by Karen Kay
A faint breeze of humid air rushed past her and Estrela strained to hear more words the wind might carry to her, for any sort of explanation.
Yet there was nothing more. No scent. No memories.
She brushed a hand over her forehead.
Did the breeze know something?
She thought she’d heard him. His whispered words, carried on the wind. She shook her head as though to clear it.
At that same moment the drums began to beat, fifes to play, the Guard, straight ahead of her, began to march. And as her own coach pulled out into the street, behind the Guard, the noise of the horses, the crowd, the military should have blocked out any further sound.
“I look for you.”
Estrela gasped. It was him. She would recognize his deep, baritone voice even a thousand years into the future; she would recognize him. How was this possible?
Could it be that the wind carried his voice all the way from the Americas?
It is said in Indian culture that wind goes everywhere, sees everything. And spirit wind, she remembered, will speak to you.
“Mato Sapa?” she thought to herself.
“It is I,” the voice returned.
“Are you comfortable, Lady Estrela?”
Estrela’s eyelids flew open and she gaped at the Duke, who had just spoken to her. She smiled, though surprise kept her silent, until at last she managed to say, “I am fine.”
The Duke smiled back at her and she sighed.
The Duke of Colchester had been kind to her, going so far as to present her to King William even though the King, being ill, had barely noticed her, leaving it to Queen Adelaide to smile a welcome to her.
There was something odd there, Estrela thought as she remembered it now. The Queen had stood surrounded by her court, and Estrela remembered feeling as though eyes watched her, followed her, too closely…
“Waste Ho.”
Why wouldn’t the wind leave her alone? Not only did she hear his voice, now an image caught at the corner of her vision—there in the crowd.
It couldn’t be.
It was impossible…and yet…
She shouldn’t have thought of him today. She should have left his memory in the past. Wasn’t that where it belonged? This was no good. She seemed to hear him, see him everywhere. She must not think of him, she…
She strained forward in her seat despite her thoughts, and peered into the crowd, around the people, to the right, to the left. She saw nothing more.
What was that? She shifted in her seat, but whatever had caught her eye was gone as surely as if it had been a phantom.
Was she losing her mind? Or had she really seen a buckskin jacket? A jacket with beaded designs and porcupine quills? A jacket that only an Indian would wear?
She muttered a curse, deciding the winds, the very spirits themselves were conspiring against her.
What good was this doing her?
She brought her head up, refusing to look anywhere but straight ahead, unaware that a man dressed in colorfully designed buckskin shirt and leggings with a buffalo robe thrown over his shoulder followed her, followed her carriage.
A cool, humid breeze brushed at her hair, releasing blond tendrils from her coiffure.
“Look at me.”
Estrela bit her lip. Don’t listen to it, she told herself. Don’t look. Don’t… She moaned, glancing into the crowd despite herself, catching a glimpse of long, black hair flowing back against the wind.
No! It couldn’t be. And yet… She saw him there in the crowd.
She gasped.
A shot split the air.
Estrela screamed, instinctively ducking down, realizing with horror that blood streamed down her own arm.
Was someone shooting at her or…?
Another shot exploded, barely missing her. Another.
She fell to her knees then, her head down, her hands sheltering her face. Bells rang outside, women on the street screamed and men yelled. The Duchess of Colchester cried, the Duke shouted orders to the driver, the horses reared. So much noise was there, that she didn’t hear the high-pitched whooping of a warrior’s voice; she didn’t see the flash of bronzed skin as a man ran toward her, didn’t even feel the carriage tip as it gave under the weight of a lone, single man who had leaped from the streets, to her side.
She sobbed, she cried, making so much noise herself, that she didn’t hear anything, didn’t sense anything until strong arms encircled her, lifting her out of the carriage. Only then did she catch a faint scent of familiar masculinity, but with so much motion bursting around her, she only registered confusion.
Another shot fired.
Horses reared, more people screamed and scattered. Soldiers fell out of order and were suddenly everywhere. Another shot exploded and Estrela felt her rescuer dodge the deadly bullet. Estrela opened her eyes and looking up, saw for the first time the man who held her. And had she been at all fainthearted, she would have swooned.
Had the wind been foreshadowing his presence, or was she delirious? Not only was this man Indian, he was… Her mind swam and her senses spun.
What was happening?
Another gunshot fired and Estrela abandoned all conscious thought, reacting in league with her rescuer. The Indian, however, remained in control, and dodging between people, he ran, Estrela held in his arms. No one stopped him, she noted, and he paused now and again in the crowd, looking around, as though hunting for sanctuary. Estrela, glancing up at him, understood, despite her confusion, that his only defense lay in taking shelter among the crowd, until he had either outrun his assailant or found safe refuge. Estrela wondered at her own encumbrance to him in his flight, then dismissed the thought, remembering that the American Indian was accustomed to such maneuvers.
The Royal Guard, with their red jackets glaring within the crowd, burst forward, dispersing the people everywhere, and oddly enough pursuing the Indian as though he were the one who had fired the shots. They raced after him through the crowd, shouting at him, ordering him to stop. But the Indian refused to relent and without seeming to exert much effort, he outmaneuvered the guards, changing directions without breaking stride, running between people, animals, buildings; he carried his charge as though she weighed no more than the quiver full of arrows upon his back.
Still, it was only a matter of time before the Royal Guard caught him, greatly outnumbering him and being themselves on their own territory; soon, caught, cornered, nowhere to go, the Indian stopped before a building. Penned in he took up a stance, determined, it would seem, to fight the entire Guard.
The Indian, a knife his only weapon, set Estrela behind him, protecting her with his body, while he faced his opponents, crouched, ready to respond.
And she noted, even though she wasn’t fully convinced this was more than a dream, that he stood before the Guard, outmanned, only one against many. Yet he stood, proudly, his prize held behind him, his body her shield.
That’s when she heard them, his growls, and she wondered, was this real or was spirit wind playing tricks on her still, bringing visions to her?
As if in answer, she heard his war cry—the sound terrible. And she realized, as she reached a hand out to touch the long mass of his hair that this was real. He was real. He was here. He had saved her life.
She almost collapsed.
Except that he held her with one arm behind him, and she had no choice but to watch as Mato Sapa, Lakota warrior, held off a hundred, red-coated Royal Guard.
Is she a dead ringer…or a dead woman walking?
Mastering the Marshal
© 2014 Marie-Nicole Ryan
Loving the Lawman, Book 3
When U.S. Deputy Marshal Sam Dunaway arrives in Kenton Valley, Texas, for a murder trial, the last thing he expects is to run into his late wife Celine. The one who supposedly died in a boarding house
fire shortly after she ran off with his life savings.
Despite her Plain Jane disguise, Sam isn’t fooled. As soon as his business with the trial is finished, the woman who broke his heart will pay.
Three years ago, Celine had good reason to use Sam’s money to go into hiding—and it’s a secret she must still keep, even if it means certain arrest and imprisonment. Because coming clean risks crushing rejection.
In spite of themselves, the embers of love roar into a passionate inferno, leaving Sam with a hell of a choice. To stick to his principles…or follow his heart.
Warning: This story contains a woman with a sewing basket full of secrets, and a highly pissed-off U.S. Marshal who wants her dead or alive—though alive is better. Just sayin’.
Enjoy the following excerpt for Mastering the Marshal:
Kenton Valley, Texas Hill Country, April 1890
Billy Rasmussen burst into Selma’s shop, skidding to a stop in front of the counter.
“Miss Nelson. Miss Nelson! The marshal just rode into town.”
“Billy Rasmussen, how many times do I have to remind you to close the door when you come in here?” Not that the child had any business in her dry-goods-and-sewing-notions store. Probably it was the jar of peppermint candies she kept on the counter he craved. More than probably. And refusing his bright blue eyes and dimpled cheeks simply wasn’t an option. A dusty cap covered his copper curls as he danced back and forth from one foot to the other. She moved swiftly to shut the door. Dust from deeply rutted Main Street blew in with the irrepressible youngster.
“He’s heading over to the sheriff’s office now. That Barnes feller is going to hang for sure.”
“You don’t know any such thing. There hasn’t been a trial yet.” Most likely the boy was right, though. She shuddered at the thought of a hanging. “Why aren’t you in school?” She took a cloth and wiped a rime of dust from the counter and from the top of the candy jar.
“It’s recess.” He gaze darted toward the sweets.
“Is that so?” she asked, tamping down her inclination to smile. “And why aren’t you playing hide-and-seek with your friends instead of poking your little nose into grown folks’ business?”
“They’re stupid. All they wanna do is play kid games. Not me.” He pointed to his chest. “I’m gonna be a lawman like Sheriff Tate or that marshal what just rode into town.”
“Who just rode into town,” she corrected, then set about straightening the packages containing needles and pins until they were aligned just so. Billy’s little mouth turned downward and his narrow shoulders sagged as she delayed giving him his treat. He glanced toward the door, so she gave in. “I don’t suppose you’d like a piece of peppermint this fine morning?”
The boy’s eyes lit with anticipation as he nodded. “Yes, ma’am, I surely would.” He held out his somewhat grimy hand, and she dropped the sweet into his open palm. “Thanks, Miss Nelson.” He popped the mint into his mouth.
“Now, go on. I don’t want your teacher coming down here looking for you.”
With a gleeful grin, he nodded, dashed outside, and ran down the street. Her brief interlude with Billy was a game they played almost daily. Poor child. Reckon he’d had few enough treats in his young life. His father was a part-time drunk, but the boy had a hardworking and loving mother. Somehow the woman managed to keep Billy and his four younger brothers from starvation’s door by taking in washing and ironing. The boy’s buoyant spirit was a miracle, and Selma had no doubt he’d make something of himself. Maybe he really would be a lawman.
If the marshal had arrived, then the judge wouldn’t be far behind. The trial would take place soon. The killer of the sheriff’s first wife and unborn child would face a court’s justice, swift and true. The residents of Kenton Valley had long memories.
The incident had taken place right after Selma came to town. She’d been terrified when the gang of bank robbers shot Sheriff Tate’s young wife. What kind of town had she chosen to live in anyway? The unfortunate woman lingered several days and then died along with her baby. The entire town mourned and demanded justice. When two years later the sheriff found love and married again, Selma had been more than pleased. She’d even helped make his new wife’s wedding dress. Starling Tate was now eight months along and Selma’s best friend.
She glanced down at the timepiece on her bodice. Matter of fact, she was due at the sheriff’s spread right now. Past due.
US Marshal Sam Dunaway tied his horse to the hitching post in front of the sheriff’s office and surveyed the small town of Kenton Valley. Typical of most small Texas towns, it had a church, a general store, dry goods, and two saloons. Down at the far end of the street was a school, where he heard the excited shouts of children playing some game or other.
He brushed the fine yellow dust from his oilskin duster and was ready to step onto the walk when a scrawny, redheaded boy ran up.
“Marshal! Are ya a-going to hang that feller what shot the sheriff’s missus?”
He gave the boy his sternest expression. “Not without a trial first.”
“He’s guilty. Ever’body says so. I wanna see him swing.”
So young and so bloodthirsty. Sam shook his head. “I suspect your mama will keep you home that day. If you were mine, I would.”
The boy shifted from one foot to the other. “Dang it. Hey, I’m gonna be a lawman when I grow up.”
“That’s mighty fine, kid. Say, what’s your name?”
The kid puffed out his chest. “William Robert Rasmussen, but folks call me Billy.”
“Well, Billy, being a lawman is a tough job. Need to be smart—”
“And fast with a gun.” The kid did an imaginary quick draw.
“Being smart’s more important.” Sam hunkered down to the boy’s level. “How come you aren’t in school?”
Billy screwed his face into a frown. “School’s stupid.”
“Not so. If you want to be a lawman, you gotta go to school. That’s all there is to it.”
“Really?” His eyes widened in surprise.
“Really. Now go on. Git.”
Shaking his head, Sam stood and watched until he was sure the boy had reached the end of the street. Damnation. What was it with kids today? In a hell of a hurry to grow up, when these were the best times of their lives.
He opened the door to the sheriff’s office and nodded. “Sheriff Cordero Tate?”
The sheriff nodded. “Cord’ll do.” The sheriff was tall and broad shouldered and showed no signs of his prior tragedy. He rose and offered his hand.
Sam took it. “I’d like to see the prisoner and how he’s housed.”
Tate stood and opened the door leading off the main room. It led to the cellblock, containing two cells. Only one was occupied. Barnes was stretched out, apparently asleep on the bunk—as if in a few days he wouldn’t be sleeping forever.
Sam turned and walked back to the outer office. “Appears you have a sturdy enough jail. Any chance the rest of his gang might try and break him out?”
“I’ve got two trustworthy deputies. Besides”—the sheriff shook his head—“the gang’s leader was killed last summer. The rest of ’em splintered after that. ’Course, you never know. Catching Barnes here was more of an accident than anything. He couldn’t resist visiting his sick mama. Thought he might show up, so we took turns keeping an eye on the Barnes homestead.”
“Smart thinking. If I’m not mistaken, you’re the one who killed their leader, Tyler?” Not to mention the sheriff’s new wife was half sister to the ringleader. Wonder that didn’t complicate matters.
“That’s right.” Tate sat, gesturing for Sam to pull up a chair.
A man of few words. Good. Removing his Stetson, Sam hooked the toe of his boot around a chair leg, dragged it over and straddled it. Now they could get down to the business of the trial. “I need a place to hol
d the trial. Any suggestions?”
“Haven’t had much call for trials till now. There’s the school or the church or the saloon.”
“Good. I’ll check ’em out. Prefer a neutral ground over the saloon. Any chance we’ll find twelve sober men come trial time?”
Tate shrugged. “If you’d rather move the trial to a bigger town, it won’t hurt my feelings none.”
Sam shook his head. “I’m here to see he gets one. Don’t care if it’s fair or not. That’s up to the judge, not me.” He stood and settled the Stetson on his head. “I’ll head over to the church, then to the school. Let you know which one I decide.”
The sheriff nodded. “Any word on when the judge will arrive?”
“Few days. He’s presiding over a trial in Llano.” He headed to the door, then stopped. “The livery?”
“Livery stables are behind the boarding house at the north end of town. Miz Foley oughta be able to fix you up while you’re here.” Tate jerked his head in the direction of the cells. “She provides meals for the prisoner, and she’s a damn fine cook.”
Sam touched the brim of his hat, nodding his appreciation.
Outside, he untied and mounted his horse, then headed north, passing the general store and dry goods. He glimpsed the tall, slender figure of a woman standing in the window of the dry goods store, a sudden apparition that had him twisting around in his saddle to get a better look. But his horse had other ideas and kept heading north.
Damn. She looked familiar, so familiar his heart sped up and his mouth went dry as sand. Just the memory of their loving stiffened his prick. But it couldn’t be Celine. His wife had burned to death in a boardinghouse fire almost three years ago.
When the news of her death had finally reached him, he’d still been too angry to grieve. She never would’ve died if she’d stayed home where she belonged instead of running off with his life savings. Served the bitch right—that was what he’d thought at the time.
But now… If this woman really was Celine and not someone who was her spitting image, what he wouldn’t give to bed his wife one last time before he locked up her low-down, thieving ass.
