by Linda Broday
Houston flung the man back to the blanket. “You’re lucky my brothers are here or I’d kill you. I want answers and I’ll know if you’re lying. For each lie, I’ll hit you again.”
Hate flashed from Newman’s eyes as he dragged his sleeve across his bloody mouth.
“How well did you know Becky?” Houston yelled.
“She always came to me when she needed her horse saddled or the wagon hitched. Then she came to find me just to talk. No woman ever gave me the time of day until I met her.”
“Prove it.”
“Whatever you want, Mr. Legend. I watched from a window when you gave her a ring and asked her father for her hand,” Newman spat. “I watched it all. She was having a child—mine.”
“You’re a lying sack of shit!”
“We planned to run off together but she couldn’t do that to her parents. She knew it would’ve killed them. Doc Jenkins can provide proof of the babe.”
Houston turned to Sam. “Bring Doc down here. We’ll find out the truth.”
Sam nodded and left. Houston leaned against the basement wall to wait. He cast daggers at Becky’s killer. No one spoke—not Luke, Houston, or Ernie. It didn’t take long for Sam to return.
“What can I do for you, Houston?” Doc asked.
Houston shoved away from the wall. “Tell me about Becky. Tell me she wasn’t with child.”
“I can’t do that.” Doc glanced at Newman. “Becky came to me with her secret, begging me not to tell you or her parents. I urged her to come clean, but she said she couldn’t. I’m sorry, son.” Doc hesitated a moment, torn by whatever he saw on Houston’s face, turned, and climbed the stairs to the kitchen without another word.
The air left Houston. It was true. Everything Newman said. Houston wanted to pound something. Anger sat thick and bitter on his tongue.
“Why in hell would she agree to marry me, then?” Houston thundered. He grabbed Newman and slammed his fist into the bastard’s jaw. “Why?”
Newman’s cold eyes glittered. “Becky was desperate for a name for the babe and her parents wouldn’t let her marry me. I wasn’t good enough for their daughter. And apparently Becky shared their views. We had a terrible fight this morning. She told me you could better provide for the babe and, when it came, she would tell you it came early.”
“So I was nothing but a means to an end?”
“You get the picture. For a smart man, you’re really slow, Mr. Legend.”
God. Houston’s stomach revolted, sending bile into his mouth.
Stupid.
Stupid.
Stupid.
He tightened his hands around the man’s throat. “Why did you have to kill her? And the babe. It was your flesh and blood, you worthless bastard.” Houston could kind of understand the deception and Becky’s desperation to some degree. But putting a bullet in her—she hadn’t deserved that, no matter what she’d done.
Newman gasped for breath. “If I couldn’t have her, no one would. You Legends, with your power and land, think you can have whatever you want. I showed you. Killing her was the only way.”
“The only way?” Houston’s yell sprang from the hole left deep inside that nothing would ever fill.
“I wanted you to live in hell. When you came to call, you always walked by me like I was some bug crawling on the damn ground. I was beneath the powerful Houston Legend!” Newman shouted.
Houston pushed his face into the man’s. It was possible he could’ve slighted Ernie Newman without even knowing it. On visits to the Goldens, Houston’s mind had been on Becky and stealing a kiss, not on making friends with the hands. Still, he didn’t think he was ever rude.
“You did this for what? Revenge?”
“In part. I did love Becky, but she wanted what I couldn’t give. I hated you and wanted you to suffer.” Newman clawed at Houston’s hands.
Something glittered, catching Houston’s attention. He released Newman’s throat to grab his hand.
On the bastard’s little finger winked the family heirloom Becky always wore.
Memories danced around Houston’s fury. Becky had said the ring had belonged to her great-grandmother. When it disappeared from her hand, he bought her claim of losing it but noticed how she avoided his eyes. Loving her, he’d silenced the whispers in his head.
A guttural sound of pain sprang from Houston’s mouth. He was such a fool. When he kissed her, how could he not have felt her pulling back?
But—he had. He’d simply blocked it. Truth was, she’d sidestepped his kisses and dodged passionate embraces. Most times she’d distracted him with teasing conversation. He’d put down her reluctance to shyness and not wanting to make a show of affection. How could he have been so blind? She’d never once spoken words of love.
The truth hit him.
Becky had never loved him.
“God have mercy on your poor, pitiful, pathetic soul.” Houston hurled Newman away and stalked to the stairs. He never wanted to see the man’s face again.
From this moment on, he’d never speak Becky’s name or allow it to be spoken in his presence. He’d never trust love again.
Houston jerked the bloody veil from his pocket. Wadding it into a ball, he dropped it to the dirt floor and climbed the stairs.
* * *
Dawn splashed through the windows of Houston’s bedroom. Staggering, he rose from the chair where he’d sat all night. He unbuttoned his blood-soaked shirt and launched it into a corner, frowning at the red stains on his skin. Pouring water from a pitcher into a porcelain bowl, he scrubbed away every trace of Becky. His chest was raw by the time he finished.
In the early morning quiet, Houston forced back memories that crowded his mind. Too many, and all brought jagged pain. He strode to the dresser drawer, selected a clean shirt, and thrust his arms into the sleeves.
Betrayal still shook him to the core.
Last night, he’d helped carry Becky’s casket and load it into a wagon for the journey home. People would wonder at his cold distance and refusal to accompany her parents. Let them.
A low knock sounded at the door. “It’s open,” he barked.
His brothers entered. Sam spoke. “We were worried.”
“I’m fine. You can head right back out. I’m in a hell of a mood.”
“You wouldn’t be normal if you weren’t,” Luke replied.
“But you’re still here.” Houston buttoned his shirt and tucked it into his pants.
Sam dropped into a chair in the corner. “We have a suggestion.”
“I don’t need coddling like some child, Sam. Go tend to your wife and son.” Houston put on his hat and snatched his gun belt from the bedpost. “I’m not going to blow my brains out. Just need to be alone. Alone as in by myself.” He gave them a pointed glare.
“Sierra and Hector are still asleep.” Sam folded his arms. “We want to help. You’re in shock.”
“Yeah, well, I’ll live.” Somehow or other.
“A good hard ride up to the ridge is what you need.”
Damn, Sam wasn’t giving up. Houston let out a long sigh. Much as he loved his little brother, Sam’s mothering irritated the hell out of him.
“Fresh air is exactly what you need.” Luke threw in his two cents. “Besides, I want to talk to you both about something.”
“I’m in no mood for this. I just want to be alone.” Houston’s patience hung by a thread.
Sam sighed and softened his voice. “Remember where we went when our baby brother, William Travis, and Mother died? When Pa dove headfirst into a bottle and couldn’t remember he had scared boys who needed him? When Pa started gambling recklessly? Each time we sought comfort on the ridge above the Red River. It’ll help you now.”
At last, Houston threw up his hands. “You win.” He did need to clear the smell of blood and betrayal from his nost
rils, and he’d go crazy if he stayed here listening to his brothers yacking at him. Somehow, he’d pry the worst day of his life from his head.
Houston buckled his gun belt and strapped it on. Reaching for his hat, he strode to the corral with them, where they saddled their horses. A short time later, he galloped with Sam and Luke across raw, uneven ground, letting the wind blow Becky from his mind.
After riding full-out for five miles, Houston reined to a stop on the high bluff overlooking the mighty Red. The water was as murky as his thoughts, and moved just as fast. The hard truth of loving Becky was the part that hurt the most. While he’d been giving his whole heart and soul to her, she’d been slipping around with another man.
Dammit to hell!
He dismounted and sat, letting his feet dangle off the cliff edge. Sam and Luke dropped down on either side of him. No one spoke for a long while. The quiet was good.
Finally, Houston shot Luke a glance. His brother had a thousand-dollar price on his head for robbery and the murder of federal judge Edgar Percival. The tangled mess of Luke’s life was even worse than Houston’s.
Maybe talking about someone else’s problems would take Houston’s mind off his. “You said you wanted to talk about something, Luke.”
“My problem is a name taken from one of Beadle’s dime novels—Ned Sweeney. The man using it is the one who really murdered Judge Percival.” Luke swung to stare into the distance. “Find him and I clear myself of that. Ever hear of anyone going by that name?”
“Nope.” Houston absently watched the water below. Had Becky ever truly cared for him, or had she just pretended all these years? He wished he could talk to her once more. He’d ask why she hadn’t been honest with him. Why she hadn’t been able to tell him about Newman. And why she’d let him fall so deeply in love with her.
“I never heard the name mentioned,” Sam said. “How do you know he’s the murderer?”
With his thumb and forefinger, Luke pulled his hat lower on his forehead. “I ran into a man, Joe Calderon, down in San Antone, and he told me Ned Sweeney is the one who pulled the trigger. I tried to get Joe to tell the sheriff but he said Ned would kill him.”
“Somehow, somewhere, you crossed paths with this killer before,” Houston said.
Luke sent a stone zinging out into the water below. “Must’ve. But don’t know where.”
“Can you trust this Joe guy?” Sam asked. “He might’ve fed you a load of bull.”
“I’ve had a few dealings with him. He’s always been honest,” Luke said.
“How can we help?” Houston asked.
“You and Sam can get access to things I can’t. I thought if you could send out some telegrams to different people and see if they’ve heard of anyone using the name Ned Sweeney, we might find a clear direction for me to go.” Luke paused. “I won’t ask you for more than you feel comfortable with.”
“We’ll be glad to help, won’t we, Sam?” The wheels in Houston’s brain were already turning. A fight might just calm him down. He was angry, and it would feel good to haul off and hit something. Anything.
“I’ve still got ties to the Texas Rangers and my old boss, Captain O’Reilly,” Sam said.
Luke threw three stones down below in rapid succession. “Thanks. Like I said, you have access to people and places I can never have.”
“Turnabout is fair play.” Houston laid a hand on his outlaw brother’s shoulder. They wouldn’t have caught Becky’s killer if not for Luke. “We couldn’t have whipped Felix Bardo and that outlaw mess that had dug in over at Lost Point without you. Your ability to fit in with them and gain their trust saved the people of that town. You made this part of Texas safer. Sam sure wouldn’t be here either if you hadn’t cut him down so fast after Bardo hung him.”
They owed Luke a hell of a lot more than a few telegrams.
“Sierra’s and my wedding sure wouldn’t have happened. Felix Bardo would’ve killed her and certainly meant to,” Sam said quietly. “I’ll be glad to help in any way.”
“Appreciate it.” Luke seemed lost in thought. Something more was bothering his brother, but Houston knew better than to ask. One thing Houston had learned about Luke was that you didn’t push him. Anyone who tried found themselves full of regrets. “What are you going to do now, Houston?” Luke asked.
“Go on like I always have.”
“That’s no damn plan,” Sam hollered. “You’re going to have to deal with what happened sooner or later.”
“Sam, it’s my problem and I’ll handle it,” Houston grated out. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some thinking to do.”
“Fine.” Sam rose. “By the way, you might like to know that Ernie Newman is gone. Pa and some of the ranch hands have carted him to Fort Worth to stand trial.”
“I hope he swings for what he did.” Houston wouldn’t waste one ounce of pity on him.
Luke got to his feet. “I’m leaving at first light. Don’t let this gnaw on you, Houston. A man only has so much flesh. Take it from me.”
An ache filled Houston’s chest, a space he’d thought couldn’t hold any more pain. He didn’t know what it was like to be hunted like Luke. He’d always known the safety of the ranch. But after yesterday, he knew death could always find him, no matter where he was.
“When you’re out there, don’t forget you’re a Legend, even if you refused to take the name. And that you have a home and people who care for you,” Houston reminded him gruffly.
They had an unbreakable bond.
They were brothers.
They were Legends.
Houston watched his brothers mount up and gallop off. His thoughts turned back to Becky. As much as he’d tried to prevent it, she would gnaw on him.
It would take a lifetime to forget the woman who’d ruined him.
Three
Spring 1877
In the year following the shooting, Houston threw himself into work with a vengeance, trying to forget Becky and her stinging betrayal. His heart was nothing more than a piece of raw meat that had been stomped and left in the hot sun to wither. He knew he’d let himself descend into darkness, but it was there he found solace…and escape.
Though he tried to resist, he lost the battle, and most nights found him hugging a bottle of whiskey. He turned a blind eye to the looks Stoker, Sam, and sometimes Luke gave him when he briefly swung by. When they said anything, he snapped that he was doing his best.
On a Monday morning in May, Houston pored over the books in the office of Lone Star headquarters and frowned at the figures. The tally didn’t make sense. They were four thousand dollars down from where they had been last week. Sure, the ranch had been in trouble for a while, but the steady decline had turned into a free fall off a cliff.
And if he didn’t know why, he didn’t know how to stop it.
Long-term trouble was coming from the size of their ever-increasing herd and not enough grazing land, even with four hundred eighty thousand acres. Though they’d had a little rain, this year had brought a drought, and the cattle were starving. A ranch in North Texas was always between hay and grass anyway, never flush with either. Simply the hard truth. The only solution for the cattle surge that would bring a little relief was taking two thousand head or more up the Great Western Trail to Dodge City. He’d already given the hands the order to start rounding them up and branding them. He hadn’t told Stoker yet. Didn’t want an argument.
Having almost a hundred employees to pay didn’t help. In addition to the cowboys, they had to support and look after the new schoolteacher, Doc Jenkins, and Jim Wheeler, who operated the telegraph. They also went halves on stocking merchandise for the mercantile, but the store owner kept nearly all the profits.
Houston rubbed his bleary eyes and glanced up as his father entered. His pa didn’t appear in any better shape than Houston. His pale-green eyes were bloodshot and his cl
othes had been slept in, if he’d slept at all. Stoker Legend gave a deep sigh and slumped into the leather chair opposite the desk.
The ladies around the ranch would say Stoker Legend was a handsome man for fifty-eight years old. Only a smattering of silver streaked his dark hair and he didn’t have an ounce of fat on his tall frame. Stoker was a man who’d lived hard and carved out the famous Lone Star spread from nothing. He’d cut his teeth on men who’d tried to take his land, and had made plenty of enemies along the way. Not that he gave a damn about any of that. Today, he looked exhausted.
Stoker sighed again.
“Something bothering you, Pa?”
“Had poker games all weekend, but last night’s lasted until dawn.”
Houston chuckled. “Pa, everyone in the whole blame state knows about your poker games. They’re legendary. That must be why you look like you’ve been dragged behind a horse. I take it there was a good bit of drinking involved?”
“Can’t play cards without it, son. The two just go together.” Stoker ran a finger along the edge of the desk. “I won a few. Lost a few. There’s something I’ve got to tell you, son.”
“Start at the beginning and let it fly,” Houston advised. “That’s what you’d tell me.”
Stoker rose and stared out the window. “It’s about… Perhaps I can shed some light on the problem with those books you’ve been studying.”
Houston’s stomach clenched. This sounded worse than losing a couple of hands of poker with friends. “The ranch is in a pretty tight bind right now, but tell me how much you lost and we’ll cover it. I take it that’s where the huge deficit in the books went.”
They couldn’t take many more losses like that. How many times was Stoker going to wager his life’s work away?
“It is.” Stoker gave a curt nod. “But that’s only a small corner of the problem. The truth is…the ranch has been cut in half. Yours, Sam’s, and Luke’s—your legacies have shrunk considerably.”
Everything inside Houston stilled: his heart, his breathing, his ability to swallow. He couldn’t stop anger from flaring. “What do you mean cut in half? What have you done, Pa?”
