked it, much more than the empty bubbles of conversation provided by the gentlemen of her acquaintance.
“Some may call me a lady,” Olivia answered, then, because he was so candid, she could not help but add, “although sometimes I am not sure what that really means.”
“Believe me, ma’am,” the American said gravely, “I ain’t never met a real lady ‘til I met you.” His words slid together, his Western drawl a combination of dark whiskey and honey.
