Dueling the Desperado
Page 1
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Dueling the Desperado
Mimi Milan
Eaton House
Contents
Untitled
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
A Letter to Readers
Untitled
Untitled
Dueling the Desperado
© 2018 by Michele Claudio
All rights reserved. Printed in the United States of America. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover design by Carpe Librum Book Design.
Created with Vellum
Praise for Mimi Milan
What others are saying about Mimi Milan’s books:
The Dancing Lady
Mimi Milan writes a beautiful story of two people saving each other and finding true love. Fina is one of the more secretive brides but there is also more to Nacho than simply owning the only restaurant in town. Can these two learn to trust each other and find love? Dive into this engaging holiday romance to find out!
~ CarterAndConnersMom, Reader ~
As I progress through the series I find myself drawn in more & more to the characters in Noelle. I appreciated the Spanish terms being explained naturally through the dialogue & they added “flavor” to the story. I would enjoy reading more books by this author.
~ ArmyMomX2, Reader ~
Full of surprises!
I couldn't figure out who had more secrets they were hiding, Fina or Nacho? So glad there was a Happy Ever After to this book, I sure had my doubts at times!! If you're up for some creativity in the kitchen, you'll love this book!! I'm looking forward to reading more of Mimi's books!
~ Cindy Nipper, Reader ~
A Rebel in Jericho
“I thoroughly enjoyed A Rebel in Jericho. I felt that it was a great read. The plot was interesting and kept me turning the pages to find out what would happen next. The characters were well developed and interesting. I enjoyed the historical aspect and the description at the end of real events hinted at in the story. I like that the ending lends itself well to a sequel while effectively completing this story. I can't wait to read more by this author.
I love that 20 percent of the sales from this book goes toward stopping human trafficking which is a bigger problem than we realize.”
~ Carrie, Reader ~
“A Rebel in Jericho has a little of everything for its readers to enjoy. Suspense, romance, deception, and the desire to survive. Catalina has an incredible strength within herself, while at the same time showing just how vulnerable she is. I was intrigued to find out what twist and turns would take place next with every page I turned. I look forward to continuing reading this series and what other adventures are to come.”
~ Warrior Ground ~
Twice Redeemed
I believe that this story is worth every bit of a five-star rating. It’s worthy of winning a literary award.”
~ Writer at Heart ~
This second book in the series is as good as the first. The characters are believable and well-written. Kind hearted former sheriff John Durbin needs to rescue the young woman who previously helped him. Will their relationship become more than rescuer and lady in danger? I recommend this book and the entire series.
~ Marianne Spitzer, Author ~
The Angel Paws Rescue series
“I really enjoyed all three of the novellas in this series (the Angel Paws Rescue series). Each novella is surprisingly very different from the other, but each has a wounded veteran and an arts person as the hero and heroine with a pet/service animal adopted from Angel Paws Rescue. I recommend the series to anyone who enjoys clean, heart-warming contemporary romance.”
~ MH, Reader ~
To the ones still trying to claim their space ~
You belong.
You are home.
Acknowledgments
There’s a saying that writing is a lonely process. I’m not too sure I can agree with that. Perhaps the writing itself is done in private—and not even then is that always true. Oftentimes, there are fellow authors who like to gather (either in person or on social media) for writing “sprints.” There are critique partners, editors, beta readers, cover artists, bloggers, marketing specialists and more. All of them play an important role in the course of producing a novel. I couldn’t possibly name them all, but I would like to take a moment to recognize the few who did a fabulous job of helping bring Dueling the Desperado to life.
Always, I thank the Divine first for both the gift of story and the desire to sit down day after day to plug away at my computer. Sometimes the words are like molasses. They slowly pour out onto the page. Other times, they are like a geyser gushing forth with such urgency that I worry they will slip through my fingers. Slow or fast, peaceful or frantic, I am thankful for any way the Master Creator helps me find them.
I would also like to thank my editor, Patricia Highton. Once again, you have made Eaton House a wonderful place to work. Thank you for finding the grammatical errors that my eyes continue to glaze over.
To my family and friends, thank you for all the support. Whether it’s luncheons together or simply an encouraging comment on a social media post, you are invaluable and keep me going. I pray I can be there for all of you as you have all been for me.
To Evelyne of Carpe Librum Book Design, thank you for creating such a beautiful cover. It really brought my characters to life in a classic and timeless manner. I can’t wait until we begin working together on the next cover for Where the Snowy Owl Sleeps.
To Guillermo, my husband and sometimes muse, thank you for all that you do to help this writing business grow. We writers are sometimes accused of being “weird sorts.” So, gracias for accepting me in all my weird ways of midnight writing moments and addiction to cranberry scones and tea.
Last, but certainly never least, are the readers. I don’t think there are words to express how much I appreciate all of you. The follows, emails, messages and “tags” on social media regarding the “next book” and your excitement to read it are inspiring. Whenever I feel like I’m dying of thirst in the writing desert, I receive an encouraging inquiry or read another good review and am ready to write again. Thank you so much for allowing me to share my stories.
Prologue
El Salvado, New Mexico
February 1847
“California? You can’t be serious! That place is completely uncivilized.”
Araceli Arroyo bit back a smile. Her friend, Georgia, had the tendency to over exaggerate whenever faced with dismaying news. “I believe you said something similar when you first arrived here in our little town.”
Georgia feigned ignorance. “Did I? Well, I don’t recall. Although, it would have been a truthful statement. It takes women like you and me
– ladies of good virtue and strong character— to properly settle a place. Now who will help me run the Society of Munificent Maidens? Oh, Chel. Why do you have to move all the way to California?”
Araceli’s mouth stretched into a thin, tight line. It did little to quell her irritation, though, and the slight Spanish accent that pricked her voice proved as much. “You know very well why I have to move.”
Georgia’s small gasp was followed by a moan of regret as she suddenly remembered her friend’s plight. “Yes, how terribly rude of me. I’m so sorry, Chel. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.”
“Stop worrying, George. It’s not your fault. It was those blasted soldiers who burned down our house and stole my family’s land.”
Araceli couldn’t bring herself to say the rest of what had happened, but it didn’t stop her mind from racing back to the day when American soldiers descended upon the Arroyo hacienda in search of her brothers—soldiers fighting for the Mexican army. The two youngest had indeed returned home and, after being tracked and discovered, were promptly executed. Her older brother, Pedro, never made it back at all. It was a sure sign the war across the border had greedily devoured him like so many others.
Like everything else she cared for.
She forced back the memories filled with smoldering remains of flames licking at the grand hacienda her father had built with his own two hands—a wedding gift to a mother who parted the world with grief in her heart when the war first came and all three sons marched off together.
Araceli cleared her throat and gave the woman before her a small embrace. The Southern socialite latched her long, milky white arms around Chel’s shoulders in return, squeezing tightly.
“I will miss you dearly, my girl. You must promise me that you’ll paint the California coast. Mind you, I’ll take nothing less than your greatest masterpiece for my office.”
“I don’t think we’ll be going that far,” Araceli said with a sad smile. “The town my father picked out is a place called Blessings. He believes God will grant us good fortune if we settle in a town with a name like that.”
“And you, Chel? What is it that you believe?”
There is no God.
The words almost slipped from her mouth, but a sour impression was the last thing she wanted to leave her friend with. So, she only gave the woman a nonchalant shrug and said, “Sabe? Who am I to say, George? I believe life is what you make of it… and I intend to make the most out of California.”
“That’s the spirit!” George grabbed one hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze. “You’ll be sure to go far with an attitude like that—maybe even so far as the California coast.”
George gave her a wink then and touched the side of her nose—a small gesture the women used with one another to indicate a knowledge they shared. In this instance, George wished a painting of the sea. Araceli had never been one to turn down an adventure.
Why start now?
Someday she would end up on the golden coast—one foot buried in the gleam of pale yellow sand, the other planted in the churning tide—and she would collect her paints and capture that moment for her friend and confidant.
That is, if she ever got ahold of more paints.
“I better go,” she finally said. “My father said we’re catching tomorrow’s coach and there’s still plenty of packing to do.”
“Will you need any help? With the packing, that is.”
Araceli shook her head. “You’re kind to offer, but I’m sure we’ll manage.”
“Very well. Be sure to write me as soon as you get to this—what did you call it? Blessings? Yes, that was it. I want to know you’ve arrived safely.”
“You know I will,” Araceli said and the women embraced one last time. Then she climbed onto her horse and took the road heading away from George’s quaint cottage with its large sitting porch and white picket fence gallantly dressed in wild daisies growing from base to hem. Araceli thought about those flowers long after the house and her friend had fallen from view, feeling as wild as those blooms looked. There were days when great sadness engulfed her and she questioned the ability to even rise from her bed; the curtains remaining drawn on yet another dreadful day. Then the pendulum of emotions would swing in the opposite direction, filling her with enough energy to take on an invading army with little more than the swish of a horse-haired brush dipped in the colors of creation.
Except she had no colors now.
All that remained of her precious paints were squirreled away in a lonely spot back in her family’s burnt home. She looked west and dared to toy with the idea… Would it be safe to return? Her father had warned her to never venture the roads leading back to the ranch they once owned—that there was no guarantee the soldiers had dispersed despite the war ending. Besides, America had claimed victory and the Mexicans who lived on the north side of the new border were now in the precarious position of not really belonging anywhere. They had yet to be granted American citizenship, making it easy for the government to lay claim to lands that boasted generations of hard work and inheritance. That is what had come to pass for her own family. With brothers fighting for what was (politically speaking) the wrong side, the family was deemed traitorous. A miracle, her father had declared when they were given the option to abandon the homestead. However, she was away that day on one of her usual explorations as was custom whenever she felt the well running dry. She escaped into nature to seek out its beauty and secrets that it would offer up only to those who learned to patiently wait for great revelations.
She could do that once again.
With the sun kissing the horizon, a promise on its lover’s lips bespoke of the night soon to be born. Araceli turned her horse down the forbidden road to wait for it.
“Ain’t nothing grown here but a bunch of Mexican strawberries.”
The comment brought a round of laughter from several of the soldiers as they sat around the campfire, pitching dried beans at one another. Miguel Santiago chuckled with the rest of them, but the sound that reached his ears was nothing more than a reflection of how he felt inside.
Hollow.
He hated this war and the way they had seized this ranch, but most of all he hated himself. Angry and fearful at the same time, he would never admit that he was what his men hated most.
Mexican.
Well, half Mexican, that is. With an American mother and Mexican father—neither of whom he had ever known—he grew up on a plantation owned by grandparents who did their best to teach him how terrible his father’s people, supposedly from Puebla, really were. However, despite their abhorrence for Mexicans, their field hands consisted of foreign labor because they worked hard and cheap and provided something of a clear conscience for his grandfather that he did not run that kind of business—the one that chained men or whipped them. His workers were paid employees after all.
Miguel—or Michael, as his grandparents had insisted—grew up working alongside them. It gave him an education he never expected would be of much use, namely, that of speaking Spanish accompanied by the knowledge of Mexican culture, history and geography. That was one of the reasons the army took him in so quickly. Although, the truth was they happily took in any male capable of shooting down a perceived threat. However, he didn’t want them treating him different from any other comrade and knew he could get by on his fair looks. So, he told them only the greatest highlights. He was Michael St. James (the English translation of his paternal surname) and kin to Daniel Delacroix of the Louisiana Delacroix. Yes, he would gladly serve his country, provided he was given a land grant in exchange for his military service. Of course, he would be more than willing to run off any resistance in order to claim his bounty, be it the decimation of a thousand men or only two young curs who abandoned the Mexican army in preference of returning to the only home they ever knew. Thankfully, he had been in town that day and wasn’t the one to call fire!
Fire.
The thought of the word reminded him of the burning building he h
appened upon— another of his men’s indiscretions, which were less than appreciated. Yet, again, they did the very thing he was thankful he had not been called upon to do—rid the hacienda of its occupants. So, neither the blood nor burning were truly on his hand. That was the explanation he used to reassure himself that he was within his right to claim this land—the fact they did not occur on his watch. Therefore, the responsibility was not his—only the ranch and he would have it any way he could if it meant never returning to his grandfather’s home again. His only hope was that he would find enough peace to stay on it.
“What the—”
He looked up when a bean popped off the side of his face.
One of the men gave him a sheepish grin. “Sorry, captain. We were just checking to see if you were alive.”
“Yeah, you looked like you might have gotten lost in there somewhere,” another chimed before taking a swig from his bottle of whiskey.
Miguel stood and brushed himself off. “You boys better stop passing around that joy juice and get some sense. We’ll be taking turns on watch tonight.”
“Aw, I don’t get why we can’t just sleep in the house,” the soldier said and took another drink.