Velvet Thunder

by Teresa Howard

  A MASQUERADE

  Pilar led Heath into the kitchen, where Stevie awaited him. Stevie was as nervous as a cat. Just being in the same room with the gambler unnerved her.

  At first she refused to look at him. When she did, the first word that came to mind was beautiful. But how could a man so masculine, so physically overpowering, be beautiful? If Preacher Black could be believed, Lucky Diamond was a violent man—a man who ate innocents like her for breakfast.

  Heath smiled down at Stevie. She just stood there, resembling a wide-eyed, frozen goddess. He reached for the small hand fisted at her side. He pulled it forward, pumped it up and down as one would work a reluctant well handle.

  He couldn’t bring himself to release her immediately and cradled her hand in both his own. She curled her fingers, making their contact more intimate. Heath was mesmerized, his eyes riveted to the small hand.

  How could he have failed to notice her Comanche heritage at their first meeting? Her Indian features framed by her platinum hair made her quite possibly the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. When he smoothed her fist and kissed her palm lightly, he was gratified by her sharp intake of breath.

  Straightening, he released her. He produced a bowie knife and presented it to her with mocking gallantry. “I believe this is yours.”

  “I was amazed at how well you handled yourself yesterday when you sidestepped my knife.” Her cheeks flamed. “And, Mr. Diamond, I’m truly glad you did.”

  “A read that keeps your heart thundering with pleasure . . . Teresa Howard gets better with every book!”

  —Janelle Taylor

  SURRENDER TO THE SPLENDOR OF THE ROMANCES OF. F. ROSANNE BITTNER!

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  Available wherever paperbacks are sold, or order direct from the Publisher. Send cover price plus 50⊄ per copy for mailing and handling to Penguin USA, P.O. Box 999, c/o Dept. 17109, Bergenfield, NJ 07621.Residents of New York and Tennessee must include sales tax. DO NOT SEND CASH.

  TERESA HOWARD

  VELVET THUNDER

  ZEBRA BOOKS

  KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

  All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

  Table of Contents

  A MASQUERADE

  SURRENDER TO THE SPLENDOR OF THE ROMANCES OF. F. ROSANNE BITTNER!

  Title Page

  Dedication

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Prologue

  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

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  A Note From the Author

  About the Author

  EVERYDAY WILL FEEL LIKE FEBRUARY 14TH!

  WHAT’S LOVE GOT TO DO WITH IT?

  WAITING FOR A WONDERFUL ROMANCE? READ ZEBRA’S - WANDA OWEN!

  Copyright Page

  This book is dedicated to my son, Heath,

  with a wealth of love and gratitude for

  allowing me to borrow the name I saddled him with nineteen

  years ago.

  And to my sister-in-law, Stephanie,

  whose lovely name and free spirit were my

  inspiration for Stevie.

  And as always, with love and respect

  to my husband, Dr. George Howard.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENT

  Second to her family, perhaps the most important person in an author’s life is her editor. These talented men and women take the words that have sprung from our souls and dot the i’s, cross the t’s, polish the prose, point out the holes, and sprinkle the end product with fairy dust.

  I have been fortunate to work with three exceptional editors, kind women who have exceptional talent. They are Ann La-Farge, Debra Roth Kane, and Monica Harris. It is not possible for me to say how much I admire these women, how much I appreciate everything they have done in my behalf. All I know to say is thank you. Never have two words seemed so inadequate.

  Prologue

  New Mexico Territory

  The flickering glow of lanterns cast eerie shapes about the walls of the cavern. A veritable rainbow of colors: sparkling blues, gilt yellows, and vibrant crimsons reflected off tiny crystals embedded in the flowstone. Shadows danced to the rhythmic picking and hammering of the two workmen, to the constant dripping sound of water throughout the cave, to the pounding heartbeat of the well-dressed gentleman perched on a stone slab—unsmiling—watching the laborers at their task.

  When the workmen finished, they turned in tandem to the seated man. “All done, boss. Just like you ordered,” the oldest worker reported. “Only an expert’ll know they’re fake.” His lips spread in the smile of a man satisfied with a job well done. His partner had the same pleased, trusting smile stamped upon his craggy features.

  The seated man rose, brushed dirt from his trousers, and strode across the room. After examining the work in minute detail, he nodded dispassionately. Then without blinking, he whipped out his Smith & Wesson .44, leveled the deadly weapon, and shot the unsuspecting miners through the heart. While they were yet warm, the expressions of shock and betrayal frozen on their faces for eternity, he dumped their bloody corpses into a nearby pit.

  Adjusting his black cloth eye patch, he exited the cave.

  One

  The mid-morning sun beat down upon the plains, burning away the cool of the day.

  Lulled into a trancelike state by the gentle sway of his mount, the clouds scudding across the azure sky, and the haunting call of an eagle in flight, U.S. Marshal Heath Turner gave his mount, Warrior, a brown steel dust, free rein to follow the dusty trail west.

  He surveyed his surroundings with an appreciative eye. To his left a band of wild horses thundered across the plains. A single lusty stallion stood majestically on a bare peak, silhouetted against the sky. Heath’s lips spread in a purely masculine smile when the virile animal, wild with freedom, whistled, reared on his hind legs, then darted toward his harem.

  The grasslands he’d just passed had given way to vast stretches of bunchgrass and mesquite. A dust devil, tossed by the breeze, moved lazily across his path. A road runner darted before his mount,
kicking sand into the air, seeming never to tire.

  Heath couldn’t say the same about himself; he was exhausted, thoroughly and totally exhausted. He had been in the saddle so long, he feared the chunk of leather had become a permanent part of his anatomy. His immediate destination was a sleepy little town called Adobe Wells and he couldn’t get there soon enough to suit him. All he wanted was a soft bed, a hot meal, a cool drink, and after a bit of rest, maybe a warm, willing woman.

  Squinting, he looked at the ball of fire that masqueraded as the sun in these parts. The heat rising from the ground wavered like drunken ghosts dancing the minuet. Dizzying, he remained upright through sheer strength of will.

  Suddenly, a rifle shot split the morning air, kicking up dust in front of his horse. The powerful steed danced in alarm. The second shot sent Heath’s hat flying off his head.

  “What the hell?” he growled, sawing back on his reins, bringing the powerful animal under control.

  In a dead run, he dipped to retrieve his favorite Stetson—some things were worth risking one’s life for—and placed it firmly on his head. Heading to the east side of the mesa, he made for cover. Just as he galloped behind a large boulder, another shot rang out.

  The unexpected attack sent stamina flowing through him like hot lava, warming him from roots to soles, energizing his tired body, heightening his awareness. Though he didn’t know the nature of his assignment in Adobe Wells, he’d bet a month’s pay the ambush was connected with it.

  “Usually they wait till I get to town before shootin’ at me,” he groused, dismounting in a blur. He pulled his Winchester from its saddle scabbard and cautiously peered around the rock, scanning the cliffs for any sign of the sniper. The shot had come from the ragged precipice that jutted out from the mesa. As far as he could see, there was nothing amiss in that quarter.

  Squatting on his haunches, he filled his lungs with warm arid air and tipped his hat back with a tanned finger. He replayed the last few minutes in his mind. The second and third misses were excusable since his horse had been in a dead run, but not the first. His slow, ambling gait had made him a sitting duck.

  “Maybe he’s just a piss-poor shot,” Heath suggested to Warrior. “Or maybe it was a warning.”

  Apparently, his mount didn’t have an opinion on the matter. All Heath heard, other than the sound of his own voice, was the wind singing off the face of the cliffs.

  When another shot rang out, slamming into the rock just above Heath’s head, the impact of the bullet sent fragments of stone and dirt flying into his face. “You’re starting to get on my nerves,” he hissed to his unseen assailant, returning fire blindly.

  There was no response to his gunfire as he scrambled back out of sight. The sun burned down upon him and sweat trickled between his shoulder blades. He shifted uncomfortably.

  A great shadow fell over him as Warrior nudged his shoulder. “Thanks for the shade,” Heath muttered, absently stroking the animal, considering his options. He could wait the sniper out and then slip past him in the night. Or he could backtrack and travel southwest to Adobe Wells. The circuitous route would make the trip much longer, however.

  He chewed a dry piece of grass, deep in thought. “Whatcha think boy?”

  The huge animal snorted on cue.

  “I agree.” Rising in one fluid motion, Heath stowed his yellow boy in the saddle boot, checked the ammunition in his Navy Colt, retrieved a rope from around the pommel, and tied it to his belt with a rawhide piggin string.

  Soundlessly, he began climbing the east side of the rock shelf. He lost his footing halfway to the top, dislodging loose gravel from the sheer face of the cliff. Grabbing a toehold, he gasped for breath.

  “Damn!” A blind deaf-mute would be alerted by that. Apparently, he was more fatigued than he thought, and it was likely to get him killed. Pressing his cheek into the rock, he expected to feel the sting of hot lead piercing his hide. It never came. After a nerve-settling respite, he continued his ascent, more slowly, carefully.

  Easing over the top, he padded on silent feet to the southern rim of the plateau. All was quiet below; peace embraced him on all sides. If he didn’t know better, he would think he had imagined the ambush. But the breeze, ruffling his hair through the bullet hole in his John B., proved that someone was out there, someone who posed a grievous threat.

  “Where are you, you bastard?” he asked quietly. Exasperated, he jerked his hat off and ran his fingers through long ebony hair.

  At first he saw nothing. Then he shifted his gaze and caught glimpse of a slight movement. The toe of a scuffed boot protruded from behind a rock about twenty feet down the abutment.

  “Pay dirt.” There was a whisper of triumph in his voice. He watched as gingerly, the sniper stepped into clear view. “Well, I’ll be damned.”

  To Heath’s surprise, his assailant was a girl, dressed from head to toe in black leather. A small Stetson perched atop her head cast her face in shadow, but he could tell that she was young, painfully young.

  “And skinny as a fence post,” he muttered. The rifle in the crook of her arm was bigger than she.

  Standing stock-still, sucking on the end of a waist-length platinum braid, she looked like nothing so much as a precocious child. “A child?” Not hardly! Children don’t take potshots at perfect strangers, no matter how precocious they are. He narrowed his eyes, glaring at his nemesis.

  A hazy warning quickened Stevie’s gut. She felt as if she were being watched. Tamping down the niggling sense of fear, she cast about for sign of the gunslinger.

  If she didn’t find him and scare him off, she might well end up like Jeff. Unshed tears caused her nose to tingle. But she gained control of the pain and grief of losing her brother. Pure cussedness stiffened her spine.

  With Jeff gone, Pa needed her to be strong. She was all he had. Now was no time to go missish on him.

  Thinking of her pa, she spat the silken strands out of her mouth and instinctively wiped her tongue on her shirtsleeve. Pa said ladies don’t suck their hair, or bite their fingernails, or dress like boys, or curse like waddies.

  Well, who said she wanted to be a lady anyhow? Defiantly, she lifted the end of her braid and clamped it firmly between her front teeth.

  A tight coil of apprehension unwound in her chest. She still couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was watching her.

  Where was that gunslinger? she wondered again. The man couldn’t just disappear into the air, could he?

  Heath watched the girl step closer to the ledge and scan the horizon, obviously searching for him. He smiled a predator’s smile. An introduction was in order, he decided. Fashioning a Blocker loop, he tossed the rope over the rim. It fell with a muted hiss and circled her narrow shoulders, effectively penning her arms to her sides. “Gotcha!”

  Stevie shrieked and dropped her head back, squinting against the sun. Her rifle fell to the rocks below with an echoing clatter. Desperately, she tried to wrest her revolver from its holster, all the while struggling to escape bondage.

  Heath chuckled at her display of outrage, hoping the willful chit didn’t shoot her foot off. Enraged, she spoke the language he recognized as Comanche. He understood the foreign tongue with the rolling R’s well enough to wonder if some of the vile threats she made against his poor naked body were physically possible. Some of them sounded quite intriguing though.

  “Hold still, kid,” he shouted down to her.

  His chivalrous intent was to restrain the girl before she did herself grievous harm. Muscles bulged, straining the seams of his cotton shirt as he began pulling her to the upper ledge of the cliff.

  Wiggling like a fish on a hook, she hung in midair, spitting another string of curses, even worse than the first. “Damn, filthy, lowdown, stinkin’, bast—”

  “Be still before I drop you,” he interrupted. “And stop using that filthy language, dammit!”

  When he pulled her over the rim, she flew into him, clawing like a panther, hissing like a snake. One
fact was incontrovertible; the kid knew how to fight. What she lacked in physical strength she made up for in passion. Bemused, Heath slipped her revolver from its holster, tucked it in his belt behind his back, and held his arms in front of his face, allowing her to attack him like a setting hen flogging a curious rooster.

  “You ass! Cur dog. Bastard!” she slurred him, and questioned his legitimacy again, stomping his booted foot for emphasis.

  His Hessians cushioned her slight weight, but frankly, he was tired of her abuse. He subdued her by wrapping his arms around her waist. “Behave yourself.”

  “Let me go!” she shrieked, digging in her heels as he dragged her away from the rim of the mesa, creating a wavy trail of dust in her wake. “How dare you rope me and haul me up here like a sack of potatoes? You . . . you stinkin’ pile of horse shit.”

  “And how dare you shoot at me, you pint-sized brat?” he growled against her ear. “Call me peculiar, but I take exception when people try to kill me.”

  Stevie didn’t hear his sophisticated northern drawl for the blood roaring in her ears. She had never been held so familiarly before; she found the gunslinger’s nearness strangely unsettling. Sensing there was more to fear from him than a bullet, she stopped struggling. “Turn me loose!” she ground out, unable to hide the desperation in her voice.

  “You promise to behave yourself?” Heath waited for an answer. Receiving none, he squeezed her around the waist in silent warning, then cautiously released his hold.

  She turned to face him, slowly easing away.

  His eyes widened at his first clear view of her. She was beautiful; doe eyes, black as midnight, tilted exotically. Skin, dusky bronze, like melted caramel or ripe apricots. High cheekbones, cradling a thick fringe of sooty lashes. Hair, the delicate hue of moonlight on water, so pale as to be almost colorless, so silky as to beg a man’s touch. Breasts full and firm, rising and falling with each labored breath. Wasplike waist, flaring into gently rounded hips. Legs, though short and slender, nicely rounded.