Chase the Lightning

by Madeline Baker

  Chase the Lightning

  Madeline Baker

  Blush Sensuality Level: This is a suggestive romance (love scenes are not graphic).

  Trey knows that the white stallion approaching him is the one his grandfather told him would always carry him away from harm. What he doesn’t know is that the horse will carry him away from danger and into another world.

  Amanda doesn’t know what to do with the wounded, beautiful man on the white horse, but she does know that he evokes an attraction that her fiancé never has. And though the man may not understand the ways of the modern world, he knows the way to her heart. And that’s where she plans to keep him.

  A Blush® historical romance from Ellora’s Cave

  CHASE THE LIGHTNING

  Madeline Baker

  To author Gail Link

  For a particular phrase. She knows which one.

  To David Valla

  At Penske Motor Sales, Inc.,West Covina, CA,

  Who made me fall in love with the Jag my heroine is driving;

  To SpiritWalker

  For sharing his knowledge of Indians

  And the Old West with me

  To Glenn H. Welker

  For allowing me to use The Origin of Animals story

  And

  Last but not least

  To William R. Burkett

  Who gave me the idea in the first place

  And made it come alive

  Thanks, all

  Prologue

  The Apache warrior faced his enemies defiantly. Surrounded by the bodies of his slain comrades, he lifted his war lance high overhead, his death cry riding on the wings of the wind.

  His enemies laughed and made rude gestures at him. The warrior would die this day. And tonight they would sing of the Apache’s death while they danced, his scalp and that of the other Apaches dangling from their scalp poles.

  The Apache warrior watched them impassively as he chanted softly, his prayer for deliverance wending its way to the Great Spirit even as he set his face toward death. “Hear me, Usen, grant me courage that I may die well.”

  A sudden stillness fell over the land.

  The wind moaned through the tall prairie grass.

  Curling fingers of thick gray mist rose up from the ground.

  The Apache warrior fell silent. Glancing over his shoulder, his eyes narrowed as he saw a horse emerge from the gathering mist. The stallion’s hooves echoed like thunder, striking lightning from the earth as it galloped toward him. Sunlight danced over the stallion’s dazzling white coat, glinting like liquid silver in its flowing mane and tail. A thin black scar, shaped like a bolt of lightning, adorned its right flank.

  The warrior’s enemies fell back in superstitious awe as the ghost horse approached. The Apache warrior stood his ground, the eagle feathers in his hair fluttering in the rising wind.

  The stallion slowed as it drew near, stopped to paw the ground.

  Grasping the stallion’s mane, the warrior swung onto its back, and with a wild cry, he rode through the midst of his enemies, toward freedom, toward home.

  Chapter One

  Arizona Territory

  1869

  “Come on, gents, it’s time to go.” Trey Long Walker watched the frightened bank clerk as he shoved a handful of currency into a sack. Trey hated bankers, with their mortgages and interest. Their big words and small, unforgiving minds. His old man had lost their ranch when he couldn’t pay the mortgage. The owner of the bank, J. S. Hollinger, had refused to give Trey’s father an extension, saying it was beyond his control, but at the age of fifteen, Trey had been old enough to know the truth. Their ranch had been located on a prime piece of grassland, one that J. S. Hollinger had coveted for as long as Trey could remember. The bitter memory of his family’s eviction and all that had happened afterward was forever etched in his mind. He had ridden across their old homestead before coming into town today. If he had needed fresh fuel for his smoldering anger, he had found it. The house where he had grown up had been torn down, replaced by a new one, with leaded glass windows and lots of fancy trim. The outbuildings around the original barn were all new, freshly painted. The whole place reeked of prosperity and complacency.

  Sight unseen, Trey had hated the new owners. But today he would have his revenge.

  He waved the long barrel of his Colt under the prominent nose of the man responsible for all he had lost, smiled behind the kerchief that covered the lower half of his face as J. S. Hollinger’s eyes widened in fear. Revenge, though it had been a long time coming, was sweet indeed.

  Trey backed the portly banker into a corner, confident his men would keep Hollinger’s nervous employees under control. Turning his back to the rest of the room, Trey slowly lowered his kerchief so Hollinger could see who it was who was going to kill him.

  The banker’s face paled in recognition. “No.” He dropped heavily to his knees. “Please, I have a wife…a family.”

  “So did my old man.” Trey thumbed back the hammer of his Colt. It was time to make Hollinger pay.

  “Please,” Hollinger whimpered. He covered his face with his hands, as if that would somehow protect him. “Please, no. Don’t…” Tears ran down his cheeks, dripped down his neck, wetting his starched white collar.

  Another minute, and the man would be crying like a baby.

  Feeling nothing but contempt for the man groveling at his feet, Trey rested the muzzle of his revolver against Hollinger’s forehead, his finger curling around the trigger.

  Time seemed to stop. But he couldn’t do it, couldn’t pull the trigger.

  Grunting an oath of self-disgust, Trey tugged the bandanna into place and backed toward the door.

  Ben Needham and his brother, Chris, each grabbed a bag bulging with greenbacks and followed him toward the entrance, where Ed Strouse waited, covering the door.

  Strouse opened the door and Trey glanced quickly up and down the street. All was quiet.

  Pulling the kerchief from his face, Trey stepped outside, his gun hand down at his side. Stores on both sides of the street were just opening for business. An old woman across the way was sweeping the area in front of her shop. He could hear the ring of the blacksmith’s hammer from down the street, the chime of a distant clock.

  Moving slowly so as not to attract any attention, he dropped the loot into his saddlebag and took his horse’s reins from Sonny Clark, who had stayed outside to keep watch and hold their horses.

  He had just swung into the saddle when a pair of gunshots cut across the still morning air. A moment later, Strouse ran out of the bank, blood dripping from his left shoulder.

  “Dammit,” Trey exclaimed, “there wasn’t supposed to be any shooting!” He had warned his men about that time and again on the way to Wickenberg. Only one man was supposed to die, and that man was probably still shitting his drawers.

  “You should have mentioned it to that stupid clerk,” Strouse retorted. “He pulled a derringer from under the counter. Let’s get the hell out of here!”

  Trey touched his left heel to his mount’s flank. The stallion reared, turned, and took off at a dead run.

  A sporadic hail of gunfire followed them down the dusty street. Trey risked a quick glance over his shoulder. Ben and Chris were close on his heels; Strouse followed a few yards behind. Sonny was sprawled face down in the street in front of the bank.

  Trey swore under his breath. Dammit, there wasn’t supposed to be any shooting!

  Trey didn’t slow down until they were well away from the town. Angling the stallion away from the escarpment that stood above the desert floor to the south, he didn’t stop riding until they had put a good thirty miles behind them. It was near dark by then. The other horses were covered with lather and blowing
hard. Only Trey’s stallion seemed unaffected by the long run. Trey remained mounted, brooding silently, while his men climbed down and loosened the girths of their saddles.

  Chris was the first to speak. “Too bad about Sonny. Do ya think he’s dead?”

  Ben nodded. “Can’t get no deader. He took a bullet clean through the heart.”

  Trey glared at Strouse. “There wasn’t supposed to be any gunplay.”

  “The clerk pulled a gun,” Strouse replied belligerently. “What was I supposed to do? Let him plug me?”

  “I reckon not.” Trey leaned forward to stroke the stallion’s neck. He had big plans for the stud; foolish plans, perhaps, for a man with a price on his head.

  “We oughta be thinking about a place to bed down,” Strouse remarked. “Our horses are about played out, and my shoulder hurts like hell.”

  Trey grunted softly as he swung out of the saddle. “This looks like as good a place as any.” There was water and graze for the horses, a large outcropping of rock to block the rising wind, a patch of flat ground where they could spread their blankets. “I’ll look after the horses. Ben, see what you can do for Strouse. Chris, why don’t you rustle up some grub?”

  Trey waited for his men to finish off-saddling their mounts, then took up the reins and led the horses down to the stream. Standing at his horse’s head, he scratched between the stallion’s ears. “We’re getting shut of this bunch right quick, ‘Pago,” he muttered, “before Strouse gets us all killed.”

  Chapter Two

  Canyon Creek, AZ

  Amanda Burkett looked out her bedroom window, rubbed her eyes, and looked again. “A horse,�� she murmured. “There’s a horse in the corral.”

  A horse that, even to her untrained eye, looked like it had been rode hard and put away wet. A big white horse, with a black scar on its rump.

  She slipped on her robe, stepped into her slippers, and went out the back door. Where on earth had it come from? And what was she going to do with it?

  She glanced at the old barn, with its red paint faded almost pink, and wondered how long it had been since it had been used. The paint was peeling, the roof was sagging, one of the big double doors was off its hinges, but, if she remembered correctly, there had been some lead ropes and halters hanging along one wall.

  The barn door creaked like something out of an old horror movie when she opened it. Grimacing, she stepped inside. The place was probably crawling with spiders and mice. Shafts of sunlight danced across the floor; huge lacey cobwebs hung from the corners. Lifting the hem of her robe, she picked her way across the floor. A bunch of old gardening tools were piled in one of the stalls. There was a wheelbarrow, a post hole digger, a couple of old milk cans.

  She found an old halter and lead rope hanging from a nail on the back wall. The halter, made of leather, was stiff and cracked with age; the rope was frayed at the end, but it was the best of the bunch. She found a small wooden box filled with an assortment of brushes, curry combs, and hoof picks on a shelf. Dropping the halter and lead rope into the box, she tucked it under one arm and left the barn.

  The horse whinnied softly when she appeared, shook its head as if to ask what had taken her so long.

  She hesitated a moment when she reached the corral. She hadn’t been around horses since she was nine or ten. And this one was a lot bigger than any she had ever ridden on her grandmother’s farm in Cucamonga. Still, he looked tame enough.

  Taking a deep breath, she ducked between the rails. After setting the box on the ground, she approached the stallion cautiously, one hand extended, palm up. “Hey, boy, how’d you get in here?”

  The stallion made a soft snuffling sound as it sniffed her palm and obligingly lowered its head so she could slip the halter in place. She attached the lead rope, tethered the stallion to the fence rail, patted the horse on the neck, then rummaged through the box. She found a dandy brush that was in fairly good shape and spent the next half-hour brushing dirt and grime from the stallion’s snowy coat. She had forgotten how much she had always enjoyed grooming horses. It was soothing somehow. She remembered something her grandfather had always said, something about the outside of a horse being good for the inside of a man.

  When she was finished, she stood back to admire her handiwork. The stallion’s coat gleamed like white gold, its mane and tail looked like strands of white silk. The scar on its right flank was shaped like a bolt of lightning.

  “You look just like the horse Hopalong Cassidy rode in all those old Westerns,” she mused, grinning. “I suppose I could call you Topper, but somehow it just doesn’t seem to fit a handsome stud like yourself. Or I could call you Silver, after the Lone Ranger’s horse��� No, I don’t like that, either.”

  She ran her fingertips over the scar on the horse’s flank. The stallion’s muscles quivered at her touch. “How about Lightning?” She nodded. “That seems to fit.”

  Rummaging in the box again, she found a hoof pick and scraped the mud caked in the horse’s hooves.

  When she finished, she took up the horse’s lead rope and led it out of the corral toward a patch of grass, then sat down in the early morning sun, her robe tucked under her legs, while the horse grazed.

  She had a new house. She was starting a new job next month. Of course, it wasn’t really a job. She no longer had to work. And, best of all, she was engaged. She lifted her left hand, watched the sunlight sparkle on the diamond ring on her third finger. She was going to be married. The thought scared her half to death. Her parents were divorced. Most of her girlfriends had been divorced, at least once. Her cousin had been divorced four times. When she had introduced Rob to her best friend, Mary, Mary had leaned over and whispered, “He’ll make a good first husband.”

  Amanda sighed. Didn’t anyone stay married anymore? If it wasn’t going to last, why bother to get married at all? Was she making a mistake? She loved Rob, she really did, but she felt something was missing in their relationship. With a sigh of exasperation, she thrust the thought from her mind. She wouldn’t worry about it now. After all, the wedding was still almost a year off.

  She studied the house. She had bought it with money left to her by her Uncle Joe. She had always been his favorite niece, the only one who had kept in touch with him after Aunt Susie ran off with another man. It had been Amanda who had moved in with him when he got sick, who quit her job to stay with him because he didn’t want to die in a hospital.

  It was a small two-story, three-bedroom house, with a wraparound porch. Downstairs, there was a fair-sized living room with a brick fireplace, a sunny kitchen, small dining room, remodeled bathroom, and a small guest bedroom. There were two large bedrooms and a bathroom upstairs. She had fallen in love with the place at first sight. Best of all, the house itself didn’t need any work. Someone with a love for old buildings had restored it to what it must have looked like back in the 1870s. Of course, they had added some modern touches, too, like a dishwasher, but it still held its Old West charm. The exterior of the house was painted white, with dark green trim. The chimney was red brick. Red bricks formed the walkway up to the house. The only thing she planned to change was the interior paint. At the moment, all the rooms were Navajo white. It was a color she could live with, but not for long. She had planned to tear down the old barn and corral, but that hadn’t been high on her list of priorities and now…she glanced at the horse. If no one came to claim the stallion, she would keep it. She glanced around. She had fallen in love with the surrounding countryside as well as the house. The distant mountains. The huge Saguaro cacti with their waxy white flowers, the Palo Verde with its pretty yellow blooms. There were no other houses nearby save for an old adobe shack about five miles away, and a few scattered ruins here and there.

  She stood up as a car pulled into the driveway. She waved at the slim, fair-haired man who emerged. No one, looking at Robert Langley, would ever guess he was a bounty hunter. She’d had no idea such men still existed in this day and age. Dressed in a dark brown shirt and
cream-colored trousers, he looked more like a Hollywood movie star than a man who made his living hunting other men.

  “Hi, Mandy.” Rob looked at the horse and shook his head. “Where’d that come from?”

  “I have no idea. It was in the corral this morning when I got up.”

  Rob stroked the stallion’s neck. “What are you going to do with it?”

  She shrugged. “Keep it until the owner comes looking for it, I guess. If no one shows up in a day or two, I’ll have to buy some hay. So, do you know anything about horses?”

  Rob chuckled. “Only the ones I bet on at the track.”

  “A lot of help you are,” she muttered.

  “I thought we were going to breakfast?”

  “We are.” She thrust the lead rope into Rob’s hand. “Turn him loose in the corral for me, will you? And see if you can find a bucket or a barrel for some water. I’ll go get dressed.”

  Rob glanced down at his cream-colored slacks and beige loafers. “I guess I should have worn jeans and boots.”

  Amanda made a face at him, then ran up the narrow gravel path to the house. She took a quick shower, ran a brush through her hair, then slipped into a pair of navy blue slacks, a short-sleeved white sweater, and a pair of sandals.

  She brushed her teeth, dabbed on some cologne, grabbed her purse, took a last look in the mirror in the entryway before leaving the house.

  Rob was waiting for her on the porch. He whistled softly. “Nice.”

  “Thank you, kind sir. Ready?”

  “Well, since we're playing cowboy today, maybe I should quote the Duke,” Rob drawled. He rolled his shoulders in a passable John Wayne imitation. “Little lady, I was born ready.”

  Laughing softly, Amanda slipped her arm through his. “Let’s go, big boy.”