CRITICS ARE RAVING ABOUT LEIGH GREENWOOD!
"Leigh Greenwood NEVER disappoints. The characters are finely drawn, the plots always created with just the right amount of spice to pathos and always, always, a guaranteed good read!"
--Heartland Critiques
"Leigh Greenwood remains one of the forces to be reckoned with in the Americana romance sub-genre."
--Affaire de Coeur
"Leigh Greenwood continues to be a shining star of the genre!"
--The Literary Times
"Greenwood's books are bound to become classics."
--Rendezvous
"What more could we want?"
--Romantic Times
TEXAS HOMECOMING
"Leigh Greenwood raises the heat and tension with Texas Homecoming. Few authors provide a vivid descriptive Americana romance filled with realistic angst-laden protagonists as this author can."
--The Midwest Book Review
HIGH PRAISE FOR
THE COWBOYS SERIES!
JAKE
"Only a master craftsman can create so many strong characters and keep them completely individualized."
--Rendezvous
WARD
"Few authors write with the fervor of Leigh Greenwood. Once again [Greenwood] has created a tale well worth opening again and again!"
--Heartland Critiques
BUCK
"Buck is a wonderful Americana Romance!"
--Affaire de Coeur
CHET
"Chet has it all! Romance and rustlers, gunfighters and greed ... romance doesn't get any better than this!"
--The Literary Times
SEAN
"This book rivals the best this author has written so far, and readers will want to make space on their keeper shelves for Sean. Western romance at its finest!"
--The Literary Times
PETE
"Pete is another stroke on Leigh Greenwood's colorful canvas of the Old West. The plotting is brilliant and the conflict strong."
--Rendezvous
DREW
"Sexual tension and endless conflict make for a fast-paced adventure readers will long remember."
--Rendezvous
LUKE
"Another winner by Leigh Greenwood!"
--Romantic Times
MATT
"The Cowboys are keepers, from the first book to the last!"
--The Literary Times
A REAL MAN
"Has William told you that you have beautiful eyes? They're gray with flecks of silver."
Gray eyes weren't beautiful, flecked or not.
"They flash when you're angry," Owen said, his voice practically liquid heat, "but they're glowing now because you're feeling something quite different. Tell me what you're feeling."
She caught herself just in time to stop her treacherous tongue from telling him she liked being in his arms and wanted to hear more about her eyes.
"I'll bet William never did more than brush your hand. He's a fool. Anybody could tell him there's not a finer figure of a woman in Pinto Junction than you."
"Don't tell any more lies," she managed to say.
"I've heard more than one man say William doesn't deserve what he's getting. They say he'll never warm you up."
"I don't want to be warmed up," she said. "I want a husband who'll respect and admire me, one who'll treat me as an equal, who'll--"
"I'll bet he's never kissed you either."
Only one word could describe the feeling that flooded her. Panic.
"I can tell from your eyes I'm right. Well, I can't let you go into marriage without knowing what it's like to have been kissed by a real man at least once."
She struggled, not knowing what was coming, knowing instinctively it was dangerous. Then his lips touched hers, and she was lost.
THE NIGHT RIDERS series by Leigh Greenwood:
TEXAS HOMECOMING
THE COWBOYS series
JAKE
WARD
BUCK
CHET
SEAN
PETE
DREW
LUKE
MATT
THE SEVEN BRIDES series:
ROSE
FERN
IRIS
LAUREL
DAISY
VIOLET
LILY
Texas Bride
Leigh Greenwood
Copyright (c) 2002, 2012 Leigh Greenwood
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
About the Author
Chapter One
South Texas, 1867
Owen Wheeler wiped away the perspiration that ran down the back of his neck as he rode south toward the Nueces River. He took a swallow from his canteen and thought of his childhood home in the Appalachian Mountains. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd wandered their tree-covered slopes, drunk from the refreshingly cold water of sparkling streams. He hated southern Texas. It was unbearably hot and covered with brown grass and thorny plants that clawed, scratched, or tore at him as he rode by. It was so flat he could see for miles in any direction. If he had any sense, he'd be heading back to Virginia, not into some godforsaken, ramshackle town.
Pinto Junction. First, it wasn't a junction. There was nothing to connect. Second, a pinto was a brown and white horse. Everything in Pinto Junction was weathered gray. But it was the biggest town between San Antonio and the Rio Grande River. And if his suspicions were right, it was the center of the rustling going on all over south Texas.
That's why he'd come. He'd heard Laveau diViere had turned to rustling, and he meant to hang Laveau for treason.
Owen entered the town from the north. He could tell immediately there wasn't much to this town that didn't owe its living to the cattle ranches that stretched for hundreds of miles in all directions, and from the looks of things, they weren't doing well. He saw one run-down hotel. The saloons didn't encourage him to hope he'd find more comfortable accommodations. He had money--his cousin Cade had divided the profits from the herd they'd taken to market--but he didn't plan to spend it. As far as people here would know, he was a would-be rancher with a penchant for gambling. His real trade, carpentry, wouldn't allow him to move around as freely as he wanted.
He carefully inspected each saloon he passed, guessing at the customers in each, calculating his chances of winning at poker while listening for the information he needed to hunt down Laveau. But first he wanted to find a room and change out of his worn denim pants and sweat-soaked shirt. He was certain that even in south Texas women wanted their men to smell as good as they looked. Owen knew he looked mighty good.
He paused before a house with a sign on the porch. ROOMS TO LET. He liked the look of the house. It was substantial, the largest in town, but not so big it would be like living in a hotel. He hoped the maid was pretty.
> He got down off his horse and walked up to the house. The owner had made some effort toward a garden, but the killing heat had turned everything brown. Even the low fence that separated the yard from the road appeared to sag under the intensity of the summer heat. Owen was relieved to reach the shade of the porch. Several rocking chairs gave evidence it was sometimes cool enough to sit outside.
An attractive woman who looked a few years past the first bloom of youth opened the door.
"I'm Owen Wheeler," Owen said, slipping effortlessly into the smiling charm he used on every female he met. "I'm hoping you have at least one room still vacant."
"Yes, I have a room," the woman replied. She appeared confident and slightly aloof.
"May I come in and see it?"
"Wait here a moment." She closed the door and left him standing on the porch.
Owen didn't bowl over every female he met, but none had closed the door in his face once he'd put himself out to be charming, certainly not one buried so deep in the bottom of Texas she was never likely to run across a better-looking man. Before he could get curious, the door opened again. A young woman of more health than beauty said, "Miss Moody tells me you're looking for a room."
So the pretty one wasn't married. She seemed more promising than this tall, disapproving female. "That's right."
The woman neither smiled nor frowned, just watched him calmly out of amazing gray eyes apparently unimpressed with what she saw. She looked like a Quaker with her plain dress, hands folded in front, her coffee-brown hair captured in a bun at the back of her neck. But there was something about her that the prettier Miss Moody lacked, a kind of energy, an inner force or strength which even a stranger on first meeting couldn't miss. It didn't make her less plain, but somehow it made her plainness matter less. It also made her more interesting. More of a challenge to make her like him despite her obvious determination to do just the opposite.
"Wouldn't you be more comfortable at one of the saloons?" she asked.
"No, ma'am, I wouldn't," Owen said, beginning to be irritated. "I want to take a bath and change my clothes. I'm not used to this infernal heat."
"It's been a relatively cool summer."
"Not for anybody who wasn't born in this hell of southern Texas," Owen snapped.
"Miss Moody doesn't allow cursing."
"That wasn't cussing. When I cuss, you'll know."
"Are your boots clean?" She looked him over again before reluctantly opening the door.
"They haven't touched the ground since I stepped into the saddle this morning."
"Follow me. Be sure to take your hat off. Miss Moody is very particular about that."
Owen felt as if he'd stepped into a woman's bedroom rather than the parlor. He'd never seen so much chintz or so many frills and ruffles.
"Do you mind telling me your name?"
She didn't slow down or turn around. "Why will you be needing it?"
"I'll have to call you something. You'll be in and out of my room all the time."
She stopped then, turned to face him, her frown even more pronounced. "My name is Hetta Gwynne. I'll see you have little reason to use it." Not even a hint of flirtatiousness. She turned and started off once again.
Owen followed her up a stairway and down a narrow hall to a room that contained an iron-frame bed, a wardrobe, and a small table with a pitcher and basin. No chair and no curtains, only shades. The bedspread was a pale blue, the design on the wallpaper faded, and the pitcher and basin plain white.
"Rather stark, isn't it?" Owen asked.
"Most of our lodgers are men."
As though men were unable to appreciate color and variety. "Do you serve meals?"
"They'll be extra."
"Many restaurants in town?"
"Several."
"Any good?"
"Good enough for a man."
He wasn't used to being ignored by women, especially a plain one. His ego had been bruised. He would wring a response out of Hetta Gwynne if it was the last thing he did. "Where is the bathtub?" he asked.
"Outside. You have to pump your own water."
"You mean you expect me to take a bath in cold water?"
"The water is pumped into a cistern where it's heated by the sun. When you finish, you have to fill it up again. Laundry is an extra fifty cents a week. Leave your clothes in the bathhouse if you want them washed."
"Do you do the wash?"
Her gaze narrowed. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just curious. I wondered if Miss Moody did the washing."
"Miss Moody owns this house. She doesn't work."
"Do you do everything? Clean the rooms, wash the clothes, cook?"
"We don't have many guests."
"Aren't you afraid to be alone with strange men?"
"I keep a shotgun next to the bed. I shot a man a year ago. I haven't been bothered since."
Clearly a woman to avoid. "Where can I stable my horse?"
"The blacksmith has a barn. Ask him. If you need anything else, ring the bell on the table by the front door. Guests aren't allowed anywhere on the first floor except the parlor and dining room. Miss Moody is most particular about that."
Owen had never met two more unlikely prospects to help relieve tedium. He considered looking elsewhere for lodgings.
"I'll try not to upset Miss Moody. I hope you won't have any more lodgers wanting a bath. I intend to use every drop of hot water."
"We don't get many people coming through."
"Of course, if you want to take a bath--"
"We change the sheets once a week," she went on, ignoring his insinuation. "Miss Moody likes to be paid a week in advance. Which meals do you want to take?"
"Supper." He dropped several coins into her outstretched hand. "I'll let you know about the rest afterwards."
Then she left him. Just closed the door and left.
"Ida Moody's uncle owns half the town," Myrl Henry was telling Owen. "She owns the other half."
The blacksmith had been happy to stable Owen's horse, but he had been as unwilling to talk to a stranger as Hetta Gwynne. The situation was the same at the first two saloons Owen entered. In the third he encountered Myrl, a broken-down cowboy more than willing to talk in exchange for free beer. In fifteen minutes he'd told Owen where to find the best whiskey, the best food, and the best poker games. He'd also warned him which saloons were the haunts of rustlers.
"You want to stay away from them," Myrl said. "If Ida finds out you been going there, she'll make you move out."
"Why?"
"She's afraid it'll give her place a bad name."
"Why? Is she courting?"
Myrl laughed. "Ain't nobody around here good enough for Ida."
"She and that maid ought to get along like gangbusters."
"Miss Ida's too good for any man. Hetta just doesn't like 'em. I'm surprised she didn't close the door on you. Of course, if you was homely, she'd be nice as an old maid aunt. Works like a slave for Miss Ida. She owns a ranch, but it's a ruin."
"What happened?" Owen asked. The saloon was the coolest spot he'd found. He was in no hurry to leave.
"Her pa liked catting around more than he liked working. He was a real looker, so he always found plenty of women who was willing. He let the place run down something awful. Then he went off and got himself killed in the war. Her ma died soon after. Then lightning struck the house and burned part of it. After rustlers ran off most of her stock, there wasn't much point in trying to work the place by herself, so she went to work for Miss Ida." Myrl leaned back in his chair, picked his teeth with a splinter. "What brings you to Pinto Junction?"
"I'm thinking about buying a ranch."
"Go someplace else. Rustlers will break you inside a year."
"What are folks doing to stop it?"
"What can we do? Can't be everyplace at once."
"You ought to organize."
"Nobody wants to listen to anybody else. And the merchants don't want to upset things too muc
h. They're afraid the rustlers will turn on them."
Owen began to wonder if the information he'd gotten was dependable. He doubted there was room for more than one rustling operation in the area, but he couldn't see Laveau's ego allowing him to work for anyone.
But this wasn't the time to mention Laveau. According to Myrl, Laveau had the stamp of approval of the Reconstruction and the Union army. Anyone who touched him could end up with a rope around his neck, and Owen was determined the neck to stretch would not be his own.
Myrl finished up his beer and looked hopefully at Owen.
"I think I'll look around tomorrow," Owen said. "If I'm to buy a ranch, I'll want to know what my neighbors are like."
"Be careful," Myrl said. "People around here don't take kindly to outsiders."
Owen patted the gun at his hip. "That's what this is for." He'd used a rifle most of his life, but after a year in Texas he felt as if he'd been born with a gun at his waist. "How about you coming with me? You can smooth the way and answer the questions they won't. I'll stand you another beer."
Myrl grinned, and they shook hands. They got up and headed toward the doors. Before Owen's eyes had time to adjust to the bright sunlight, he heard gunshots from the street. Three men, one big and heavyset, another lean and mean-looking, and a third short and nearly as thick as he was tall, had circled a young man and were firing shots at his feet and shouting that they wanted to see how well a Johnny Reb could dance. The young man was unarmed and limping.
"Who are those men?" Owen asked Myrl.
"Newt Howren and his cronies," Myrl said. "Damn the bullies! Everybody knows Ben Logan's got a gimpy leg from the war."
"Did Newt or his friends fight?"
"They only fight when they're paid."
Owen's feet were moving before he realized he was walking into the middle of a fight that wasn't his. As he pushed his way into the circle, he knocked the lean man out of the way.
"You all right?" he asked the boy.
"So far." His eyes cut to the left, and Owen turned in time to see the lean man raising his gun. Owen threw himself to one side while drawing his own gun. His aim was off so badly the bullet went through the man's arm instead of his heart. Owen rolled up on his knees in time to see the short, fat man draw a bead on him. The man took time to aim.
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