by Jill Barnett
A MARRIAGE OF CONVENIENCE…
A CLASH OF WILLS…
AN UNCOMPROMISING LOVE!
Adelaide Amanda Pinkney was glad to bid Chicago farewell. After the bustle and crowds of the growing city, the news that her aunt and uncle had left her their California farm was like a dream come true.
But Addie's idyll was shattered the moment she reached California, and learned there was another claim on her land. Montana Creed was tall, headstrong, elemental…as much a part of the rich and rugged California terrain as the fields and valleys that dotted its majestic landscape. As a boy, Montana had watched his father slaughtered, his land stolen—and he had vowed that one day he would fulfill his father's dream.
Addie soon discovered that Montana's stubborn streak ran as deep as her own… and that his seductive smile was almost impossible to resist. As his reluctant bride, she came to cherish Montana's tender, passionate caresses. But she knew that one day he'd have to face the demons of his past—or lose the bright and loving promise of their future!
Praise for Jill Barnett's The Heart's Haven
"Delightful…a readers' heaven!"
—Affairé de Coeur
Montana made for the barn door,
pulling her along with him…
True to form, Addie fought him, digging in her heels and pulling back. Montana stopped and scowled at her. She glared at him and pointedly looked at her arm, clamped in his left hand. He pulled her over to the discarded rain slicker. "Put that back on." He heard her breathe. "Now!"
She jumped, then bent down, pulling the huge slicker around her small shoulders. She straightened and turned around, a defiant look still creasing her features. She took one deep breath and her lips quirked slightly. "Yes…''
His eyes narrowed.
"… master."
That did it. His arms shot out around her. He slammed her up against him. She looked up, surprised yet a bit triumphant.
He bent his head, staring into her glistening eyes. "Shut up."
His mouth hit hers hard, intending to punish her silent. She gasped. He buried his tongue in her warm mouth. For once, she didn't fight him…
He bent his knees and clamped his arm under the slicker and beneath her bottom, lifting her so her mouth was even with his. Her hands gripped his shoulders, and his left hand spanned her damp head. She groaned and gripped him tighter.
His mind flashed the thought that this was heaven, but she tasted like sin…
Surrender A Dream
by
Jill Barnett
Dedication
To the staff at Sharpe Memorial Hospital, San Diego, California, who were so kind to us when we needed kindness and care; to Dr. Sidney Smith and Dr. Pat Daily and their surgical teams for giving me back my husband; to José Verdugo of the Playa Hermosa for helping so fervently; to the medic who got there first; to the cardiologist in La Paz, Haydee Contreras, who made the hospital help Chris; to Jim Stadler for sticking to his brother's side, even in a Mexican ambulance, and to his wife Debbie for trying to make sense of all those frantic Spanish phone calls; to Dr. Scott Bingham and Critical Air Medicine of San Diego for their evacuation and emergency care; to Gerry Stadler, who does more than any man should have to, and for being the foundation in this family; to his wife Linda, who never complains when we need him; to Louise Stadler for trying so hard when everything around her was crumbling apart; to Mark Stadler for traveling hundreds of miles to give me his shoulder to lean on; to his wife Jeannine, a special lady who let me have that shoulder at a time when she needed it herself; to Mike and Donna Stadler and their children, Sarah and Nathan, for opening their home and their hearts to our daughter so I could be there for Chris; to my friends and family for their prayers and wishes; to Lisa Snyder for being the best neighbor and friend in the world; to Ruth and Penny and Kristin for talking me through one of the most difficult moments of my life; to Jane, who just let me sob on the phone when I couldn't be strong any longer; and to my husband, Chris, who fought so hard and was, thank God, too stubborn to die. I wish I could give you all what you've given me.
PROLOGUE
Mussel Slough, Tulare County, California
May 10, 1880
The sun was hot, hot enough to blister paint. Down from the broad, blue western sky the heat smoldered, baking cracks in the rusty red clay of the irrigation ditches. Just four hours earlier those same hard-dug ditches swelled with water from Tulare Lake, water that fed wet relief to acre after acre of tawny California wheat. As if daring the noonday sun, the wheat stood tall, and still, except for a small patch near the dirt road where two fourteen-year-old boys hid.
Willie Murdoch crawled forward, craning to see past the battered crown on his friend's straw hat. "Psst, Montana? Do ya see anything yet?"
"Uh-uh. But if you'll keep your trap shut, maybe I'll hear 'em coming." Montana Creed slipped off his hat and wiped the sweat from his forehead. His damp hand slicked back a wet thatch of brown hair and he laid his ear on the hot ground. A few flies buzzed around his head and their drone hung in the sweltering air. But Montana waited. A long, silent and blistery few minutes passed before he heard it—the distant tremor of horses' hooves pounding down the road. Turning to Willie, he whispered, "Here they come."
Both boys edged forward, peering through the golden labyrinth of tall wheat shafts. Within minutes a murky cloud of burnt-orange dust rose up from the road. The dust cloud billowed toward the crest in the road, and suddenly a rider and two buggies came into view, rumbling their way toward the Creed homestead.
"That's Marshal Poole," Willie whispered, nodding at the lone rider. "Who are the others?"
"The land agent for the railroad's in the first buggy, but I don't recognize the men in the other one." Montana squinted, trying to get a better look at the two men in the second buggy. Nothing in their appearance gave a clue to their identity. Both wore flat-brimmed Stetson hats, dark woolen coats, and white shirts, all coated orange with the dry dust of the San Joaquin Valley. They looked no different than any of the local men, and no different from the group of armed settlers, an even dozen, that suddenly confronted them, riding out from between the house and barn, led by Montana's father, Artemus Creed.
No one said a single word. The twelve settlers formed a wall across the drive. Both black buggies stood side by side, and the marshal's horse shifted uneasily in front of the buggies. A nervous twitch appeared on the marshal's face. Unarmed, he slowly approached the group. "I've got a writ of dispossession for an Artemus Creed."
"I'm Creed." A tall, lean man with the same brown hair and square jaw as Montana brought his mount forward.
The marshal held out the writ. "This is a federal court order. You're to vacate this land immediately."
Montana, still hidden with Willie in the field, held his breath, scared silent when his father raised his right hand and aimed his gun at the lawman. His father's deep voice echoed in the turgid air. "I'm not leaving my land."
Bill Murdoch, Willie's father, rode forward. "Look, Marshal, you know the Settlers' Rights League is appealing that order. The case will be before the Supreme Court in the next few months. Can't you delay serving that writ until the court rules on the appeal?" Bill tipped his hat back and nodded toward the other men. "We've all worked this valley for eight long, back-breaking years. The railroad promised us the land at two dollars and fifty cents an acre, and instead they're selling it out from under us for over forty dollars an acre. We can't pay it, and we shouldn't have to!"
The other settlers grumbled in agreement.
"I'm just doing my job. In the eyes of the law, the railroad owns this land, and they can sell it to anyone willing to pay their price." The marshal pointed toward one of the men in the second buggy. "Mr. Crow, here
, has paid it."
Crow leaned back against his seat, revealing a gun belt.
The marshal continued, "According to the railroad, he's the new owner of this section. Mr. Creed, you have to clear out, now."
Twelve guns cocked, their barrels aimed at the marshal and the men in the buggies. The settlers were not going to back down. The land agent in the first buggy was silent, but in the second buggy Crow and his friend exchanged some quiet words.
Montana watched his father move even closer to the marshal. With the settlers holding the railroad men at bay, Artemus Creed grabbed the writ. He struck a match, lit the court order, and threw it on the dry ground where it curled into a pile of dark ash. "No railroad-bought judge is gonna force me off my land. Hand over the reins and we'll escort you and your friends here, out of Tulare County… alive."
The unarmed marshal exchanged a brief look with the land agent in the front buggy. Shrugging, the agent handed Artemus his gun and the buggy reins.
Another settler, reins in hand, was just leading the marshal away when Bill Murdoch, Willie's father, rode over to the second buggy. He looked at the man named Crow, nodded at his gun belt and said, "Give me your gun."
Crow, a hired gun for the railroad, had his own answer. He raised a double-barreled shotgun and blew away Bill Murdoch's face.
Willie screamed just as shots exploded from both gunmen in the buggy. Montana rolled on top of him, trying to keep him from leaving the protection of the wheat field and running to his father's faceless body. The boys struggled and rolled in the furrows, Willie driven by shock and grief, and Montana by instinct to save his best friend.
Neither boy saw the other gunman fall nor the speed with which Crow shot Coley Jackson two times in the belly, killed Johann Swenson with one shot, drilled Ben Burnett through the head, blasted Ross Parker in the throat, and then fired a bullet into the chest of Artemus Creed.
The impact of the shot sent Artemus reeling off his horse. He hit the ground and rolled. He must have seen his son because he scrambled up and, shouting a warning, tried to run toward the field. Crow dropped his empty revolver, grabbed a rifle from the buggy seat, and downed Montana's father with one shot in the back. In just two minutes the railroad gun called Crow had cut down six men and then fled into the wheat field.
It was the thick silence of death that brought the struggling boys to a halt. With Willie still pinned beneath him, Montana stared in shock at his father, bloody and lying facedown only ten short feet away. But Willie, his strength still driven by grief, heaved Montana off him, grabbed a gun that had fallen nearby, and looked around for Crow. He spied him halfway across the wheat field and took off after him.
Montana couldn't will his limbs to move; he was still dazed, not comprehending what he had seen. Finally he was able to stand, and two deep breaths later he raced after Willie, following the trail of trampled wheat. Willie was wiry and fast, and he had a good head start. Montana's long legs churned and he tightened his fists, trying to drive himself faster. He hit the end of the field at a full run, cleared an irrigation ditch in one leap, and was into the next parcel of wheat when he heard the shot.
The sound rang through his teeth, signaling that whoever fired the shot was close by. He stopped, trying to listen for another sound. All he heard was the hammering of his heart and the taut wheeze of his panting breath. He moved deeper into the wheat. As he neared the end of the row, another shot sang out from the edge of the furrow. He rounded the corner and saw a sobbing Willie trying to take aim, his hands shaking so with anger that Montana could see the gun barrel weave.
Across another water ditch he saw Crow, scurrying up the side. Willie's shots had missed, but as Crow made it to the crest of the dirt canal, Montana caught a flash of metal. Instinctively, he threw himself against Willie's back, and on impact Willie's gun resounded. In the same instant Crow spun around and fired.
Crow's shot missed; Willie's didn't.
The boys laid on the hot, cracked ground, panting. Montana opened his eyes and followed Willie's cold stare. Crow's body, his chest stained red with blood, lay sprawled in the dry ditch. Montana rolled off Willie and sat up, gulping deep breaths of hot air that dried his mouth and burned down his throat. His eyes began to burn too, from the rising sting of the tears he couldn't control. He looked at Willie, whose face was tight with grief and pain—a pain kindred with Montana's.
They were two friends who had grown up together, laughed and fought together. Together they had idolized their fathers, and a few minutes ago they had watched those fathers die. So they sat, side by side, at the edge of a golden wheat field, and together they cried.
Two days later the victims of the Mussel Slough Tragedy were buried. The railroad hid the truth, and the first public accounts of the battle were published in a railroad-controlled newspaper. The settlers were painted as villains and murderers, encroaching on the railroad's land, and while other newspapers investigated the incident, the fact remained that in the eyes of the law, the settlers were at fault. But public sentiment sided with the settlers, those hard-working farmers and ranchers who, eight years earlier, had been enticed by the railroad's false promises. These men and their families had taken an area of miserable, dry land and made it bloom.
In the Tulare district no one else stood up to the railroad. Most people feared such action would only produce more men like Crow. The Settlers' Rights League dropped their Supreme Court appeal for lack of funds. The people who could, paid between forty and seventy dollars an acre for land originally contracted to them for two dollars and fifty cents an acre. The others, the ones who couldn't pay and the families of the men killed, were evicted.
But the people cared. Over two hundred buggies, carriages, and wagons trailed behind the hearses that carried the victims of Mussel Slough. Buried deep were the men who gave up their lives for their land. But that same day a new emotion was born: public contempt for the railroad.
Montana Creed stood on a small slope, watching the wagons and buggies leave. He had his father's horse and the few belongings that meant something to him. Packed in his saddlebags were his father's ivory-handled knife, his mother's cameo, photographs of his family—all of them dead now except him—and a small sampler his mother had made when they first settled in California. She had died a year later from a rattlesnake bite, but the sampler had always been special to Montana and his father. His father, a descendant of hard-working sharecroppers, believed that a man's wealth, or a nation's, came from the land. So for the Creed family, the sampler stood for their dreams. It read: Our Hearts Are in the Land. The words reflected what Montana had been taught to value. The land.
Montana looked down at his hand and rubbed his fingers together. They were gritty, still dusted with the earth he had sprinkled on his father's wooden coffin. The box was now buried deep in the earth his father so loved, and that thought should have made Montana feel better. It didn't. He still hurt.
Willie left the group that lingered in the small cemetery and he joined Montana. "What'll you do now?"
Montana wiped his hand on the worn denim of his pants and continued to watch the procession of wagons weaving their way into the horizon, his face thoughtful. After long seconds he turned to Willie and answered, "Leave."
"Leave!" Willie's voice reflected his surprise. "Why? There're plenty of folks around here who need a hand. I'm working for the Rileys, and they've even got a place for Ma and the girls. I'll see if you can work there too. You know livestock and farmin' better'n any of us. I know—''
"Don't bother, Willie," Montana interrupted. "I can't stay here."
Willie's face turned stubborn. "Then I'll go with you."
"No." Montana's expression was just as unyielding. "You've got your family to think about. They need you."
"But—"
Doc Henderson, the man who'd tried to save the victims of Mussel Slough, and Jake Riley, owner of the largest spread in the valley, joined them, cutting off Willie's argument.
Riley turned t
o Montana and said, "I need another good hand, if you want a job."
The kindness in Jake Riley's eyes almost cracked the cold wall surrounding Montana. He turned away, his pride and pain not allowing him to bend. "Thanks for the offer, Mr. Riley, but I can't. I need to be on my own for a while."
"You ought to take Jake up on his offer, son," Doc Henderson advised. "There's not a soul in this town, in the whole county, who wouldn't help you out."
Montana looked at Willie, the friend who was closer than a brother, and at the two men who were willing to help the son of Artemus Creed. "I know that, sir, and I thank both of you, but I can't stay here."
Doc Henderson eyed Montana's horse and the saddlebags that appeared half empty. "Where will you go?"
Montana's shoulders straightened. "As far away from the railroad as I can."
Jake and Doc exchanged a look of understanding. Willie stepped forward and offered Montana his hand. The two fourteen-year-old boys shook hands. It was the gesture of men, and of two youths who had been forced to grow up fast by the events of the last two days. They said goodbye.
Doc Henderson gave it one last try. "What will you do, son? Your father didn't leave you anything."
Montana mounted his horse and took one last look at the lush valley below. "Oh, he left me something, all right." He turned and pinned the doctor with a pair of determined gold eyes. "He left me a dream."
Chapter 1
Chicago
Spring 1894
A black enamel Overman safety bicycle rounded the corner. The silver spokes flashed in the sunlight, and the rubber ball-bearing pedals propelled the bike at an outlandish speed of twelve miles per hour. Air-filled pneumatic tires absorbed the shock as the wheels bounced over the deep ruts and steel cable-car tracks that checkered the busy intersection.
