by Kaki Warner
Praise for the novels of Kaki Warner
“A truly original new voice in historical fiction.”
—New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas
“[An] emotionally compelling, subtly nuanced tale of revenge, redemption, and romance. . . . This flawlessly written book is worth every tear.”
—Chicago Tribune
“Romance, passion, and thrilling adventure fill the pages.”
—New York Times bestselling author Rosemary Rogers
“A romance you won’t soon forget.”
—International bestselling author Sara Donati
“Draws readers into the romance and often unvarnished reality of life in nineteenth-century America.”
—Library Journal
“Kaki Warner’s warm, witty, and lovable characters shine.”
—USA Today
“Halfway between Penelope Williamson’s and Jodi Thomas’s gritty, powerful novels and LaVyrle Spencer’s small-town stories lie Warner’s realistic, atmospheric romances.”
—RT Book Reviews
Titles by Kaki Warner
Blood Rose Trilogy
PIECES OF SKY
OPEN COUNTRY
CHASING THE SUN
Runaway Brides Novels
HEARTBREAK CREEK
COLORADO DAWN
BRIDE OF THE HIGH COUNTRY
Heroes of Heartbreak Creek
BEHIND HIS BLUE EYES
WHERE THE HORSES RUN
HOME BY MORNING
TEXAS TALL
Rough Creek Novels
ROUGH CREEK
A JOVE BOOK
Published by Berkley
An imprint of Penguin Random House LLC
penguinrandomhouse.com
Copyright © 2020 by Kaki Warner
Excerpt from Home to Texas copyright © 2020 by Kaki Warner
Penguin Random House supports copyright. Copyright fuels creativity, encourages diverse voices, promotes free speech, and creates a vibrant culture. Thank you for buying an authorized edition of this book and for complying with copyright laws by not reproducing, scanning, or distributing any part of it in any form without permission. You are supporting writers and allowing Penguin Random House to continue to publish books for every reader.
A JOVE BOOK, BERKLEY, and the BERKLEY & B colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Ebook ISBN: 9781984806208
First Edition: July 2020
Cover art by Rebecca Knowles / Trevillion Images
Cover design by Judith Lagerman
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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CONTENTS
Cover
Praise for Kaki Warner
Titles by Kaki Warner
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Prologue
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
Epilogue
Excerpt from HOME TO TEXAS
About the Author
To the amazing, versatile quarter horse
and those skilled men and women who train them.
And to Adeline,
whose courage and persistence helped bring
a neglected horse back into
the winners’ circle of the show ring.
I’m so proud of both of you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
My heartfelt thanks to the R. L. Boyce family, young and not so young, who have so patiently answered my endless questions. Hopefully I got most of it right.
To the dedicated readers who have followed my slight detour from Western historical romance to Western contemporary romance. I deeply appreciate your loyalty and patience and hope this book is as much fun to read as it was to write.
And of course to Joe, who had little impact on the writing of this book, other than to offer unconditional support, a few choice Texas expressions, many delectable home-cooked meals, and a barn.
PROLOGUE
At five thirty A.M., Dalton Cardwell walked through his cell door at the Walls Unit for the last time and began the lengthy process of being discharged from the state prison at Huntsville, Texas.
He showered and ate, then went to the dispensary, where he was issued dress-outs—a set of clothing only marginally better than his prison garb and a size too small for his six-foot-four, two-hundred-thirty-pound frame. He was allowed to keep his shoes, which he intended to exchange for boots as soon as he was able. He wanted no reminders of this place.
He was then taken to the infirmary, where he waited to be fingerprinted and have blood drawn for the HIV test. At the business office, he sat for over an hour while his prison account was scanned and a check was processed for the remaining seven dollars and thirty-one cents. After another half-hour wait, he was handed a packet containing a state-issued check for one hundred dollars, a voucher for a bus ticket anywhere within the state of Texas, and the certificate of discharge ending his eighteen-month-long association with the Texas Department of Criminal Justice.
The clock was edging toward eleven o’clock—the time inmates were normally released—when he was ushered out the front door, told one of the taxis outside would take him to the army-navy store near the bus depot, where he could cash his state check, and was warned not to come back because they always went harder on return offenders.
Then the door slammed shut behind him, cutting off the noise, the stink of despair, and the endless clang of locks and doors in a place that never slept.
The silence was deafening.
For a moment, Dalton stood motionless on the top step, trapped between immense relief, euphoria to have nothing but open sky above him, and a heart-pounding fear that the door behind him would fly open, a hand would jerk him back inside, and a laughing voice would say, Just kidding.
When nothing happened, he took a deep breath and walked briskly toward one of the taxis waiting at the curb.
An hour later, he had five twenty-dollar bills and change in his pocket, a hot cup of coffee in his hand, and a window seat on an air-conditioned Greyhound bus headed up Highway 75 to Dallas, where he would change buses and continue on to Rough Creek.
Twelve fifteen P.M. Tuesday, March 21, 2017. Five hundred and fifty-five days of being caged like an animal for a crime he confessed to but didn’t commit.
Done. Over. And heading home.
Finally.
CHAPTER 1
With grim determination, Coralee Lennox Whitcomb sat at her dressing table and set to work transforming a sixty-year-old grandmother into a confident woman in her prime. Her later prime.
In truth, she was tired.
Tired of trying so hard. Tired of pretending sixty was the new thirty-nine. Tired of being tired. It was that empty, unsettled kind of weariness that came to those fortunate enough to have once lived full, useful lives, but who now had nothing to do. She didn’t like the feeling.
She tried to convince herself that the face staring back at her wasn’t truly old, but even she could see it lacked the vitality it once had. The top lip was a little longer and the smile lines sagged a little more. Her hair was still thick and shiny, but there was more gray than brown now, and the hair coloring never seemed to cover it all. But if she looked hard enough into the slightly faded blue eyes, she could still see the dynamic, energetic young woman she had once been. There was still time to make a change and hopefully find that woman again. But what change?
“What are you frowning about?” a voice asked.
Coralee turned to see her second daughter, Raney, come up behind her. “Do I look older to you?”
“Older than what?”
“Don’t equivocate. I’m serious.” Coralee turned back to the mirror. “I think I look old.”
“Some days I do, too.”
“You’re not yet thirty, dear.”
“Near enough.” A pause, then: “Is this about your birthday?”
“My sixtieth birthday,” Coralee reminded her. “That’s over half a century.”
“But not yet two-thirds of one. I hear that’s when the real aging starts.”
“You’re not helping.”
“Then stop fishing for compliments. You know you’re beautiful.” Raney stood at Coralee’s shoulder and studied her in the mirror. “I thought you’d be happy, Mama, with all your chicks flocking back home to toast yet another year in your amazingly long life. Plus, you still have all your teeth.”
Coralee smiled into eyes the same bright, electric blue hers once were. “Still not helping.”
Despite her tendency toward sarcasm and a disinterest in anything not having to do with the ranch, Raney was the daughter most like her. She got things done. And with as little fuss or drama as possible.
Coralee had always considered herself the driving force behind the ranch—and her husband, if truth be told—but Raney was its heart and soul. She was the one who had stepped into her father’s boots after his death, and in the nine years since, had given up everything—college, marriage, a family of her own—to keep Charlie’s legacy going. Other than one ghastly near-marriage, Raney had never even made an attempt to build a life apart from the ranch. Perhaps she was as stuck as Coralee was.
“I am happy,” Coralee insisted now. “But I think I might need a change.” And with those words, an idea formed. Why shouldn’t she try something new?
Dating was out of the question. Not in a town as small as Rough Creek. Pickings were too slim and gossip too rampant. She’d learned that after her “date” with Walter Esterbrook, a man she’d known for two decades and who faithfully attended her church every Sunday. At least, she’d thought she knew him.
She could start a business, or manage something. If Rough Creek had a zoo or museum or even a hospital, she could do volunteer work, other than her weekly afternoon at the food bank. But the only thing around worth managing was the ranch, and Raney already did an excellent job of that.
Despite her sometimes-frivolous facade, Coralee considered herself an astute manager. She always had been, whether it was finding ways to double the size of the Lennox family farm or helping guide her husband through the backwaters of Texas politics toward a lucrative career in the oil and gas industry, or ensuring that she and her daughters were well protected and financially independent after his death. If she was relentless, she’d had to be. And it had paid off. By the time of Charlie’s passing, the Lennox farm had doubled yet again, been renamed the Whitcomb Four Star Ranch in honor of their four lovely daughters, and was known for breeding prize-winning Angus cattle. But what had she done lately?
“You’re scheming again, aren’t you?” With a sigh, Raney sank down onto the edge of Coralee’s bed. “What is it this time? A parade of acceptable marriage prospects for your unweddable daughter?”
“If you’re unmarried, dear, it’s by your own choice.”
“Exactly. So, stay out of it. Please.”
Ignoring that, Coralee picked up her tray of shadows and went to work on her eyes. Her slightly wrinkled, aging eyes. “I’m not scheming. I’m planning. With KD starting Officer Training School soon, it might be months—years, even—before the five of us can be at the ranch at the same time.” She paused to dab a spot of turquoise to the outside corners of her upper lids to bring out the blue of her eyes. “I thought we might make a festive occasion of it.”
“Such as?” Raney gave her a wary look.
“We could start with a nice chat to catch up on all the news, then dinner, followed by wine on the back veranda. What do you think?” She checked her eyes, thought they looked trashy, and wiped the color off.
“I think it’ll be cold out there,” Raney said.
“We can light a fire.” Coralee tried basic, unimaginative taupe. Boring, but better. “And drop the shades if it’s windy.” Which it invariably was in spring in northwest Texas. And when they were all comfy and mellowed by wine, she would make her announcement. Hopefully, by then, she would know what that announcement would be. At this point, all that was certain was she needed to do something different. Refocus. Make herself her next project. If she explained whatever it was clearly and calmly, maybe they could avoid the drama that characterized most of their family gatherings.
“You said ‘change.’ What kind of change? Nothing involving me, I hope.”
Where had her daughter gotten such a suspicious nature?
“I haven’t decided.” A faint ding from her watch saved Coralee from further explanation. “Mercy! KD’s plane has landed and you haven’t even left yet.”
“That’s what I came in to tell you.” Raney rose from the bed. “Len and Joss are picking her up on their way from Dallas.”
“Wonderful!” A last fluff of her hair and Coralee rose from the dressing table. “I’d best help Maria get the hors d’oeuvres ready.” She paused to scan Raney’s outfit—her usual baseball cap and ponytail, jeans, boots, and plaid shirt over a tank top. Why did she insist on downplaying her fine figure and beauty by dressing like a lumberjack? She would never attract a man dressed like that, unless he was as horse-crazy as she was. “You are planning to change your clothes, aren’t you?”
“They’re my sisters. What do they care?”
“I care. Please, dear. It’s my birthday. And hurry along. They’ll be here soon.”
* * *
* * *
Later that afternoon, Dalton Cardwell stepped off the bus at the crossroads in Rough Creek. It was as if nothing had changed in his eighteen-month absence. Same dusty storefronts, same beat-up trucks in front of the Roughneck Bar, same galvanized water troughs and cattle feeders stacked outside the feed store. The only things different were the weather and the plants in the baskets hanging outside Mellie’s Diner. It had been September when he’d left. Now it was early spring and Mellie’s flowers were just starting to bud. That sense of sameness was both comforting and disturbing. He liked the constancy of things that had been part of his life for all of his thirty-two years. But he was surprised that nothing had changed in a year and a half. He certainly had.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him that other than a vending machine snack when he’d changed buses in Dallas, his last meal had been almost fourteen hours earlier. Since he hadn’t told his parents when he would arrive and it didn’t seem right to show up and expect to be fed right off, he crossed to the diner. He figured he’d earned a last unhurried meal before facing his old life and reassessing the burdens it represented. If he’d learned anything while he was in prison, it was that he was done taking orders and having every move dictated by the sche
dules of others. He’d been doing that for most of his life, from working beside his father on their small cattle ranch, to his stint in the army, to the regimented directives of his time in prison. He was ready for a change.
Other than a waitress refilling ketchup bottles, and a couple of Hispanic ranch hands at the counter talking to the cook through the serving window into the kitchen, the diner was empty. He recognized the waitress, not the workers. Crossing to a booth next to the back window, he slid into the bench against the wall when the waitress walked toward him armed with a coffeepot and mug.
“Dalton? That you?”
Warily, Dalton looked up, not sure what to expect.
Like most small towns, there were few secrets in Rough Creek. His arrest had been big news, and he wasn’t sure how many friends he had left. He had known Suze Anderson for most of his life and had even taken her out a couple of times back in high school. But he was an ex-con now, and that had a way of killing friendships.
Her friendly smile said otherwise. “When’d you get out?” she asked.
“This morning.”
“Well, welcome home, stranger.” She set the mug down in front of him and filled it with coffee. There was an awkward silence, then she said, “I never thought you did it, you know.”
He looked up at her.
She made an offhand movement with her free hand. “Yeah, I know. You confessed. But I always figured there was more to it than what the papers said.” She leaned closer and dropped her voice. “Heard the commissioner’s nephew had been drinking. If you hadn’t waived a trial, that might have gotten you off.”
He poured a packet of sugar into his cup. “Water under the bridge.” To change the subject, he added, “You look good, Suze.” And she did. Hair the color of ripe wheat, skin like clover honey, and eyes as brown as dark, rich coffee. Hell. He must be hungry if he looked at a pretty face and thought of food.
She grinned and patted her flat stomach. “Not bad for two kids. Buddy wants to try for two more. Girls, this time. But I don’t know. That’s a lot of kids.”
