by Danni Roan
Blake Allen
Generations of the Cattleman's Daughters
Danni Roan
Copyright © 2020 Danni Roan
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
ISBN:13 9798637228959
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Introduction
With a keen sense of justice, Blake Allen has set his sights on a life of law enforcement, but as the roaring twenties break over his home state of Wyoming, he finds himself seeking help and guidance to combat the wave of outlaws determined to take everything as their own.
Darcy Stanley left her home looking for the glamour of the big city, but what she found, amidst the glimmer and shine, could not satisfy the longings of her heart. Trapped in a life of speakeasies and rough gin joints, she finds her chance at freedom a dangerous path.
Will two very different people be able to bring the house of cards crashing down, or lose everything trying?
Chapter 1
Blake eased the big roan over the high plains, a brisk breeze tugging at his hat as his amber gaze tried to pick out any sign of his quarry in the dry grass.
Leaning over the saddle, he watched, studied, listened. The sleeve of his heavy coat snagged on the saddle horn as he guided the horse around a pink granite boulder the size of a small house, and he moved his arm to unhook the distracting cuff.
Blake had been in the area of Wyoming called the Vedauwoo, a bleak barren area full of huge rocks, dusty trails, and dry grass, for nearly a week and could feel that he was getting closer to the band of outlaws with every step. The gang had robbed a bank in Laramie and Blake had been tracking them since hearing they had fled up the mountain. As one of the youngest members of the police force and used to days in the saddle, he had volunteered to make the hard ride.
Leaning further over the saddle swells to unhook the cuff of his heavy coat from the sturdy saddle, Blake didn’t catch the glint of dull-light on metal. The sound of a rifle shot cracked like thunder and something slammed into his head tipping his still form over the horse’s neck as the animal bolted down the slope toward twisted pines.
***
“Whoa,” Clayton Allen pulled his dark bay to a halt along the road to the Broken J Ranch and lifted a hand toward his son. “You dragging the whole road today?” he asked taking off his hat and running his hands through his thick black hair. “Or are you just getting some extra miles on the new team?”
Blake laughed, mirroring his father’s actions. It was hot for late summer in Wyoming, and he’d been working a four-horse team down the dirt road leading to his home for most of the day. The big drag, behind the team smoothing out potholes, ripples, and divots, was wearing him out. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sunlight glinting off the subtle hints of deep red in his nearly black wavy locks. “I thought it would be good to put Jack and Scott and the new Jack and Scott through their paces while I get the road smoothed at the same time,” the younger man spoke, looking up and studying his father. The years had been good to Clayton Allen, the Cracker Cowboy who had come to the Broken J Ranch so long ago, was still trim, his body corded with straps of muscle and his hair barely touched with gray.
At first glance, some folks would call Clay Allen wiry, but he was one of the strongest men Blake had ever known, and he sat easy in a saddle that was his second home.
“How’re they doing?” Clay nodded to the team of heavy Percherons hitched behind the strapping Clydesdales that stood easy in the road.
Blake chuckled. “They’d go better if they didn’t have the same names. I don’t know how Hank and Eric do it. If I call Scott they both flick their ears and try to pull.” The big Clydesdale on the right flicked his ears and stood straight preparing to lean into his collar while the smaller gray horse, hitched behind him, did the same.
“You know the older team could pull the drag on their own?” Clay said, his golden gaze raking his only child with a wicked gleam.
“I know,” Blake admitted. “Maybe I just like the challenge.” His eyes sparkled, a reflection of the teasing in his father’s own gaze.
“You’re a good horseman Blake, you can’t help yourself, and I’m glad to see the road get the attention it needs, the rains this year were fierce and did a lot of damage. Things have changed so much these past few years we need the road in good shape.”
The sound of a vehicle approaching made the horses shift restlessly, and Clay sidled his mount off the road as a model-A truck chugged up to stop between the two Allen men. The old Clydesdales flicked their ears in irritation, but the big grays barely reacted at all the smelly contraption. It seemed that the younger team had been subjected to motorized vehicles far more frequently than the older team.
“What are you two doing lollygagging around here?” a young woman leaned out the window on the driver’s side with a grin, flicking her dark hair from her face. “If you weren’t blabbin’, I’d have a nice smooth road the rest of the way home.” Her pale green eyes flickered with light as she grinned at Blake.
“Lilly, who let you have the truck?” Blake called to his pretty cousin. Hank and Fiona’s first born child has a lot of sass but a good heart.
“Pa asked me to go into town for him. Ma needed supplies and you know he doesn’t like driving this thing.” Lilly laughed and Blake shook his head. Hank Ballard definitely preferred driving his team and big wagon to the farm truck.
“That’s ‘cause he doesn’t fit in the cabin,” Clay laughed. “A man his size doesn’t like a roof that close over his head.”
“I’ll tell him you said that,” Lilly laughed. After Mary Bridgette, Lilly was closest cousin in age to Blake and they were often shooting barbs at each other good naturedly. “Now if you two will excuse me. I have a delivery to make.” Lilly released the gears on the truck and bounced on down the road toward the ranch that sprawled across the prairie.
“Is that girl afraid of anything?” Clay asked.
“Not that I’ve seen,” Blake said. “The students at the school like her, but they don’t give her much trouble either. Maybe they’re scared of her.”
Clayton chuckled. “I’m going to put a few more miles on this horse today,” he said, smoothing the silver streaks near his ears. “We have a good crop of animals this year and sales should be good. Don’t forget, I want you to pick your mount before you go this f
all, as well,” he added meeting his son’s eyes.
“I will.” Blake didn’t say more. They’d been over this subject so many times already. His father wanted him to stay on the Broken J and raise horses not join the academy and become a policeman in Casper. They’d talked the topic to exhaustion and Blake knew it was as much the pain he was causing his mother by leaving, as anything else, that made his father’s lips turn down. Together they had gone through every reason Blake shouldn’t go, at least a dozen times, but neither Meg nor Clay had forbidden Blake from going, and he knew he had to follow his own calling.
“Blake,” Clay called back over his shoulder as his horse stepped out, “Blake?”
His father’s voice rolled over the young man trying to get his attention. He had been behind the drag all day and didn’t want his thoughts to turn to their disagreement. “Blake?”
***
His father’s voice echoed in his brain and Blake struggled back to consciousness. His sleeve was still snagged on the saddle horn and his arm was pressed painfully between his body and the hard leather swells and his head spun as Blake came back to the present.
The horse sidled under a thick grove of pines, cropping grass as it ducked beneath a limb that scraped painfully across Blake’s back. The sharp, gouging pain of small branches sharpened Blake’s mind, and he struggled to understand where he was or what had happened. His dream had been so vivid he could still hear the echoes of his father’s voice in his mind.
The lean young cowboy tried to shake his head but the world spun, and he scrambled to grasp the saddle horn to keep from slipping from his mount’s back. The big horse simply huffed, cropping at the sparse grass amidst the trees. It had been well trained to stay calm, and Blake was thankful for his father’s efforts with the beast.
Still holding tight to the saddle, Blake touched his head bringing his fingers away damp and sticky, as the acrid tang of blood wafted to his nostrils, and he realized he must have been shot.
Gingerly pulling the reins into one hand, Blake closed his eyes against the wave of dizziness and nausea that slammed into him, forcing him to lower his face to the horse’s neck.
“Whoa,” he groaned and the big roan flicked its ears toward him. The horse, his father had handpicked for him, lifted its head testing the air and Blake tensed. Could whoever had shot him be searching for him even now? Easing the big horse down the hill toward the wide prairie below, Blake thought about his predicament. He could head toward Laramie, the nearest city or push north toward Cheyenne; his enemies would expect him to head to the nearest town and may be waiting for him to appear in the city at the bottom of the mountain.
Head still spinning the young lawman aimed his horse toward the top of the high prairie and the old trails leading to Cheyenne, at least he knew he would be able to find help in the capital of Wyoming.
Nausea rolled through him again, but years of working cattle and long hours in the saddle kept Blake upright as he headed toward safety. He was alone in the high prairie, pursued by those that he had been tracking for months and uncertain if anyone would ever find him if he fell to the head wound still dripping blood onto the shoulder of his winter coat. Only God could see him through this trial and his heart fluttered with that hope.
Chapter 2
Cheyenne Wyoming 1924
Blake blinked his eyes against the bright light pouring through the tall window and spilling across his hard cot. His brain felt fuzzy as he reached a hand toward the tight bindings that circled his head.
Pushing himself up on an elbow Blake looked around the long open room where other cots stretched as far as he could see. A few beds held men in ragged clothing, a few sporting bandages or bruises and for a moment Blake couldn’t place where he was.
“I see you’re finally awake,” a warm female voice washed over him, and he grinned recognizing the speaker. “Bla…”
He held up his hand scanning the room and stopping the woman before she could say his name out loud.
“Where am I?” he turned his piercing eyes on his cousin Mary, his face stern.
“This is the camp mission in Cheyenne,” Mary scowled down at him, worry flickering in her eyes. “Do you know me?”
Blake motioned her closer, pitching his voice low. “I do, but I’m not myself right now,” his crooked grin communicated much. “I’m on a job and don’t want anyone to know who, or what I am.”
Mary nodded. She hadn’t seen Blake in nearly two years since he had graduated from the police academy and moved up into the rank of detective. Blake was one of the youngest members of the force, and his family had seen very little of him in recent months. “Is there anything we can get for you, sir,” she asked, lifting her voice so that curious onlookers would know she was simply greeting a new visitor. “The hostler from down the street brought you here when you rode in yesterday. He seemed to think this was the right place for you.”
Blake nodded. “I’ll have to thank the man. Did you do this?” he touched the bandage on his head and cringed at the sharp pain from the wound.
“Yes, we have been known to patch up those who have been mugged or taken advantage of in the big city.”
Blake gave a slight nod of his head pushing himself up from the bed and staggering a step before Mary took his arm, steadying him.
“Are you sure you should be up?” she hissed into his ear. “That injury did not look like a mugging.”
“I’d like to get outside,” Blake said, his voice carrying as he scanned the room for familiar faces. It was possible that some of the rats that worked behind the scenes for the Branson gang were staying here in the mission. Too many men had become addicted to the bottle and had fallen into a criminal living when alcohol had been banned, so it only made sense to be careful.
“Let me help you,” Mary smiled at the few men who were watching the interaction. “That is my job after all,” she clarified slipping her arm under his and helping him to the door.
Blake pulled in a deep breath of cool air as they stepped out onto the street, into the bright sunlight, and he felt his head clear a little.
“Blake, what on earth are you doing here any away?” Mary whispered. “That injury looks like a gunshot wound.”
“Probably because it is,” Blake’s rakish grin made Mary Bridgette growl at him.
“Why don’t you come over to the house, and you can rest there a while? Barrister will be glad to see you, and you can explain everything.”
“Under two conditions,” Blake said, holding up two fingers, his hard jaw taking on that stubborn look she had come to recognize so well even when he was no more than a boy.
“What conditions?” she asked, resignedly.
“One, I check on my horse and gear, and two, you don’t tell the family I’m here.”
“But Blake,” Mary’s light eyes grew wide.
“Promise me Mary, or I’ll ride out right now.”
“Alright,” she said on a sigh. “But I want to know what’s going on. Maybe we’ve heard something that can help you with whatever job you’re doing. Besides it will be nice to catch up with family. We haven’t been home to the Broken J since first snow fall.”
“Where’s my hat?” Blake asked touching his head one more time.
Mary rolled her eyes but ducked back into the building returning a moment later with his dark cowboy hat. “I would have thought you had traded that in by now for something more modern.”
Blake gingerly placed the hat on his head at a rakish angle and winked. “Point me in the direction of the livery, and I’ll circle back around to your place by dinner time.”
Mary nodded pointing down the street before placing her hands on her hips and watching her cousin’s unsteady progress down the bustling street of the big city. She and her husband had been here at the church mission for nearly ten years now, but she had never expected to see her own kin carried in to the mission and homeless shelter they provided for those who were down on their luck.
When Mary a
nd Barrister had first joined the shelter, there had been a large number of soldiers back from the Great War who struggled to settle into their former lives, many turning to drink and other vices to hide from the pain and suffering of a horrible war. Now, more of the men were suffering from addictions and some were possibly hiding from the law.
Pushing a strand of blonde hair behind her ear, she watched her younger cousin turn the corner, wondering if that was the real reason he was here. Was he tracking an outlaw and didn’t want anyone to know who he was? It was going to be complicated if he would be staying at the mission for long. Turning back to the door she had just exited she read the plaque on the wall.
Come unto me all ye who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest.
It was the motto they lived by. Offering what care and comfort they could to those in need and providing prayer and spiritual guidance to help lost men find their way again.
