December 4, 1878
“You’ve served your time, McAllister. You’re free to go.”
Clay McAllister shivered as the iron gates clanged shut behind him. The December cold cut to his bones. His cheap prison-issue coat was too thin for the weather, but it would have to do until he got back to Texas.
Back home—if he still had a home.
A lot could change in three years, Clay knew. His wife hadn’t written to him once. The only thing he’d received from her were his own unopened letters, with a terse Return To Sender penned on each envelope. The returned letters had told him, at least, that she was still living on the ranch. But they answered none of his other questions.
Why was Elise so angry? Didn’t she know what had happened to him?
What in hell’s name had gone wrong?
The memory of that awful night still darkened Clay’s dreams. He and his eighteen-year-old brother, Buck, had driven a thousand head of longhorn cattle up the trail to Abilene. After selling them for top dollar, they’d paid off the hired vaqueros and set out for an evening of celebration. A bath, a good meal and a couple of drinks had been enough for Clay. With the cash in the hotel safe, he’d retired early to rest up for the trip home.
He’d drifted off to sleep with a smile on his face. The money from the cattle sale—almost twenty thousand dollars—would pay off the debts on the ranch and give them a good start for next year. It would also buy the new furniture Elise had been wanting, as well as clothes and toys for their two-year-old boy, Toby. They’d been living on the ragged edge of poverty for so long. What a pleasure it would be to buy nice things for his wife and child.
Sometime after midnight he’d awakened to discover that Buck’s bed was empty. His brother hadn’t returned to the hotel.
Worried, Clay had dressed and gone out looking for him. Buck was a strapping lad, able to do a man’s work on the trail. But at eighteen he had a lot to learn. Abilene was as rough as any cow town on the map, a place where a young man could get into no end of trouble. As he searched the saloons and gambling dens and checked the drunks passed out on the boardwalk, Clay had lashed himself for leaving Buck on his own. If anything had happened to the boy, he would never forgive himself.
He’d lost track of the time it took to work his way toward the far end of the street. Here, even at this late hour, the discreetly shuttered houses swarmed with activity. Half-opened doorways offered glimpses of seductively clad women. Raucous female laughter and the notes of a tinny piano drifted through the darkness.
Damn him! Clay didn’t relish the thought of dragging Buck out of a whorehouse. But he was getting worried—and angry. He’d raised his kid brother after their parents died, and he’d tried to teach him decent values. But it appeared that the lessons hadn’t taken. When he found the young whelp, by heaven, Buck was going to get the tongue-lashing of his life!
He was mounting the steps of the first house when he heard the commotion. Upstairs, in the place across the street, a fight had broken out. Glass shattered as a chair smashed through a window. Shouts and screams erupted in the night, accompanied by the sound of crashing furniture and bodies.
Thinking only of his brother, Clay plunged across the street, shoved his way inside and charged up the stairs. By then the whole place had become a melee of shrieking women and their scrambling customers. In a lamplit room at the end of the hall he found Buck, half dressed and fighting off three men. A tired-looking redhead, her makeup smeared, cringed in a corner, clutching a sheet against her body.
One of the men, a stocky, redheaded fellow in a checkered suit, had drawn a hidden knife. The blade flashed as he made a lunge for Buck. Reacting instinctively, Clay seized a cast iron boot jack and swung it against the man’s head. The man sagged to the floor, collapsing without a sound.
Seconds passed before someone realized he wasn’t breathing.
A sudden hush fell over the room. Rough hands seized Clay from behind, holding him fast. Before they dragged him away, Clay managed to mouth a few words to his brother.
“Get out of here, Buck. Take the cash from the hotel and ride for all you’re worth. Give the money to Elise and tell her what happened. I’ll come as soon as I can.”
His trial was speedy. Under different circumstances Clay might have gone free on the grounds of defending his brother. But the man he’d struck down was a city councilman, and the town was screaming for justice. With a verdict of manslaughter, he was sentenced to serve five years in the state penitentiary. Good behavior had gotten him out in a little more than three.
Clay had never learned what the fight was about. And he’d never heard from Buck again.
Now, mounted on an aging buckskin horse that was all he could afford, Clay headed through swirling snow—south by southwest, along the empty cattle trails to the high Texas plains he called home.
With luck, he would be there by Christmas.
Chapter One
North Texas
December 21, 1878
“Mama! There’s a man riding up to the gate!” Five-year-old Toby burst in through the front door, his cheeks ruddy with cold.
“Anybody we know?” Elise glanced up from the iron skillet she was scrubbing.
“Don’t think so. He’s riding tired, like he’s come a long way. Maybe he’s a tramp.”
Elise’s eyes flashed to the shotgun she kept above the door. “You know the rule. Go into your room and stay there until I find out who it is.”
“Yes’m.” Toby closed the front door, shutting off a blast of wind that fluttered the homemade ornaments on the tiny Christmas tree. As he scampered to his bedroom, Elise walked to the front window and stared down the road.
The approaching stranger was still some distance away. She couldn’t make out his features beneath the slouch-brimmed hat, but she could see that he was a big man, tall in the saddle, his broad shoulders hunched against the cold. His buckskin mount plodded wearily along beneath him. Toby had been right. Both horse and rider looked as if they’d come a long way.
Elise kept her eyes on him as he approached the gate. She’d learned to be wary of strangers. But something about this man was familiar—the rangy body, the shadowed face…
Her hand crept to her throat. “No,” she whispered. “No, it can’t be…”
Beneath the high arch of the gate, Clay paused to gather his courage. With each day of the long ride from Kansas, the hunger to be home had grown deeper. He’d yearned for the feel of his own land beneath his feet, his own roof over his head, his woman and child in his arms. That burning desire had kept him moving through cold and wind, through gnawing hunger and fatigue.
Now that he was here, all he could think of was turning away and riding on.
Only the thin curl of smoke from the chimney told him the place was lived-in. Aside from that…Lord, what had happened here? The fences and outbuildings were in disrepair, the pastures untended, the cattle gone. A single milk cow stood in the corral with its head to the wind. A few scrawny chickens pecked in the yard.
What had become of the men he’d hired to stay and take care of the ranch? What had become of the stock?
What had happened to his family?
Dread constricted his chest as he nudged the horse to a walk. It wasn’t like Elise to let the place go like this. She was the one who’d planted flowers, bordered the pathways with whitewashed rocks and hung bright calico curtains in the windows of their little house. Clay could see those curtains now, limp and faded as if no one cared about them anymore.
Maybe Elise had taken the money, sold the ranch and moved away, leaving the place to some squatter family. One of the newcomers, a woman most likely, could have returned his letters. That would explain a lot. But Clay could’ve sworn the handwriting on those envelopes was his wife’s.
Braced for anything, he dismounted at the porch, climbed the front steps and knocked on the door.
On the other side, footsteps creaked across the floor planks, their cadence achingly famili
ar. Clay forgot to breathe as the latch turned and the door opened inward.
“Hello, Clay.” Elise’s voice was cold. “I suppose you’ll want to come inside.”
Clay’s eyes drank her in. She was still beautiful, but thinner than he remembered, her blue eyes sunk into tired shadows. Tendrils of wheaten hair had escaped her hastily twisted bun. They framed her face, softening the angry set of her jaw.
The old hunger knifed through him, the pain almost bringing him to his knees. He wanted to seize her in his arms, to crush her against him and devour that stubborn mouth with kisses. But even a fool could see that it wasn’t what she’d want.
“I’ll put my horse away first if that’s all right,” Clay said. “He’s carried me a lot of miles. He deserves a rest.”
“Fine. There’s hay in the barn. I’ll warm up some soup.” She sounded as if she were speaking to a stranger, not her husband. “Why didn’t you let me know you were coming?”
“I did. I’m guessing you didn’t bother to open the letter.” Clay turned away and walked down the front steps. He should’ve known Elise wouldn’t be happy to see him. From the looks of the place, she’d fallen on hard times. He could understand her blaming him for that. But she should’ve had more than enough money to live on. He’d seen to that when he’d sent Buck home with the cash from the cattle sale.
Hadn’t he?
By the time he’d stabled, fed and watered the tired buckskin, Clay was churning with questions. What had happened to the money? Where was Buck? And what about Toby? Surely if anything had happened to their son, Elise would have let him know.
Something had gone terribly wrong here. Until he knew what it was, he’d be wise to step softly.
Willing himself to stay calm, he turned back toward the house. By now the sun was low in the sky. The landscape was a cheerless sweep of yellow grass and gray hills beneath a brooding winter sky. The chilling wind seemed to whistle between his ribs as he bent to wash up at the pump.
Hesitating, he mounted the porch and rapped lightly on the front door. It rankled him that he needed permission to enter his own house. But until he knew where things stood between himself and Elise, Clay knew better than to take liberties.
The door creaked open. He found himself staring down into the clear, blue eyes of a young boy. Clay’s breath caught in a silent gasp. Toby had changed a lot in three years. But Clay would have known his son anywhere.
“Come on in, mister,” he said. “Mama doesn’t like leaving the door open. It lets out the heat.”
He stepped aside to let Clay enter—a handsome child, tall for his age with a sprinkling of freckles across his nose and a thick mop of fair hair like his mother’s. Clay’s heart contracted at the sight of him. Only one thing kept him from gathering the boy into his arms.
Toby had called him “mister.”
Ignoring the sting, Clay closed the door behind him. The small parlor was much as he remembered—the cheap Mexican chairs he’d promised to replace, the hand-braided rug, the tattered books crowding their shelves. The portrait of Elise’s parents hung on the far wall. The wedding photograph, taken the day he and Elise were married, was missing.
The Christmas tree stood in one corner. It was little more than a twig anchored in a flowerpot, hung with strings of popcorn and snowflakes cut from old wrapping paper. There were no presents underneath.
Elise had always loved Christmas. Clay remembered how she’d used to spend weeks planning the day, decorating the house, wrapping little gifts and baking treats for any visitors who might come to call. He remembered her childlike anticipation, the songs and laughter, the sheer joy of the season.
What had happened to that joy? Where had it gone?
From where he stood, he could see Elise working in the kitchen, setting the table, unwrapping the bread and stirring the soup kettle on the stove. The aroma of fresh-baked bread lingered in the air, awakening memories of the old days when love had spilled like sunlight through their little house. The longing for those days was like a knife in Clay’s gut.
Everything he wanted on this earth was right here in plain sight. And he didn’t know how to get it back.
Elise’s hands shook as she sliced the coarse wheat bread. How dared Clay show up here after what he’d put her through? His betrayal had broken her heart. And the tragedy that followed had crushed what was left of her spirit. If she lived to be a hundred, she would never, ever forgive him.
Looking up from her work, she stole a furtive glance into the parlor. Clay was standing a few steps inside the door, his stone-gray eyes intent on Toby. Dread clutched at Elise’s stomach. Toby had been a two-year-old when Clay rode off on the cattle drive. Would he remember his father? Had she been wrong not to tell the boy right off who their visitor was?
Sooner or later Toby would have to know. After all, Clay wasn’t just passing through. The ranch was his property and it was clear enough that he had no place else to go. But that fact raised a whirlwind of questions. What would Clay expect of her? If he thought she was just going to fall into bed with him—
“Oh—!”
Pain shot up Elise’s arm as the bread knife sliced her left thumb. She uttered a little cry as blood spurted onto the cutting board.
“Here, hold still.” Clay was at her side in two strides. Grabbing the flour sack she’d used to wrap the bread, he pressed it to the cut. His sudden nearness undid her. He was so big, so powerfully male with his chilled fingers clasping her wrist, his stubbled jaw almost brushing her forehead. A long-forgotten heat stirred in the depths of her body. Elise struggled to ignore it. Heaven help her she didn’t want these feelings. She didn’t want him.
“Hold the cloth there till the bleeding stops.” His voice was a low rasp. “I’ll get something to wrap your thumb.”
“Are you all right, Mama?” Toby stood in the doorway, a worried look on his face.
Elise forced herself to smile. “It’s nothing. Just a little cut.”
“Find us a clean handkerchief, son,” Clay ordered. Toby scurried off to the bedroom, giving them a few seconds alone. “He doesn’t know?” Clay asked.
Elise shook her head. “There wasn’t time to tell him.”
“Doesn’t he ask about his father?”
“I’ve always told him his father was away on a long trip.”
Clay’s weathered face creased into a scowl. “Well, I’m back, and the sooner he knows it the better.”
“Please.” She met the coldness in his eyes. “He’s such a sensitive little boy. Give him some time to get used to you.”
“How much time?”
“Until I think he’s ready.”
Clay’s shoulder’s sagged in acquiescence. “We need to talk, Elise,” he said.
“I know. We will.” Her heart shrank at the thought of it but some things had to be faced.
Toby returned, waving a cotton handkerchief that Elise recognized as one of Clay’s. She’d kept all Clay’s clothes, planning to make some of them over for the boy when he grew bigger. The idea of Clay’s return had been pushed to the back of her mind. According to the marshal’s report he’d been sentenced to five years. How could she have known he’d be back in three?
And why, as she stood there confused and hurting, did she find herself wanting Clay to take her in his arms? After reading the report of his arrest, she’d had no desire to ever be touched by him again.
“Hold still.” Bracing her hand against his palm he peeled away the cloth he’d pressed against the wound. The bleeding had stopped, but the cut was long and deep, running from the tip of her thumb to the first joint. Elise quivered as he bound it tightly with the handkerchief and knotted the ends. “Should be good as new in a couple of days,” he said, “but only if you keep it dry and don’t do anything to open it up. Hear?” He glanced down at Toby. “Your mother’s going to need some extra help. What can you do?”
“I can feed the chickens and get the eggs,” Toby said. “I can carry in the wood, too. But I can’t ch
op it. Mama always does that.”
A muscle twitched in Clay’s jaw. “Don’t worry, son. Your mother will never have to chop wood again.”
Elise felt the trembling beneath her skirts. So there it was. Clay was back and he was taking over. He would take care of things, as he always had. But what about her? How could she be a wife to Clay when his betrayal haunted her every waking moment?
The soup had begun to steam. Pulling away from Clay’s nearness, she slid the kettle off the burner. Her voice shook as she spoke. “Supper’s ready. Sit down and I’ll dish up the soup.”
Her bandaged hand moved awkwardly as she struggled to lift the heavy soup kettle off the stove. Clay stopped her with a touch on her wrist. “You sit down. I’ll do the rest. You can bring me the soup bowls, Toby.”
Toby’s eyebrows met in a small V above the bridge of his freckled nose. “How did you know my name? Did Mama tell you?”
“Yes.” Clay spoke the lie as if he’d just been forced to swallow vinegar. Denying his own son would chafe him hard. But the truth would open Toby to hurt. Elise couldn’t allow that to happen.
While Clay ladled the soup into the bowls, she and Toby took their accustomed places on either side of the table. Elise had set Clay’s place at the end. He handed out the bowls, sliced more bread and sat down.
“Say grace, please, Toby,” Elise said, and the boy murmured a short prayer. Stealing a glance from under her lowered eyelashes, Elise studied Clay where he sat with bowed head. His face was lined, and his water-slicked hair showed strands of gray that hadn’t been there before the fateful cattle drive. Prison would be hard on any man. But then, hadn’t Clay brought that punishment on his own head? Surely he’d gotten no worse than he deserved.
“Do you go to school, Toby?” Clay broke off a chunk of bread and dipped a corner of it in the soup.
“I can’t go till next year.” The boy imitated his father, dipping his bread the same way. “But I can read a little, and I know my numbers. Mama taught me.”
“Your mother must be a good teacher.” Clay’s eyes rested on Elise. Her face warmed at his praise, but she willed away the pleasure of it. If Clay thought he could win her through flattery, he was mistaken.
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