by Lee Savino
Rocky Mountain Ride
(Rocky Mountain Bride – Book Seven)
By
Lee Savino
©2016 by Blushing Books® and Lee Savino
All rights reserved.
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Lee Savino
Rocky Mountain Ride
Cover Design by ABCD Graphics
EBook ISBN: 978-1-68259-708-8
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Table of Contents:
Rocky Mountain Ride
About the Author
EBook Offer
Blushing Books Newsletter
Blushing Books
Lord James Sebastian Chivington the Third sat in a dirty bar in San Luis Valley, Colorado. It was ten o’clock in the morning, and he’d just started drinking.
“All right, boss.” His guide, a man called Cage, sat down beside the lord and gave a world-weary sigh. “What’s the plan for the day?”
Sebastian shrugged. “The usual,” he said, and watched Cage’s shoulders slump. For the British lord, a typical day looked like drinking, smoking and spending his father’s money, with the occasional hunt or lay with a lightskirt thrown in for good measure. Probably not the adventure the older man had been looking for when he signed on to Sebastian’s entourage.
Cage looked as frustrated as Sebastian felt.
“Any news, my good man?” Sebastian called to the bartender.
The man shrugged. “Not much around here. The war ended a week ago. Lee surrendered.”
Sebastian raised his glass in mock toast. “Well done. About time you colonists stopped killing each other.”
The bartender turned away, shaking his head at his foreign customer. Lord Sebastian wore an outfit of his own design: a fine suit that flattered his lanky frame, with the addition of a neatly pressed bandana around his neck and over-sized black hat to keep the sun off his fair skin. The effect was rather ridiculous. Cage had warned him about standing out too much from the rugged, dirty men who made up the sparse populace of the West, but Sebastian didn’t care if he looked a fool. He found life was more interesting when people didn’t take him seriously.
“Just so you know, boss, most folk here don’t like being called colonists,” Cage said.
“No?” Sebastian lifted a blond brow. “I shall inform the Queen.”
Two more of Sebastian’s hired hands joined him as he sipped his drink. Behind their table, a card game started up.
“Want a whiskey?” Sebastian offered his three companions.
“Is that what you call that horse piss?” Cage said. “And no. I’ll stick to coffee until midday.” The two others agreed.
“Suit yourself.” Sebastian shrugged. “You Yanks and your coffee. Haven’t you heard of tea? It’s much better if you don’t try to steep it in Boston harbor… and then when your king sends help, throw a Revolution.”
The men at the card game stopped to glare at the blond lord. Sebastian gave them a cheery wave. He’d found in life you could say whatever you wanted as long as you acted ridiculous. An old court jester trick.
“I prefer coffee varnish for breakfast,” he said, using cowpoke slang for ‘whiskey.’ He drained his glass and raised it to signal the bartender. “Garçon! Another!”
If his guides felt disgust, they hid it well. Then again, they were used to seeing their employer drink a quarter bottle of whiskey before noon.
“Milord.” Cage used Sebastian’s title with more sarcasm that respect. But that was all right; as the third son of a duke, and slated because of birth to receive no more than a fraction of his father’s estate, Sebastian felt the same way about his breeding. “Perhaps you might give some thought to where we’ll travel next.”
“I don’t know, Cage.” Sebastian raised his glass and pretended to squint at the amber liquid, all the while studying his hired man.
Cage was typical American western stock. Ageless, timeless, tanned skin with wrinkles around his faded blue eyes. Dark hair with a touch of silver. Practical manner and dress. Popular enough with the ladies, but mostly a loner, married to his horse and saddle, the wind and sky, and wild outdoors.
Compared to Cage, Sebastian was a pale blond cherub, though too old and tall and long in the face to be a
good addition to any Raphael painting. There was a rakish twinkle in his blue eyes that boredom and general malaise hadn’t dimmed. He saw it every morning in the shaving glass, and supposed that when it was gone, he would give up and go home.
His fingers tightened around the glass. Home was not a pleasant thought. Third in line to inherit the dukedom, he had all of the prestige, some of the money, and none of the title—or the power and land that went with it. Completely lacking responsibility and cursed with brains enough to know it, he’d made a mess of his life until his father had sent him to America.
“Go,” the duke had said. “It’ll make a man of you.”
After bagging two buffalo, Sebastian had no more desire to kill things. He could go home, but to what? Studies bored him, familial duty bored him, the ton was interesting until his father realized he was skirt chasing and banished him to the colonies.
So now, Sebastian was in a saloon in San Luis Valley, looking for answers in the bottom of a dirty glass.
Frowning, he announced to the Cage, “I need a quest.”
“A what?”
“A quest, a cause. Like King Arthur’s knights of the Round what-sit. A chance for heroics, valor. Perhaps a lady who needs rescuing from an evil…something. You know…a Grendel. Or whatever.”
Cage’s blank face reminded Sebastian that book learning was rare in the Wild West. Men learned to read the sky or an animal track instead of Keats.
“A damsel in distress!” Sebastian slammed his glass onto the table for emphasis.
“You mean a woman?”
“Yes! No! Not just a woman. A fair lady who needs my help. I’ll perform heroic actions in her honor. Pledge my troth. Whatever that is.”
Cage tipped back his chair, balancing it on two legs. “Hate to remind you, boss, but ladies aren’t exactly in plentiful supply ‘round here. And I sure as hell ain’t never seen a damsel.”
Sebastian sighed. “Then let’s be on our way.”
Cage’s chair came down with a thump. “Really?”
“I think so. Pack the bags and saddle up at once.”
All three of Sebastian’s hired men rose and hurried off, returning a few minutes later with their bags. They’d probably been packing them every morning, in hopes they’d be leaving soon. Two of the men headed out towards the stables while Cage sat down.
“Took the liberty of throwing all your things into the packs. The men will saddle up the horses so we’ll be ready as soon as you want to go.”
Sebastian winced, but finding a good valet was a bloody impossible feat in the colonies. His mother would be horrified at the current state of his suits.
“So where are we going, boss?”
“I don’t know. California, Texas.” Sebastian shrugged. “One thing for certain: we’ve seen all this valley has to offer.”
The door to the saloon blew open and a woman stalked inside in a flurry of skirts. Clad in black, from her boots to a heavy lace veil falling over her face and down her back, she paused in the door with the light behind her. Every man’s head whipped around. As Cage had pointed out, a woman was a rare enough sight this far in the rugged west. Other than the soiled doves, Sebastian had never seen a lady in a saloon, and certainly not one dressed in widow’s weeds.
“Charlie the Red?” she called in English with a slight Spanish accent. The card game had stopped, and the man with the red bandana turned, rising out of his chair with a smirk on his face. “Can I help you, ma’am?”
The woman threw back the black veil, revealing a lovely, narrow face, caramel skin flushed and dark eyes sparkling with passion.
“Yes,” she said. “You can die.” The woman pulled a gun out from her skirts and shot the man in the chest.
The force of the woman’s bullets sent the man crashing backwards into the card table. His dead body hit the floor. The other players scattered.
Sebastian and Cage leaped to their feet, guns at ready, though no one made a move to shoot the woman.
“Blood for blood,” the woman spat. She turned on her heel and was gone, leaving all but the dead man staring after her, guns in hand.
“By Jove,” Sebastian burst out, breaking the terrible calm. “Who was that?”
*
Francesca spurred her horse out of town, riding hard. Her veil bounced on her head and she ripped it off with a curse, tossing it behind her. Ana would scold her for losing her mourning clothes, but who cared that she grieved her husband, when she could avenge him.
Guiding her horse off the path and into the wilderness, she glanced back one final time. The town was already fading in the distance, but it would not be wise to stop and dally. The Madonna only knew what vengeance would fall on her for shooting a man dead, even if he was an outlaw who’d committed many crimes, including murder. She only prayed the consequences would fall on her, and her alone.
As her horse crested a ridge, a man came riding over the opposite ledge. Her heart almost stopped before she recognized him.
“Señora,” her man, Juan, called as he drove his horse beside hers. “I have been riding since last night. Where were you? Where did you go?”
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. Juan was a servant as well as a friend, but sometimes he acted more like a worried older brother. “How did you find me?” Inwardly, she cursed. She hadn’t wanted to involve any of her people in her plan for revenge.
“I went to the saloon and they said you there yesterday morning, looking for a man who came this way. Did you find him? This Red Charlie who shot your husband?”
“I did. Unfortunately, I can’t turn him into the law, because now he is dead.”
“Ay Dios mío,” Juan half cursed, half prayed, crossing himself. “Francesca, what have you done?”
“I did what I had to do.”
The land leveled along a dried out riverbed, and Francesca spurred her horse faster. By now Juan would be able to guess her mission: find and destroy the man who’d murdered her husband, but he held his tongue, and directed his mount to gallop with hers towards San Luis and home.
*
“Chivington, stop!” Cage raced out of the saloon after his long legged employer.
“Did you see her?” Sebastian halted at the stables, shouting at his two hired men. “Which way did she go?”
Met with blank looks, Sebastian tore his hand through his blond hair. “Hellfire and damnation. She can’t have just disappeared.”
Cage arrived at his side. “What are you doing?”
“Going after her!”
“What? Why? Do you know her?”
“No, but she’s in trouble. The lady, the damsel…widow…whatever… she needs our help!”
Right on cue, the saloon doors burst open behind them, and a bevy of men poured into the street. They headed to their horses, cursing and shouting up a storm. A few were still pulling on their vests and buckling their belts, obviously roused early to get on the road.
Someone from the card game must have run and told them their friend was just shot dead.
Sebastian pointed. “Those men rode with the deceased. And if they catch her…”
He didn’t need to finish. Cage was already saddling his horse. The frontiersman wasn’t the sort to let a lady get run down by scoundrels.
“Come on, come on.” Sebastian practically bounced on the balls of his feet. His men finished loading the saddlebags and stared in shock as Sebastian brushed them aside to saddle his own horse. They’d never seen him so roused, not even when he was shooting game. But this adventure wasn’t for sport—this was gallantry on a lady’s behalf. It was practically out of an epic poem.
Perhaps, when it was all over, he would write one of those Keats-types and tell them about his heroic act. Bloody good inspiration for them.
Sebastian vaulted onto his noble steed. His men tied on the last of their packs, too, hurrying so they wouldn’t be left behind. “Which way, Cage?”
His guide pointed. “That way. She’s headed to San Luis. From the look of
her, she’s Spanish. Catholic. Probably has a ranch there.”
“Then onward.” Sebastian kicked his horse forward. “To the quest!”
*
The sun was sinking in the sky before Francesca allowed them to stop and water the horses. Even then, she paced along the river bank. Her body was tired from a long ride yesterday, and a hard night staked out waiting for the man with the red bandana, but her mind whirled.
Since the horrible dawn they’d found her husband dead, shot in the back and left in a field, her only thoughts were on revenge. As they’d lowered him into the ground, she’d vowed to give him justice. She’d thought destroying the killer would make her happy, but she felt emptier than ever. She and Juan would make camp and arrive home tomorrow, and then the real work of running the farm, managing the vaqueros, hanging onto her father’s land and keeping her husband’s dream alive would all begin. But for a few servants like Juan and Ana who’d worked for her family since before her father died, the burden would all fall on her.
Juan watched her pace.
“Señora, perhaps we should make camp.”
“I do not know if it is safe. Someone may be following me.”
The man sighed. “You are so impetuous. Just like your mother.”
Francesca glanced up sharply. Normally she loved hearing about her mother, who’d died when she was a girl, but now she did not want to hear the comparison.
“She was so wild, as are you. Your father, your husband, even your brother-in-law Diego Montoya all agreed—you need someone to keep you in line.”
Francesca took her horse’s reins from Juan.
“I do not need another man telling me what to do. My father and Cyro are now gone. I have to choose my own path.”
“Diego is still here. You should’ve gone to him about this matter with Red Charlie. The man who shot your husband is dangerous; Diego would not have wanted you to face him alone.”
