Surrendered (Intrique Under Western Skies Book 2)

by Elaine Manders

  Surrendered

  Book 2

  Intrigue under Western Skies

  Elaine Manders

  Copyright ©2016, Elaine Manders

  All Rights Reserved

  This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events, places, or persons is purely coincidental. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the author’s written permission with the exception of brief quotations in reviews.

  Scripture references are taken from the King James Version (KJV) of the Bible.

  Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour.

  - 1 Peter 5:8

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to those who reach the end and see no way out, yet come to themselves and surrender their lives to Christ—the way, the truth, and the life.

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  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

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Author’s Note

  About the Author

  Foreword

  Biological warfare has existed since the beginning of human conflict. Many poisons were organically based. But for most of history, diseases were too difficult to control to make useful weapons. Sadly, as knowledge of disease increased, men found diabolical ways to use this same knowledge for evil.

  For centuries, anthrax was well known in the wool and tanning industries, but it wasn’t until 1878 that John Henry Bell, a doctor in Bradford, England, linked anthrax to the wool-sorter disease. With proof anthrax was carried by livestock, Louis Pasteur developed a successful vaccine for animals in 1881.

  Over the next decades, vaccines drastically reduced the spread of the disease, but it is still as deadly when it erupts in unvaccinated animals. The danger of anthrax lies in its spores, which survive long after the affected animal has died. Not only must the livestock be killed and burned, but all the grassland it has fed on. An outbreak on a ranch can be devastating and take years to recover.

  Whether it was ever used as sabotage against an enemy rancher, I don’t know, but it certainly could have been.

  The thief who comes to steal and to kill and to destroy uses natural as well as unnatural weapons.

  Chapter 1

  St Louis, Missouri, 1884

  Rain washed air rushed into the coach.

  Rhyan Cason hunched his tall frame in the opened door and swept a gaze from one end of the street to the other. He swiped his mouth with the back of his hand, his lips so dry, they stuck together. Thirst parched him, and if he were a drinking man, he’d beeline to the saloon across the street.

  No time for that. Clearing the door, he stepped into a mud puddle.

  The day couldn’t get any worse. Having missed his train connections, he was over a day behind schedule. The men he’d come to meet had given up and gone home. His only saving grace, they’d left signed contracts at the hotel, which meant they’d agreed to his price.

  “Sorry about that, mister.” The driver studied Rhyan’s splattered pant legs. “I should’ve parked it closer, but hang it, the city ought to fix these holes.”

  Rhyan stretched the tight muscles of his broad shoulders and quirked a smile. “That’s all right. You take my trunk in, and I’ll carry the bag.”

  Despite the aggravation, nothing would wipe the grin off his face today. He could fall backwards into the horse trough, or the hotel’s ornate marble overhang could crash on top of him, and he’d die happy. His arduous, month long business trip was successful for the most part, and he was going home.

  To her.

  He hurried up the steps of the Grand Hotel, and a valet swung the doors open. With a backward glance to the setting sun, Rhyan stepped inside. He set his carpetbag on the marble floor, brushed soot off his coat, then lifted the derby from his head to rake his fingers through hair wet with sweat. The desire for a bath hadn’t been stronger since he fell in the pig sty when he was eleven.

  Running a finger all the way around his shirt collar, he adjusted his string tie and swept a glance at the crowded lobby. He hefted the bag and made his way to the counter. The clerk had his back to Rhyan, but a ding of the bell made the balding man jerk to attention.

  “May I help you?”

  “I’m Rhyan Cason. You have some documents for me. I have identification somewhere.” He fumbled inside his coat.

  “No need for identification. I’d know you anywhere, Mr. Cason.” He handed Rhyan the documents. “I wonder if I might get your autograph—for my wife.”

  Rhyan slid the papers in his coat pocket. “Are you sure your wife wants my autograph?”

  “Oh my, yes.” The man pulled a copy of The Atlantic Monthly from under the counter. The magazine had been folded back to reveal an article Rhyan recognized as an interview he’d given at a New York Republican delegates’ meeting, the one that rejected Arthur as their nominee. That seemed like a lifetime ago. At least the article was innocuous—not like those in the society columns.

  He took the pen the clerk held under his nose. “Her name’s Josephine,” the man urged. “They’re holding a rally for Cleveland here tomorrow. Is that why you’re here? I think the Democrats have a chance this year, don’t you?”

  Rhyan clutched his patience. After a month of political talk, it was the last thing he wanted to discuss. “I wouldn’t be surprised.” He automatically wrote “To Josephine,” and signed his name in the margin of the article. “No, I’m here only on business, but it looks like I’ll have to stay the night. Do you have a room?” He might have to spend the night, but in the morning he’d be on the first train west. To Sollano, his ranch.

  The clerk slapped his shining forehead. “I almost forgot. A gentleman came in earlier asking for you. When I told him you hadn’t arrived, he took our last room, but it has two beds.”

  The day just got worse. He’d spent last night on a Pullman being serenaded by an orchestra of snoring men. “I’d prefer a room by myself. Who was this gentleman?”

  The clerk conferred with the register. “A Mr. Walstein. He seemed most anxious to speak with you…said he was your lawyer.”

  Dread dropped all the way to Rhyan’s traveling boots as his brows furrowed into a scowl. Walstein was his new lawyer. The old one was in prison for conspiring to commit murder. His murder. Why would Walstein chase him down in St Louis? Didn’t he know Rhyan was on his way home? Why the urgency?

  The clerk pursed his thin slips. “Our rooms are quite spacious, and I’m afraid all the hotels are full, because of the campaign rally, you understand. Mr. Walstein is in room 224. If there’s any other way we could make you comfortable—”

  “A bath, hot and quick.”

  “Certainly, and thank you for the autograph, Mr. Cason. This will make Josephine the talk of her garden club.”

  At least Josephine would get something out of this trip. With his jaw tightened in irritation and carpetbag in hand, Rhyan th
readed his way through the milling people to the grand staircase. He halted to allow a couple to go before him. The woman twisted her blond head to give him a seductive backward glance.

  Such glances were nothing new to him, and any other time, he’d have returned the woman’s smile. At the moment, thoughts of another woman filled his mind. He’d been away from her too long. No calamity Walstein had waiting for him, nothing he had to say, would keep Rhyan from going home. Carianne would likely be at her house in Westerfield, but that was only a few miles from the ranch.

  They’d made a secret pact to get married after a short courtship. As soon as he got home, he planned to make those intentions public.

  He rapped on the door labeled 224, and it swung open on well-oiled hinges.

  Walstein was one of those nondescript men who would’ve disappeared in any crowd. He couldn’t claim any distinguishing features, from his thinning brown hair to his slate gray eyes to his chiseled moustache.

  “Mr. Cason, thank heavens you’re here. I worried I wouldn’t catch you in time. Miss Barlow told me St Louis was the last leg of your journey.” Walstein grabbed Rhyan’s hand to shake it and pulled him into the room.

  The lawyer’s hot, clammy palm made Rhyan swipe his hand on his pants. A nerve in his neck twitched at the mention of Carianne’s name. If she sent Walstein here, this wouldn’t be good. “Why did you have to catch me? I’ll be back in Westerfield tomorrow.”

  Walstein’s eyes stretched to a look just shy of horrified. “You have to go directly to the ranch. Above all, you mustn’t arrive at the Westerfield depot.”

  The lawyer wasn’t making any sense. “Why not?”

  “They’re waiting for you.” Walstein pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. “Would you like a drink?” He motioned to a table filled with decanters and glasses.

  Rhyan wondered if Walstein had already imbibed. His thirst demanded water, not spirits. “No thanks. Who’s waiting for me?”

  “The press. The law.”

  Gleeful anticipation of the morrow took flight, and talons of dismay sank to his core. “Are they still there? Senator Timmons’s murder trial was over two weeks ago.” What other reason would keep the press in the little prairie town after the sensational trial? The senator’s wife had been found innocent of his murder by reason of self-defense.

  “They did leave, but they’re back, and they’re not the only ones ready to jump you. The government agents and the law.”

  Walstein had to be joshing, but Rhyan doubted he even knew how to josh. “The law? What have I done wrong?” Surely they hadn’t found a way to pin Timmon’s death on him.

  “Nothing that you’ve done.”

  Rhyan strode to the window to open the panes. Although the outside air was as hot as inside, even a little circulation would help. He was about to choke. After drawing in a lungful of air, he turned to Walstein. “Are you going to explain, or should I pull it out of you, one horrible detail after another?”

  Walstein looked from one side of the room to the other, as if trying to find a way of escape. “Senator Timmons got in a parting shot before he died. He set in motion a scheme to kill off your herds and ruin the ranch.”

  “That was his plan all along, aside from killing me, but he didn’t succeed.”

  “Actually, he may have—in a way. Are you sure you don’t want something to drink?” Walstein moved to the table holding the liquor.

  Rhyan took three long strides toward the lawyer. “No, I don’t want a drink. I want an explanation.” His voice rose to a shout, and if he were still the atheist he’d been a few weeks ago, he’d have added a curse.

  Walstein shot back a step like he feared Rhyan would throttle him. “Timmons got his men hired on as your cowboys, and they brought in diseased cattle to mingle with your herds, including those being sold. So many things were happening, no one noticed until—”

  “What disease?”

  “Anthrax.”

  Rhyan racked his brain for all the information he’d ever heard of anthrax. Contagious. Fatal. But cattle in this part of the country had never been bothered.

  Walstein answered his incredulous glance. “They were holding them, waiting for the opportunity. It wasn’t discovered until one of the ranchers who’d bought your cattle complained. That brought in inspectors and cattle started dropping.”

  Rhyan slipped his hand to the inside pocket of his coat where the contract selling his cattle to a St Louis slaughterhouse rested. Neither it nor any of a dozen other such contracts were worth the ink used to sign them now. “How many cattle were infected?”

  “I don’t know that. The authorities have managed to keep everything quiet. They were afraid of a panic, but it became public knowledge day before yesterday. That’s why the press is waiting for you.” Walstein fisted his hands. “I’ve got to have help, Mr. Cason. I’m not familiar with federal law, so I don’t know where you stand there, and there’ll be lawsuits. Other states are involved. You need to hire other lawyers. It’ll take a team effort.”

  So that’s what had the lawyer so riled. The job was too much for him. Unable to digest half the man was saying, Rhyan rubbed his throbbing temple. “All right, hire as many as you need.” He wondered if he’d be able to pay them.

  If he’d be able to afford a wife.

  Carianne. She was right there in the middle of all this, facing it alone. Something else she’d endured because of him.

  A knock sounded and Walstein ran across the room and grabbed the doorknob like it was a lifeline.

  “Mr. Cason’s bath is ready,” the porter announced.

  Rhyan crossed the room, grabbing his carpetbag on the way.

  Walstein stopped him. “I’ll arrange dinner for us in the dining room while you bathe.”

  Rhyan handed his bag to the uniformed hotel man. “Never mind. I’m going to call on friends. I’ll have dinner there.” Though he had no idea whether he’d be welcome or not, he added, “I’ll spend the night.”

  “I’ve already booked our passage by steamship. It’ll leave at six in the morning.”

  “Go on without me. I’m going by train.” He needed time alone, and despite the soot and noise, a train provided the best place to think. To prepare.

  Rhyan followed the porter down the long hallway. The married sister of his best friend, Colt Holloman, lived here in St. Louis. They’d played together as children, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her name was Cindy. What was her last name now? Some color. White? Black? Brown?

  He snapped his fingers. Gray—Cindy Gray. Her husband had the same name as the President, Chester. Someone could direct him to Chester Gray’s residence.

  Emma was really the one he wanted to see. She’d been staying with her daughter since the birth of Cindy’s baby. Emma had always treated Rhyan like another one of her children, and he’d considered her his mother since his own abandoned him when he was ten.

  Maybe it was just some primitive desire to run to one’s mama in times of trouble, but a strong urge drew him to Emma.

  ***

  Sollano Ranch, Nebraska

  For the tenth time, Carianne Barlow lifted the drapes from the tall windows dominating one side of the ranch house’s massive library. A red sun barely clung to the horizon, lengthening shadows across the courtyard. Beyond, pastures stretched, oddly bare at this time of day. They should be filled with cattle coming home to settle down for the night. Cowboys should be riding along, eager to finish their chores and return to the bunkhouses to eat, play cards and darts, joke and laugh. In the span of two weeks, both cattle and cowboys had all but disappeared.

  Rhyan wouldn’t return home tonight. Carianne knew that, but a tiny spark of hope kept her pacing the floor and straining her ears. Her bags were packed. She’d return to her little house in town and work on the library she’d promised the women of Westerfield. But she refused to leave before Rhyan returned. Her need to see him, comfort him, superseded any sense of propriety.

  A faint sound caug
ht her attention. Hoof beats. A lone horseman coming up the paved path leading to the house. It could only be—

  Her heart jumped to her throat and excitement gave flight to her feet. She didn’t bother to check at the window but rushed to the door.

  As she swung the door open, she clamped her smiling lips shut.

  Colt Holliman, owner of the Double Bar H horse ranch next door.

  Not that she wasn’t glad to see Colt. But he wasn’t Rhyan.

  The tall wrangler swept his brown Stetson from wheaten colored hair and crossed the threshold. Though best friends since boyhood, Colt and Rhyan couldn’t have been more different. Colt’s clear blue eyes held nothing back, and he moved in a slow and deliberate manner. He was considerate and gentile, his speech calm and reassuring with still a trace of his southern heritage.

  Rhyan was tense but controlled, and his whole demeanor spoke of energy and passion.

  She closed her eyes and pictured him. Black, thick hair fell in tempting waves over his forehead, just above his brows and dark, sultry eyes. He was confrontational, brash, even sarcastic at times. She couldn’t even remember the time before she loved him.

  As different as these two men were, there was one way they were alike—they were both devastatingly handsome. She lifted her lashes and mustered a wobbly smile.

  Colt gave no indication he noticed her obvious disappointment. He twisted his hat in his hands. “Is Rhyan here?”

  “No, he hasn’t arrived yet. Is anything wrong?”

  “The town was quiet today. I thought you would’ve moved back since they lifted the quarantine.” Colt shifted from one foot to the other, staring at the floor. Whatever brought him out here, he was reluctant to share it with her.

  “No, I’m waiting.” She didn’t have to explain for what. With a shrug, she turned to lead the way to the library.

  Colt hung back. “Carianne, Smitty died.”