The Cowboy Who Came Calling

by Linda Broday

  Also by Linda Broday

  Texas Redemption

  Bachelors of Battle Creek

  Texas Mail Order Bride

  Twice a Texas Bride

  Forever His Texas Bride

  Men of Legend

  To Love a Texas Ranger

  The Heart of a Texas Cowboy

  To Marry a Texas Outlaw

  Texas Heroes

  Knight on the Texas Plains

  The Cowboy Who Came Calling

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  Copyright © 2003 by Linda Broday

  Cover and internal design © 2018 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Judy York

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

  sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2003 in the United States by Leisure Books, an imprint of Dorchester Publishing Co., Inc.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  To the pioneers who settled this great land with grit, blood, and tears. And to the lonely cowboys who thought they had nothing worth loving, and the women who showed them they did.

  One

  Santa Anna, Texas, 1881

  Often the elders spoke in hushed whispers about a long, painful night of the soul. How the wind visited, carrying problems as thick as a biblical plague. It’s also said that impatience dries the blood sooner than age or sorrow.

  Surely this must be such a time.

  In twenty years, Glory Marie Day had come to know more about injustice and patience than most women twice her age. She hadn’t asked for any breaks, only a fair shake, and fate hadn’t seen fit to deliver even a sliver of that.

  Truth of the matter, she hadn’t overly complained of the lousy handout she’d gotten. She made her own luck and became tougher for it.

  Whatever it took she’d do. Though the difficult task at hand might scare off a person of lesser grit.

  Glory’s fists curled in a ball. Somehow. Someway.

  Reverend Matthews’s sermon yesterday merely gave her added determination. “When Saint Peter marks against your name in the great Hereafter, you’d best make sure you have enough scratches on the plus side.”

  Papa always bragged about her being whip smart. Good thing, because she’d need everything she had to solve this problem. At least more pluses than minuses at the end.

  Snooty Bess Whitfield’s snickers brought her thoughts back to the present. For a Monday afternoon, Harvey’s Emporium held a good many patrons. Across the room, Bess gave Glory’s faded breeches an imperious frown, then whispered behind her hand to her companion, Amelia Jackson.

  Though not close enough to hear, Glory knew the slurs by heart. “Poor homely Glory. Dressing like a boy, she’ll never have a beau. Her father’s a rotten jailbird. Better stay clear of those good-for-nothing Days.”

  A woman’s voice interrupted her thoughts. “Here you are, Glory.”

  “Thank you, Aunt Dorothy.” She accepted the box of cartridges she’d requested. Except for her aunt, Uncle Pete, and a few others, she would’ve compared life in the Texas town of Santa Anna as something akin to hell.

  “Going huntin’?” The woman she loved as a second mother propped an elbow on a big jar of pickles.

  Glory’s mouth watered for one of the juicy pickles. Lord knew she loved them better than candy. The sign read five cents. Cheap enough, she reckoned, if a body had a nickel in her pocket. The eggs, milk, and butter she’d just sold her aunt barely covered the ammunition for her Winchester.

  “Yes, ma’am. Better see what game I can scare up for supper.” Without a doubt, if she hadn’t stepped up to fill her father’s boots… Well, she didn’t want to dwell on that.

  “You’re the strong one, Glory. Your ma, God bless her soul, is too frail to see to the needs of you children. I love my sister-in-law to death, but Ruth wears my patience down to a nub. Right alongside Pete Harvey. I swear, those two were carved from the same block of wood.”

  Allowing a half smile, Glory slipped the cartridges inside her pocket. “Where’s Uncle Pete today?”

  Although the man suffered from flights of fancy, what the polite ones called it, Glory worshipped him. Pete Harvey’s eccentricities added a certain flavor to her existence. She had to marvel at anyone who marched as he saw fit, taking whatever paths his imagination led to. If ever she should be so free.

  “The fool is out dowsing for water. Cut himself a peach tree limb as a divining rod and declared he’d find water or bust a gut trying.”

  “This drought has everyone in a bad way. Paying Mr. McConley twenty-three cents a barrel is highway robbery. If Uncle Pete can truly find water, he’ll have every family in Coleman County bidding for his services.”

  “Hmph! If is a big word.” Aunt Dorothy straightened, reached for a long feather duster, and flicked it over the nearly spotless counter. “I’m mighty thankful I don’t have to depend on his crazy notions to put food in our bellies.”

  Depend on Dorothy Harvey to look on the bright side.

  Bess and Amelia sauntered to the counter. From the way they brushed tightly against Glory, the aisle might well have become a narrow strip of dry ground in a mud pit.

  “Afternoon, Mrs. Harvey.”

  Did they speak in unison like that just to irritate a body?

  “Girls, what’ll it be for you today?”

  Glory headed for the door but stopped when Aunt Dorothy called, “Oh, wait a minute, I have a letter for you, dear.”

  “We’ll take one of these new toothbrushes and a jar of this
paste to go with it.” Bess gave Glory a sidelong smirk.

  “Clean teeth is as important as bathing regular.”

  The implication that she did neither had Glory fuming. A daily rubbing of soda powder kept her teeth shiny and clean enough. Thank goodness proper customs weren’t limited to those who could afford it. But, it sure seemed as if good manners ran in short supply.

  Amelia plopped down a bar of perfumed toilet soap. “Can you put these on my daddy’s bill, Mrs. Harvey?”

  “I suppose I can. Will this be all?”

  The Persnickety Twins nodded their heads again in unison.

  While Aunt Dorothy wrapped the items in brown paper, Glory cast the jar of luscious pickles another longing stare. Even should she suddenly by some miracle possess a nickel, her sense of honor would kick in. She didn’t want anything if her sisters couldn’t have the same. Just wasn’t right.

  All of a sudden, the pickle jar doubled. And tripled. Then her vision dimmed as if someone had extinguished the oil lamps hanging on the store walls. She shook her head, closing her eyes for a minute. When she opened them, she could make out her aunt’s form, a decided improvement.

  Perspiration dampened her palms. This loss of vision had come and gone over the last few weeks. At first the episodes had been shorter and farther apart. Now, she experienced two or three a day. Still, she refused to let her worst fears take root. Nothing worse could happen…could it?

  The tinkle of the bell over the entrance seemed far in the distance. It was the deep tenor that broke her trance.

  “Afternoon, ladies.”

  Bess and Amelia tittered, nudging each other. Curious, Glory turned to see the cause of such a stir.

  The tall stranger smiled and sidestepped past. He’d not paid her any attention. No, the two girls bedecked in fine dresses took his eye. No reason in the world why he should notice a girl in faded britches and mule-eared boots. No reason whatsoever.

  She watched him head for the coffee grinder. Hmm, coffee beans. Yep, the brown strands nestling against his collar were the exact shade of those beans he poured into the grinder.

  Nice.

  From beneath lowered lids, she took in the rest of him. The dark-blue shirt added breadth to his shoulders. The polished silver buttons on the cavalry bib spoke of pride. Slim waist, long legs that stretched from here to yon, and a finely shaped behind. A figure that could easily climb atop a horse—or a…

  A flush crept from her toes upward. Where had that thought come from? Her mind deserved a good scrubbing. Besides, he’d never give her the time of day.

  For a split second, bitterness bubbled to the surface like fermented yeast. She didn’t want to be the provider, the strong one, the head of the family. For just one day, she’d like to worry about her teeth instead of feeding hungry stomachs. She’d like to wear dresses and act a lady. And for once, she’d like to have a man look at her with warm desire in his eyes. Someone besides Horace Simon, who was jeered for his childlike ways. Horace moon-eyed over her each time she went near, but she saw the loneliness inside and counted him a friend. She’d just like to have the attentions of a man like this stranger for once.

  “Here you are, girls.” Aunt Dorothy handed over the wrapped parcels before turning to the stranger. “Can I help you, mister?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Glory knew a moment of jealousy when he nodded and cast the fashion queens a brief smile. “Ladies.”

  Still, she quickly averted her gaze when he swung back to her aunt. She watched Bess and Amelia sweep regally toward the door, all the while whispering behind their hands and giggling. Prim and proper as they pretended, they sure acted stupid.

  “I’ll take some of this coffee and a bag of flour. Throw in beans, some jerky, and cartridges. That’ll do it, I reckon.”

  “You passing through or plannin’ to stay awhile?”

  The paper Aunt Dorothy bundled his purchases in rattled loudly, forcing Glory to concentrate to hear his answer. Not that anyone would speak her name and busybody in the same breath. Mere interest—a slight but distinguishable difference.

  “Depends, ma’am. I’m camped just outside town for the time being.”

  The length of his stay in the area probably depended on whether the Miss Prisses invited him home to meet their daddies.

  Besides his being easy on the eyes, the man’s polite ways fit snug about him. His resonant voice created tightness in her chest.

  Her own papa had such a way of speaking. The lump in her throat refused to budge. Would she ever get to hear that sound again?

  She quickly ducked when the man favored her with a glance and became intent on a handbill lying on the counter. Now that the store had emptied, she couldn’t remain part of the woodwork. Being noticed was one thing, pitied another story altogether. For two cents, she’d not wait for the letter Aunt Dorothy mentioned.

  She forced her mind back to the crisp paper in her hand.

  Hell’s bells! The words leaped off the page. Mad Dog Perkins, a five-hundred-dollar reward for his capture. Why hadn’t she paid attention to it before? That was enough to hire a real lawyer. Not one of the shyster varieties.

  “Oh, yes, your letter.” Aunt Dorothy reached into a wooden slot and handed her an envelope.

  Worry forced all thoughts of Perkins from her mind as Glory recognized the flowing script. They’d received similar ones from Dr. Fletcher, the physician who treated Jack Day at the Texas State Penitentiary at Huntsville. Each one had brought pain and made her ever mindful of the racing clock.

  Terrible foreboding knotted her stomach. Dark smudges stained one corner. Blood? Her chest constricted. Her daddy’s?

  “Hope to goodness it’s not bad news, dear,” her aunt remarked, noticing her reluctance, and then her eyes lit on the handbill. “You know, this very morning, Mr. Harvey told me over his cold eggs and burnt biscuits that he got a gander at a man lurking around Bead Mountain. That man’s cooking is worse than his forgetfulness, if that’s possible.”

  Glory tried to curb the impatience others had warned would dry the blood. Truth or not, she darn well knew it didn’t help her nerves. “What did he say about the man he saw?”

  “Swore he resembled Mad Dog Perkins. Course, that old coot sees things few other folks do. I think his mind’s took to wandering worse than ever.”

  The stranger’s head whipped around. The new pocketknife he’d admired must have lost its shine. Glory caught the slight shift in his feet as he leaned forward. Maybe she was a bit hasty in bestowing attributes he didn’t possess.

  A lower tone of voice and turning her back would fix him. “Too bad we don’t have a sheriff either here or in Coleman City. Not enough pay to develop a fondness for bullets. Did he mention his suspicions to the U.S. Marshal in Abilene town?”

  “No need. Everyone from here to the Mississippi knows my Pete. Say he’s tetched and don’t pay him no more mind than if he was a flea.”

  Bead Mountain. The old Indian burial place would provide excellent cover for a wanted man, since most folks shied away from there. Haunted, the rumormongers whispered. Not that she believed such herself. Nothing but the howling wind could make her bones shiver.

  “Thank you for the letter, Aunt Dorothy.” She kissed the woman’s cheek, slipping the letter next to the box of cartridges. “I have a hundred things to do and I’m wasting time.”

  She whirled—right into a rock-solid chest. The collision sent the handsome stranger’s purchases flying.

  “Sorry, mister.” Mortified, Glory snatched up the items from the floor and stuffed them back into his arms before he had a chance to blink twice.

  That’s when she made her second mistake. Both steamy and dark, his gaze pulled her into a murky pool where she foundered helpless as a scuttled ship.

  “No harm done, miss.” The twinkle and lopsided grin held her spellbound. “Name�
��s McClain. Luke McClain.”

  Tongue-tied under his scrutiny, she couldn’t make a squeak. Before she made the worst mistake of her life, she fled.

  * * *

  The sun beat down as Luke crept silently in the tall grass. Beads of sweat ran into his eyes, burning worse than an eyeful of cayenne. Momentarily blinded, he wiped his face with the sleeve of his shirt.

  With sight restored, he spied his prey.

  The figure squatted on his haunches just ahead. Mad Dog Perkins, as he lived and breathed. After months of looking, he’d finally found the slippery man. Before the day ended, he’d learn who and why someone had stolen his life.

  Perkins knew—Luke bet on it. He eased his Colt from the holster and inched close enough to spit on the man who’d holed up at the foot of the small mountain. Thick brush at the base of a natural overhang offered an excellent hiding place. Destiny must’ve put that girl in the emporium that morning. Otherwise, he wouldn’t have found the man so soon.

  Luke crouched, ready to spring into the camp. But before he could make his move, a slim figure appeared from nowhere.

  The newcomer yanked the lever of his rifle down and up in a snapping motion, startling Mad Dog Perkins.

  What the…? Luke watched the scene with a knot in his belly. Who had beaten him to the prize? He shrank into the tall brush.

  “Don’t even think it, mister.” The shadows of a floppy hat concealed the wearer’s face, but the voice sounded way too young for this dirty business. “Throw your pistol over here nice and easy. No tricks.”

  Perkins growled like the rabid animal his name implied and tossed his weapon within inches of the rifleman.

  Unable to watch someone steal what was rightfully his, Luke scrambled to his feet and into the small clearing. “Just a cotton-pickin’ minute.”

  He skidded to an abrupt halt when the slim figure swung the lethal rifle his direction.

  “No, you wait. Mister, I don’t know what your business is here, but you’re lucky I didn’t part your hair.”

  Surprise curled inside him at sight of those delicate-shaped eyes. Those didn’t belong to any boy or man. Ricocheting surprise gave him a pleasing taste. A cajoler at heart, he figured taking candy from a babe couldn’t present that much of a challenge.