Diablo

by Potter, Patricia;

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  PRAISE FOR THE WRITING OF PATRICIA POTTER

  “Patricia Potter is a master storyteller, a powerful weaver of romantic tales.” —Mary Jo Putney, New York Times–bestselling author

  “One of the romance genre’s finest talents.” —Romantic Times

  “Patricia Potter will thrill lovers of the suspense genre as well as those who enjoy a good romance.” —Booklist

  “Potter proves herself a gifted writer as artisan, creating a rich fabric of strong characters whose wit and intellect will enthrall even as their adventures entertain.” —BookPage

  “When a historical romance [gets] the Potter treatment, the story line is pure action and excitement, and the characters are wonderful.” —BookBrowse

  “Potter has an expert ability to invest in fully realized characters and a strong sense of place without losing momentum in the details, making this novel a pure pleasure.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review of Beloved Warrior

  “[Potter] proves that she’s adept at penning both enthralling historicals and captivating contemporary novels.” —Booklist, starred review of Dancing with a Rogue

  Diablo

  Patricia Potter

  Chapter One

  Texas, 1867

  It was not so much the prospect of dying as the way in which he would die in two days that kept Kane O’Brien awake.

  The cell was small and stifling in the July heat. The sun baked the prison during the day with smothering intensity, permeating the rock and stone and iron so that its disappearance at night did little to cool the interior. Kane had taken off his sweat-soaked shirt. That gave insignificant relief, but at least it no longer clung to his body.

  Maybe dying wouldn’t be so bad, even at the end of a rope.

  The walls closed in on him. He’d never wanted to see the inside of a prison again, not after the year he spent in a Union prison camp. His hand went to his cheek, to the scar running down the side of his face. A devil’s face, one of his enemies had called it. Diablo.

  And Diablo he had become.

  He sat on the stone slab they called a bed, facing an iron door fixed into a wall of stone. Only a minimum of light crept inside. David Carson was somewhere within this cellblock. Davy, his best friend for the past twenty-five years, was to die with him. That’s what Kane regretted the most—that his own anger and impulsiveness were leading not only to his own death, but to Davy’s. It was damned unfair. Still, they’d given the bastards a good chase.

  He paced the small cell, wishing for a breath of sweet air, but the cells for the condemned were underground.

  Condemned! It was ironic that he’d survived four years of war to die this way. The trial had been short, the verdict a foregone conclusion. Even he couldn’t deny his guilt, some of it, anyway.

  Footsteps echoed in the corridor. It wasn’t time yet for the slop they called food. Kane took the few steps to the cell door, peering out of the small grated opening. He couldn’t see much, but the sound of boots and spurs against the rock floors grew louder.

  Momentary hope surfaced as he made out a tall figure, a marshal’s badge pinned on the leather vest he was wearing. He stepped back, unwilling to allow anyone, much less his enemies, to see his fear and anxiety.

  A key grated harshly in the door, the sound of metal against metal echoing in the corridor. Then the door was pushed open, and the man entered, limping slightly. He was tall, rangy, and just a touch familiar. Kane studied him, insolently, as the law officer did the same to him. The visitor’s gaze was sharp, his eyes missing little. For a moment he focused on the scar distinguishing Kane’s face.

  “Captain O’Brien,” the man finally said.

  Kane bowed mockingly. “I haven’t been a captain for a long time. I am, though, at your service, but not particularly from choice.”

  The lawman smiled slightly. “You don’t remember me. Well, there’s no particular reason you should. I, on the other hand, have a very good reason to remember you.”

  Kane was intrigued despite himself. There was no anger in the man’s voice or expression, only interest. The marshal turned around and with a gesture of his head dismissed the guard.

  The key turned again. Kane was once more locked in, but this time he had a hostage. Too bad the marshal didn’t have a gun in his holster.

  “Don’t even think about it, O’Brien,” the visitor said. “They have orders. They won’t let you go, even if you threaten my life, and I think I’m probably in better shape right now than you.”

  Kane shrugged. “They can’t kill me twice. I wouldn’t mind taking another Yank with me.”

  “Even one whose life you saved three years ago?” The question came unexpectedly, and was uttered with little feeling.

  Kane’s eyes narrowed as he studied the officer more closely. “If I saved a Yank’s life, it was a mistake.”

  “It probably was—for you. You were taken prisoner because of it,” the marshal said, forcing Kane to remember.

  It came back in flashes. The wounded man in blue calling for water—a captain, his face bearded, his light-colored hair dark with blood. As hardened to battle, to cries and screams, as Kane had been, something that day had stopped him, made him pause and look back. Some of his men lay in that killing field, too, but they were still.

  As he watched the rest of his troop disappear into the woods ahead, he retraced his steps. He took his canteen from his belt, helped the Yank drink, and then tied a tourniquet around his leg. He turned to leave, and suddenly he’d been surrounded.

  It had been the most damn fool thing he’d done during the war, and it had cost him a year of his life, a year of freezing cold and near starvation. He hadn’t really hated until then, but he hated after that. He’d experienced cruelty for cruelty’s sake. There had been no honor, no humanity, in the prison at Elmira.

  “You shouldn’t have reminded me,” he told the marshal. “Unless, of course, you’re here to return the favor.”

  “I wish I could,” the lawman said. He held out his hand. “Ben Masters.”

  Kane refused it. “I suppose there’s a reason for this visit?”

  Masters looked at his outstretched hand, then dropped it. He seemed to take no particular offense, though. “There is. I can’t save you myself, but others can. I have a proposition for you.”

  A thread of hope stirred within Kane. He tried not to show it. “What kind of proposition?” Suspicion hardened his voice.

  “Have you ever heard of the Sanctuary?”

  “No,” Kane said. “But it sounds like a good place at the moment.”

  “A lot of outlaws think so.” Masters hesitated. “It’s a hideout. Expensive. Well-protected. Lawmen in four territories have been trying to find it for years.” He paused. “Your … reputation might get you inside.”

  “To spy for you?” Kane’s mind was racing ahead. The law must be desperate to take a chance with him. He’d been wanted for two years. At one time, he thought the whole U.S. Army was after him. The fact that they were ready to use him explained real well how much they wanted Sanctuary.

  Masters must have heard the derision in his voice. His mouth grew grim. “Yes.”

  “And what do I get in return?”

  “You get us a location, and we find the hideout, you’ll have a pardon.”

  Kane turned away from him. “Go to hell. I don’t like spies. I don’t like your government.”

  “You’d rather hang?”

  “Than to spy for you against my own kind? Yes.”

  “What about your friend?”

  Kane turned around slowly. He s
tared at Masters. He tried to keep his face from revealing anything. “Davy goes too? Have you talked to him?”

  “No,” Masters replied. “He stays here. But if you do the job, he won’t hang.”

  “That’s not good enough,” Kane said. “A pardon. A full pardon for him?”

  Masters shook his head. “I can’t guarantee that. Just that he won’t hang. It took all my persuasion to get the governor to agree to pardon you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You have a reputation no one can question. We can’t manufacture that kind of past.”

  Kane hadn’t survived the war and two years as an outlaw without sensing danger. “How many men have you sent looking for this place?”

  Masters considered his answer long enough for Kane’s instincts to go on alert. “Two,” the lawman finally said.

  “How many came back?”

  “Neither.”

  “Trying to save Texas the hangman’s fee?”

  “I would think a bullet would be preferable to a rope.” For the first time, Masters’s gaze left Kane’s and seemed to focus on a particular rock in the wall.

  “Where is this place? Texas?”

  “That’s the hell of it. It could be in any of four jurisdictions—Indian Territory, Colorado Territory, Texas, New Mexico. Outlaws just seem to disappear when lawmen start to close in. We keep hearing rumors about this place, but no one has any idea where it is. My territory is southern Colorado, but we’re cooperating with Texas and the marshals in the Indian and New Mexico territories.” Masters’s gaze now bored into Kane. “When I heard about Diablo, that Kane O’Brien was Diablo and that you had been condemned, I suggested a deal. Texas authorities were reluctant, but—”

  “I bet they were,” Kane interrupted.

  Masters ignored him. “I thought you might be willing to make a trade.”

  “You thought wrong. You’re asking me to betray my own kind to save my skin.”

  “Those kind wouldn’t have stopped to save an enemy soldier,” Masters pointed out.

  “A grand moment of idiocy,” Kane said bitterly. “It cost me a year of life. It’s a mistake I won’t make again. You sure as hell weren’t worth it.” He allowed a second to go by, then muttered in disgust, “A lawman, by God.”

  “I read the report on your trial,” Masters said quietly. “I know how Diablo was born. You haven’t changed that much in three years. You’re still tilting at windmills.”

  “You know nothing,” Kane said.

  “I know you have one chance to save yourself and your friend from dying in two days. Maybe you don’t care about yourself, but David Carson is different, isn’t he? Maybe he wants to live. Maybe his family wants him to live.”

  It was a shot in the gut. Kane felt it rip through him. That had been the worst of his trial, seeing Davy’s wife and son sitting in the courtroom, watching their faces as the verdict was announced. He suddenly made a decision. “I’ll agree on one condition,” he said. “Davy gets a full pardon.”

  “I can’t promise that,” Masters said again. “I got a pardon promised for you because you would be risking your life. Carson’s sentence is to be commuted to prison.”

  “Then the answer is no,” Kane said. “Davy couldn’t survive years in prison. I had a year of it, remember? We’d both be better off dead.”

  Masters hesitated. “I’ll do what I can.”

  “I want him with me.”

  “No,” Masters said firmly. “He’s the only reason I got the governor to agree. The fact that he’ll hang if you run is the only leash we have.”

  Kane’s fingers clenched into a fist. “You have it all figured, don’t you?”

  Masters was silent, his eyes watchful as he waited.

  “A pardon for David Carson,” Kane said. “I don’t care about myself. Take it or leave it.”

  “If I can convince the governor to give your pardon to Carson, you’ll go?”

  “Yes.”

  “And return to face your own sentence?”

  Kane’s lips moved into a slight, sardonic smile. “Don’t ever go into the drummer business, Masters. You couldn’t sell a dying man a sip of water.”

  “I just want to be sure we understand each other.”

  “We understand each other,” Kane repeated. “But I want Davy’s pardon in writing, and I want it in the hands of someone I trust.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “You’d better hurry.” Kane leaned against the stone wall of his cell. “Oh, and I want that pardon for Davy even if I’m killed.”

  “I might be able to convince the governor … if we find your body.”

  “I’ll try to die where you can find me. Don’t want to inconvenience you any.”

  Masters didn’t answer. He went to the door and yelled for the guard, then said to Kane, “I’ll be back.”

  “Even if the governor turns you down?”

  “I’ll be back,” Masters said again. “Either way.”

  “Don’t bother coming if he says no. I don’t want to waste my last hours being reminded of an error in judgment.”

  Masters was spared making a reply. The door opened, and he started to leave. He paused a moment, looked back as if to say something, then shook his head. He disappeared out the door, and Kane was left with the sound of iron closing on iron and the echo of spurs on the stone floor.

  Kane stood where he was, his mind running over every word of the conversation. Maybe he could save Davy. Maybe. He rubbed the scar on his face. It itched, as it always seemed to do when he was troubled. To save Davy, he would have to become a marionette, his strings pulled by a man he despised: a lawman who wanted to use him for his own purposes, who would hold the life of his friend hostage.

  He hated the idea. He hated the prospect of being a spy, of betraying people who trusted him. But he would do anything for Davy.

  Masters had a day and a half before he and Davy were scheduled to die. Kane wondered whether the marshal would succeed.

  Twelve hours until the noose would drop around his neck.

  Kane had given up on Masters. He’d asked too much. He tried to tell himself the offer had been a hoax from the beginning, a final indignity. But part of him wanted to hang on to hope just a little bit longer. All of him wanted Davy to see his family again.

  He refused the plate of beans that would be his last meal. He drank the coffee, though. Drinking it passed the time. He tried not to think of the next morning.

  The guard had been taunting him all day, telling him how various men had died on the rope. All of them, according to the guard, ended up begging. Some, he’d smirked, had taken ten minutes or more to die. There were wagers on how fast Diablo would die. Kane had ignored him, and finally the guard left.

  Kane lay down on his bed, leaned his head against the wall, and closed his eyes. He sorted through memories as if they were cards in a poker deck. He discarded the jokers: the war, his quixotic rescue of Masters, his fated plunge into outlawry.

  Instead, he focused on the aces. Ah, the aces. The horse races with Davy across the fields. The swimming hole where he and Davy used to splash after a day of tending cattle. A table brimming with biscuits and chicken and fresh vegetables. But Davy was waiting to die, just as he was. And a tin plate of cold, mushy beans sat on the floor near the door, mocking him with their rancid smell.

  Back to the jokers. They were easier to bear.

  Then he heard the footsteps, just as he had yesterday. He didn’t move, but he felt his muscles tense. The steps neared. He didn’t turn his head, but he heard the sound of the key in the lock, and the heavy door groaning as it opened.

  “Get up,” the guard said as he entered the cell. He was followed by Marshal Ben Masters.

  “What are you going to do if I don’t?” Kane drawled.

  The guard took a club from his belt and moved threateningly over to the slab. His arm was caught by Masters. “No,” Masters ordered. “Leave us.”

  The guard reluctantly ret
reated.

  Kane sat up lazily, leaning his back against the stone wall. And waited.

  “I have what you wanted,” Masters said. “You find Sanctuary for us, and Carson goes free.”

  “In writing?”

  “In writing.”

  A glimmer of triumph snaked through Kane, but he was careful not to show it. “I want to see it sent to an attorney in Austin.” He gave the name. And agreed, at Masters’s insistence, that the envelope be labeled OPEN ONLY IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH.

  “There are some conditions,” Masters said after a moment. “I’ll need your word that you will return.”

  “The word of Diablo?” Kane asked sarcastically.

  “The word of Kane O’Brien.”

  “Why do you need that? You have Davy. My leash, you called him.”

  For a moment, Masters looked discomfited, and Kane drew a small measure of satisfaction in that.

  “All right,” Kane said after a moment of silence. “You have it. For what it’s worth. What else?”

  “You have three months,” Masters said. “It took one hell of an argument to get you that much.”

  “And if I can’t do it in that time?”

  “Carson dies.”

  Kane stood at that, his fingers fisted at his side. “You are a bastard, Masters.”

  “Remember that, O’Brien. I’m your other leash. Your contact. Your lifeline.” The marshal’s voice was hard, callous.

  “What if I want someone else?”

  “What you want doesn’t matter. You’re a condemned murderer.”

  “A condemned murderer you want to use,” Kane replied bitterly.

  “We have to use,” Masters corrected. “I don’t like it any better than you.”

  “Don’t like getting your hands dirty, working with an outlaw? A reb?”

  Masters sighed. “I don’t have a choice, and neither do you. It’s me, or you and Carson hang on schedule. Do we do business or not?”

  “We do,” Kane said. “But don’t push me.”

  Masters shrugged. “Let’s get one thing clear from the beginning. You don’t make the rules. I do. If you’re not willing to accept that fact, the deal’s off.”