Sweet Autumn Surrender

Prologue

August 1878

Summer Valley, Texas

Ellie Jarrett! You know better than to use my front door. Get inside this house before someone sees you!

Ellie allowed Lavender Sealy to drag her inside the opulent foyer, close the rose-etched front door, and pull her down the thick Persian carpet to the back of the Lady Bug Pleasure Emporium.

Skidding past the parlor, she managed a fleeting smile for Daisy and Poppy, who lounged on the red velvet settee with tall glasses of pink lemonade.

To her left, she glimpsed Snake in the gambling room, plinking away at the piano to empty gaming tables and unoccupied barstools.

Two o’clock on Wednesday afternoon was a slow time at the Lady Bug. Wednesday always had been the slowest day of the week, except when a trail drive was passing through town.

Ellie followed her benefactor down the long corridor. Memories of her years spent here with Lavender and the girls brought a rush of poignant emotion. Regardless of what others chose to call her—madam, painted lady, or just plain whore—Lavender Sealy was acknowledged by all as a businesswoman of the first order, managing her finances, her house, and her girls with the acumen of an investment banker. Although she specialized in selling flesh by the hour, she was also a mistress—madam, some preferred to say—at buying respect.

The community of Summer Valley was living proof of that fact. No sooner had she moved to town than the children received a new school building complete with desks and ample sets of McGuffey’s Readers, the church received new pews and a new bell, and the schoolmaster and pastor were given free services for life at the Lady Bug Pleasure Emporium. The last of these, of course, was not as widely publicized as the others.

Which was the reason Lavender Sealy had chosen a hill on the edge of town on which to erect her three-story pink frame establishment: the path to the back door could not be viewed from town.

I’ve told you to use the back entrance. Lavender ushered Ellie into her own lavish quarters at the rear of the mansion. As usual, upon entering these private rooms one was overwhelmed by lavender—both the scent and the color. Every piece of satin, velvet, lace, and voile was some variation of the color; every tabletop held cut-glass dishes filled with potpourri made from the flower. If one asked for a chance to wash one’s hands, Ellie knew, the offered soap would be a pale shade of lavender; one’s hands would reek with the aroma for days.

Having been part of Lavender’s household for most of her twenty-four years, Ellie rarely noticed, except, as now, when she had been away for a while.

I wasn’t thinking, she explained, dropping to the needlepoint settee—worked in shades of lavender, of course.

Start thinking, Ellie. You’re a married woman. Your reputation—

Lavender, I need your help.

Instantly the older woman ceased her tirade. Stooping, she peered into Ellie’s face. Mercy, you look like you’ve been through a wringer. What is it, baby?

Benjamin— The thought of finally uttering the dreadful words brought a tremble to Ellie’s voice. He’s gone.

Lavender straightened as if someone had rammed a poker up her spine. Gone? That bastard left you? I thought I knew men! Can’t you trust any of them? Why, he was old enough to be your father, a kindly gentleman… She sank to her knees before Ellie, clasping Ellie’s hands in her own. God, baby, why did I talk you into marrying him?

Lavender, hush. He didn’t leave me. I don’t know where he is, but something terrible has happened to him. I know it. I— Again her voice faltered and she felt tears rush to her eyes.

Rising to the occasion, Lavender poured pink lemonade from a silver pitcher into a crystal glass. She handed it to Ellie along with a heavily embroidered linen handkerchief.

Blow your nose, baby. She set the glass on a lacquered coaster on the marble-topped side table, then seated herself opposite Ellie. She watched silently while Ellie obeyed by blowing her nose into the handkerchief.

Now, drink a big swallow of my special lemonade.

Ellie drank. By special, she knew Lavender meant laced with red wine; how heavily depended upon in what part of the Lady Bug one found oneself, in whose company, and especially upon who one was. Ellie was privileged around here; she always had been. Lavender considered her the child she never had, and the girls did, too—even those who were younger than Ellie herself and those who had not been with Lavender half as long.

Now, why do you think something terrible has happened to him? Before Ellie could answer, Lavender cursed again. If that sonofabitch has run off and left you, he’ll answer to me.

Ellie smiled, comforted somewhat by Lavender’s predictable reaction. The dear woman meant every word of her threat, and she could carry it through. Only a fraction of an inch below six feet tall, with bones to fit her size, Lavender Sealy was a force to be reckoned with, and not many men—or women, for that matter—chose to. For Benjamin’s sake, Ellie wished he would have to face Lavender’s wrath; that would mean he was still alive.

But deep in her heart, she feared the worst. He didn’t run off from me, she protested. He rode out to the north bedding grounds. She paused to catch a ragged breath. And he never came back. It’s been over a week, now.

Over a week? Why didn’t you come to town earlier? We should have had a posse out looking for him days ago.

"I have been looking, Lavender. I’ve ridden over every part of the ranch, practically inch by inch. There’s no sign of him."

Lavender’s jaws tightened. The sonofabitch likely—

Ellie shook her head, stopping Lavender’s words with her tear-filled eyes. Yesterday morning I found one of his boots on my back doorstep. It was covered with…with dried blood.

Tears rolled down her cheeks. This time when Lavender dropped to her knees, she pulled Ellie’s head to her own ample bosom, smoothing her hair against the crown of her head with gentle strokes. There, there, baby.

Ellie drew back and wiped her eyes. "Something terrible has happened to him."

Maybe his horse pitched him off, and a varmint dragged his boot—

No. I would have found his body, or the horse would have returned by now.

Lavender nodded in hushed agreement.

I found no sign of his horse. Her voice rose in frustration. His horse would have come home. Horses always return to the place where they’ve been fed. His horse—

There, there, Lavender shushed. I agree. It does look bad. You can’t go back to the ranch. You’re staying right here until we settle this thing.

I have to go home, Ellie objected. There’s something else. Several times since Benjamin…ah, several times since then, I’ve seen a fire up on the hill. Late yesterday afternoon I slipped up there and caught them red-handed.

Caught who?

Circle R men. Two of them were camped in one of the rock shelters above the house. They denied it, of course. Said they were hunting strays. But I saw the provisions inside the shelter.

"Now, it’s certain…you are not returning to that ranch."

I must, Lavender. Don’t you see? Matt Rainey and his coyote of a brother are just waiting for a chance to take our creek bottom. They could even have moved in while I was in town. She shrugged. But I had to have supplies.

Lavender ran a hand through her lavender hair, a color she achieved, as Ellie had observed on numerous occasions, by adding bluing to the rinse water. The older Lavender got, the more color her hair took on as her blonde hair turned gray and absorbed more of the blue color.

Well, you aren’t going back out there alone, baby. I’ll send Snake with you.

You need him here.

Not for a few days. Crossing to the door, Lavender called down the hallway. Snaaaake. She turned quickly back to Ellie. Did you bring the wagon?

Ellie nodded, comforted once more by the familiarity of Lavender’s manner: she could have been issuing orders to her girls at receiving time. She was good at issuing orders and at seeing them carried through.

Snake will drive you to the Bon Ton for supplies, Lavender continued. While he’s filling your order, you run down to the telegraph office and wire the sheriff—

In Llano County? He wouldn’t drop everything and ride a hundred miles to find a missing man.

There’s no other choice, baby.

Unless I do what the Raineys have done. I can hire gunfighters, too. Her words were couched in grim tones which seemed to rise from her very heart.

Lavender sighed. Didn’t you tell me Benjamin has a brother in the Texas Rangers?

Carson Jarrett. But he—

No buts. You telegraph him while Snake picks up your order at the Bon Ton.

What do I tell him? What if he’s busy?

Ellie, you need help. And if Benjamin is missing, his family needs to know.

Ellie sighed. There’s a mess of them, his family. Two sisters and five brothers, not counting Benjamin. I suppose they should all be told.

Yes, they should. If Benjamin Jarrett has met with foul play, his family is entitled to know about it.

In the end Ellie relented, allowing Snake to drive her to the general store. She gave him her grocery list to fill while she sent a telegram—to Carson Jarrett, in care of Ranger Headquarters in Austin. Alerting the entire family would have been admitting to a hopelessness she refused to consider.

Besides, a few members of the Jarrett family would be worse to deal with than the Raineys themselves. One brother, Kale, his name was, was a known gunfighter. And regardless of what she told Lavender, she had no intention of stooping to the level of the Raineys. If Carson couldn’t help, she would discover some other way to find Benjamin.

Armando Costello greeted her when she emerged from the telegraph office.

What’s this all about, Ellie? Lavender tells me Benjamin is missing.

She explained in clipped syllables, afraid to tempt tears here on the boardwalk in the presence of her husband’s best friend.

You’ve searched the entire ranch?

She nodded, ducking her head when she felt her chin quiver. Armando Costello did not miss it, however…his gambler’s instinct, she thought. A gambler would of necessity possess sharp eyes and a quick wit.

He placed a consoling arm around her shoulders. Come, come, my dear. You are no longer alone. Together we will find my friend Benjamin. But I must chastise you for not coming to me immediately.

She shrugged, tears brimming. I thought—

No need to explain, he assured her. We’ll move forward from here.

And indeed they did. Armando Costello sent Snake back to the Lady Bug and drove Ellie to the ranch himself.

If Circle R men are still spying on you, you can bet I won’t just send them packing, he exclaimed. I’ll be hard pressed not to plant them six feet under.

I won’t tolerate violence, Armando. You know that. Not even if—

Her shoulders trembled, and he loosened one hand from the reins to draw her near. Come now, my girl. There’s a simple explanation for all this, and I intend to find it. We’ll have Benjamin home before that Texas Ranger even gets your message.

October 1878

Doan’s Crossing on the Red River

Kale Jarrett slapped dust off his breeches with the brim of his hat and pushed through the bat-winged doors of the Bee Hive Saloon. The telegram from his brother Carson crackled in his shirt pocket, reminding him of urgent business down south. But Sheriff Yates had said McKenzie wanted a word with him here in the saloon, and he could sure do with a drink to wet the trail dust.

Ordering rye at the bar, he faced the crowded room, searching for Mack McKenzie…the usual mixture of buffalo hunters and trail-herd cowboys like himself, he decided, and a couple of soldiers from Fort Griffin.

He tossed back the rye, then saw Mack in the far corner, waving in his direction.

Kale Jarrett, you ol’ leather pounder! Come on over here.

A sudden hush fell over the room when Kale picked up the bottle and headed for Mack’s table. He stepped gingerly, as if through a den of rattlers, avoiding stares and outstretched feet as he would have the deadly snakes. He set the bottle down and shook hands with his friend.

Long time no see.

Same here, Jarrett, Mack smiled. They sat down. Where’ve you been keeping yourself?

Just rode in from a drive up the Western. We took old Shanghai’s herd clear up to Wyoming. Kale lifted the bottle, took a long pull, and wiped his mouth with his sleeve. This here rye sure hits the spot after three months of gyp water and belly-wash. Laughter and conversation commenced around them and Kale relaxed, hearing the crowd return to its own business.

Mack leaned across the table toward his friend. What you got up your sleeve for the winter?

I was headed for a line camp on the Spinnin’ S, but Yates had this telegram waiting for me. He patted his shirt pocket and took another swig of rye.

Yeah?

Kale nodded. From my brother Carson, the ranger. Says our older brother Benjamin has turned up missing down in Summer Valley. Left his wife Ellie alone and in some kind of trouble.

Why don’t you let Carson handle that and you throw in with me?

No can do, Kale answered. Carson’s off on business in Mexico, and Ellie needs help fast. The telegram’s been sitting here going on two months already.

The trouble’s likely settled, then, Mack said. Sure hate for you to miss out on this deal. My brother-in-law out in Californy has made me a proposition, and I need someone like you to come along.

Kale cocked his head sideways. Someone like me?

Now, don’t go gettin’ riled. I didn’t mean no offense. You know what I’m talking about, someone with horse sense, but who ain’t afraid of the devil. Hell, Jarrett, nobody steps on your toes or rides your pet horse.

Kale Jarrett shook his head, grinning self-consciously. Beats me how I come up with such a hell-raisin’ reputation. All I want out of life is to ride free and stay out of folks’ way. His eyes rested on the barmaid, Molly Banks. And maybe to toss a few saloon girls in the hay now and again. What’s this proposition?

We each throw in what money we can, and— Mack stopped in mid-sentence, eyeing two young soldiers who approached the table.

Kale came instantly alert, tensed yet steady, like a cat about to spring. The blond-headed soldier’s voice pierced the air with its shrillness, stilling the other voices in the room once more.

So you’re the great Kale Jarrett? he mocked.

Kale looked squarely, silently into the young man’s eyes.

Answer me! the soldier demanded.

That’s my name, son, but I got no business with you. He turned toward Mack. I’ve jawed too long. Time to hit the trail.

You don’t look so fast to me, the soldier jeered.

Kale took a swig from the bottle and addressed his friend across the table. See you—

Without warning, the soldier slapped the bottle from Kale’s hand. Stand up and face me like a man.

The other soldier had held back. Now he placed a restraining hand on the blond boy’s shoulder. Come on, Doric, that’s enough. Let’s get out of here.

The one called Doric shook himself free. Take your hands off me. Can’t you see this here gunfighter needs to be taught some manners?

Kale glanced around the room. The crowd had divided and moved back out of the line of fire. It had happened before, yet it always surprised him. Every time someone recognized him or a friend called his name, there was some still-wet-behind-the-ears kid around who wanted to prove his speed at drawing a pistol from a holster.

Look at him, the soldier jeered to the crowd. Look at the great gunfighter! He spat on the rough plank floor. I say the only thing he’s good at is turnin’ tail and runnin’!

Kale knew any move he made would draw fire. He also knew he was not going to draw on this kid. There had to be another way.

Maybe there was. He caught Mack’s attention, winked, and muttered one word.

Mazón!

Santos Mazón was a mutual friend, a bear-cat of a man known from Texas to California for his love of a barroom brawl. While most brush-poppers went into a saloon for a little red-eye and rotgut and to catch up on the latest gossip, Santos went to enjoy the relaxation of a good old-fashioned knock-down-drag-out. The very mention of his name brought instant reactions from anyone who knew him, including, Kale was relieved to see, Mack McKenzie.

The two men sprang forward as one, throwing the table into the soldiers.

The towheaded soldier staggered sideways, regained his footing, and reached for his gun.

At that instant Kale struck him, a left to the stomach, followed by a right under the chin. The boy reeled backward, catching himself against the bar.

From the corner of his eye, Kale saw Mack holding the other kid in an arm lock. Kale lunged for Doric—grab him around the middle, throw him to the floor, pin him down.

The kid would have learned a cheap lesson, Kale figured. But he was wrong.

As he lunged forward, the boy pivoted suddenly with his right foot. Just before Kale’s chin hit the foot rail, Doric’s left boot made contact and drove him backward. Kale heard his jaw crack and his tongue tasted salty blood. He fell into the crowd; two fists grabbed his shirt and jerked him forward.

Kale bent his knees, missing a smash to his chin, and struck an undercut to the kid’s midsection which sent the soldier tottering.

The soldier was tough. Much better, Kale suspected, with fists than with a gun. He was young, seven or eight years younger than Kale, who was twenty-eight. He was powerfully built, like a farmer or a frontiersman, and he stood an inch or so taller than Kale, who was six-foot even in his stocking feet. Worst of all, he knew how to fight the right way, as if he’d been schooled at it.

No doubt about it, Kale Jarrett had his work cut out for him. And he loved it. A good fight, a real fight…not a punch-drunk, Saturday-night brawler, this, but a worthy opponent. Anger never spurred Kale on as did the pure love of a fight.

He lunged after Doric with adrenaline flowing. They clenched a moment, then broke and circled, breathing hard.

Kale stepped in first, punching with his right, catching the boy’s jaw. Doric recovered quickly and countered with a left to Kale’s belly and a jarring right which caught him above the left eye.

Kale stumbled, got his feet under him again, and came back slugging. His head roared. Streams of blood and sweat blurred his vision. He took another wicked left to the temple and somehow landed a roundhouse blow that sent the boy sprawling, while the roar in his own head built to a great crescendo, cutting out all other sounds, then breaking suddenly, as a wave breaks on the shore. The room spun wildly, knocking his feet out from under him, leaving him suspended on a soft pillow of blackness with only a distant roar in his ears.

When Kale came to, he was lying on a cot in Molly Bank’s cabin. Mack’s voice reached him as from a great distance.

Listen to what Molly here has to say, Kale. I’ll fetch your horse.

Kale shook his head to clear the fuzziness. Pain shot up his left side, through his temple. Molly’s voice sounded urgent, but he couldn’t grasp her meaning—something about the soldier…

Did I kill him? he asked.

Molly shook her head. A bad cut to the head. He’ll likely recover, but that won’t be much help to you now.

His mind reeled, searching for something to grab hold of. Molly shook him by the shoulders.

Listen to me, Kale. You’ve got to get out of here. That other soldier went after some of their friends. Sheriff Yates says he can’t afford trouble from the army. You know how they come down on us if their soldiers get hurt here at the crossing.

Three soft knocks sounded at the door, but before Molly could get to it a large man stepped inside, quickly closing the door behind him.

Sheriff Yates, what—? she began.

I’m not taking him in, Molly. The sheriff turned his attention to Kale, who had risen and stood facing him on unsteady legs.

My deputy was in the Bee Hive, Jarrett. Saw the whole thing. Says you avoided a shootin’ best you could. But I want no trouble with the army, and I understand they’re headed this way.

Is Summer Valley far enough away, Sheriff?

Summer Valley? Hell, Jarrett, there ain’t nothin’ between here and there ’cept lots of prickly pear and maybe a few red Injuns.

Mack came through the back door. You’d better hit the trail, Kale. I seen dust comin’ down the hill from the fort.

Kale nodded. Let me know how the kid fares.

Molly handed him a sack of food as he went out the back door. Be careful, Kale. Don’t get caught by Injuns. And don’t go stealin’ your brother’s wife.

Kale tried to smile, but the pain was excruciating. Any woman my brother married would be a lady, and I ain’t fit for nothing but— He coughed to cover his embarrassment over the words he’d almost spoken, then finished in a lame fashion. A lady would likely cramp my style, honey.

He stowed the sack of food in his saddlebags and mounted up, tossing a leather pouch to Mack.

Here’s two hundred dollars in gold for my stake. What part of California did you say?

San Francisco, Mack called after the departing horseman.

Summer Valley lay almost due south of Fort Griffin, but no road ran that way. So Kale headed east, looking for the least likely place to cross the river. That wouldn’t stop the soldiers, he knew, but it might slow them down. And he needed all the time he could get.

The Clear Fork of the Brazos River skirted the fort to the west and south. A mile east of town the river cut back north and then shallowed up to about knee deep. Kale waded his horse in, kept north for a hundred yards or so, and came out on a bank that was mostly gravel. He turned sharply south, touched spurs to the bay, and gave him rein. With luck he could reach Hubbard Creek before dark.

Twice he glanced back. Nothing.

They’d find the trail if they were serious about pursuing him. But not until after they searched north toward the Spinnin’ S, he hoped, and by that time he’d have a good head start.

Only he knew he’d better hurry if it was to be good enough. He was about two miles from town now, but in this level country his dust could be seen a long ways off. And there was nothing to break the view.

The mid-afternoon sun bore down on his beaten, bruised body. What remained of his shirt was caked with dried blood and sweat. His left arm still had a tingling, almost numb feeling, as if a nerve had been hit. His jaw worked enough that he figured it wasn’t broken, and Molly had washed his face, but that cut over his eye kept opening up. He dabbed it with his bandanna and considered this reputation that kept getting him into trouble.

It all started when he was sixteen and shot that carpetbagger for tearing up Ma’s rosebush. Thinking back, it sounded like a damned foolish thing to have done. At the time…

He sighed. Benjamin had always said his hands were quicker than his brain. But that rosebush was the only thing of beauty in Ma’s life. Pa had given it to her, and it was about all she had left to remind her of him, though heaven only knew why she wanted to remember a man who up and left her with six boys and two girls to raise, single-handed. Of course, he said he would be back to get her soon as he’d made his fortune, but she never saw hide nor hair of him again.

Once in a while someone would pass through who had run into him someplace. Last they heard, he’d been seen up in Alaska, shuffling cards in some saloon.

From the time Pa left, Benjamin, the oldest of the brothers, tended the farm and minded the other children, while Ma tended the rosebush, watering it, cultivating the soil, trimming its puny branches. At first it produced right pretty roses, red as a dancehall girl’s painted mouth, he still recalled. As the years went by, though, the roses became fewer and more scraggly, and Ma became quieter and more withdrawn, until all she knew was that rosebush—as if she thought by coaxing it to bloom, she could coax her man back into her life.

Then that carpetbagger came to the door saying they would have to pay all they got for this year’s crop to make up for last year’s taxes.

The scene was carved into Kale’s brain as though it had happened yesterday instead of twelve long years ago. Benjamin stood at the edge of the unpainted, weatherworn porch. A gray stone slab served as a step down to the path where the carpetbagger stood. With rolled-up sleeves and black suspenders, he looked more like a bouncer in a saloon than a government agent.

The rosebush grew beside the slab step; the ground around it was tilled and pliable in contrast to the hard-beaten, clean-swept path. The bush bore no roses and few leaves.

Benjamin argued, persuaded, and tried to reason with the man. Carson and Kale came out the front door on their way to rustle up meat for supper. Just as Kale stepped even with Benjamin, the man on the path stooped, and with both hands near the base of the bush he jerked Ma’s rosebush from the ground and shook it in Benjamin’s face.

This is what we’ll do to your whole crop, Jarrett, if you don’t toe the line.

The rifle was fired from pistol position, suddenly, accurately. The bullet would have gone straight through the carpetbagger’s heart had the man not leaned to the right to toss the rosebush away. Instead it pierced his side.

Kale Jarrett had shot his first man, and all he could think about at the time was how the thorns must have dug into that carpetbagger’s hands. Later, remorse set in—remorse for his family and for the man he had shot; and fear—fear for himself and for the man he had become.

Within an hour of the shooting, Benjamin had sent him packing.

I understand what took hold of you, Kale, but the fact remains, you shot the man. They’ll hang you for it, regardless of whether he lives or dies. This is reconstruction—they’re right, we’re wrong. There’s nothing in between.

One by one the brothers shook hands; Ginny hugged him, and he stooped to kiss little Delta and to hug his ma.

Stay away from the outlaw trail, Kale, Benjamin admonished. Work on your temper and your self-control. You have an obligation to your family as well as to yourself. All we have now is our name and what we do with it.

At the end of the lane, Kale had turned around for one last look at the homeplace, a lump in his throat the size of that carpetbagger’s fist. Carson and Ginny waved from the porch. Benjamin stood stoically beside Ma, who sat on the step, cradling the rosebush and crying.

Five years passed before he saw any of his family again…five years in which he grew to manhood and became more proficient with the handgun strapped to his side.

The day wore on, and so did Kale and the bay. Once he stopped and poured canteen water into his hat for his horse. While the bay drank, Kale scanned the distant horizon for any sign of movement.

Nothing yet. But he feared they would come. His hope now was that they were acting on impulse and not orders. That way they would be forced to turn around sooner or later to avoid becoming deserters, and Hubbard Creek seemed the logical place for them to turn back.

He was sorry about the fight. Because of him, and because of an idiotic notion some folks had that a man could prove his prowess by facing down a known gunman, a kid lay near death. This had never made sense to Kale. If those people could see that reputation from behind the eyes of the man who held it, they’d likely understand better: always leery in crowds, always running, not from the law, necessarily, but from every harebrained man who thought he’d found a surefire way to prove his manhood.

The sun began to set in the west. Several times he recalled the telegram in his pocket, but his throbbing head kept him from being able to think about the situation clearly.

He knew however that if Carson said Benjamin and Ellie needed help, they needed help. He also knew he was in no condition to meet up with a fight just now. After he got to the creek and cleaned up some, maybe his head would clear and he could get the swelling down in his right hand. As a gun hand it wasn’t worth two bits, swollen this way.

The moon was up when he finally reached the coarse, sandy bank of Hubbard Creek. He stopped long enough to rest the bay and soak his aching body. He hoped he was right, that the soldiers would turn back here. But right or wrong, it would not do for them to catch up with him, so he headed south, picking his way in the moonlight.

A couple of miles off he bedded down in a cedar brake. He didn’t know how long he slept, but it was still plenty dark when he awoke. Thoughts of Benjamin kept tugging at his mind.

Years ago, after Pa left, Benjamin stayed on to take care of Ma and the farm. The only time he ever left was to fight in the War Between the States; even then, he hadn’t been gone long. He caught a bullet in the leg, and by the time the wound healed, the war was over. He hadn’t married; instead, he raised his brothers and sisters, seeing that they tried their wings and left the nest in due time.

Two years back Ma died, and Benjamin sold the farm and went to Texas to be nearer his family. Kale saw him once, just over a year ago. Benjamin hadn’t married Ellie then, but he did have the ranch started. Kale and Carson had spent some time helping him get things cleaned up around the place and catching up on family news. A few months after that, Benjamin met and married Ellie Langstrom. A fine young woman, Carson had written.

Kale saddled up and rode on through the night, clenching and unclenching his right hand. Something told him he was going to need it.

Chapter One

Ellie lugged the bucket up the hillside, squinting against the magenta rays of the afternoon sun. All day she had intended to water the rose cutting at the head of Benjamin’s grave, but this was the earliest she had been able to make herself come up here. It was her guilty conscience, she knew.

Benjamin Jarrett hadn’t deserved to die a brutal death. But try as she had these last two months since she’d found his body, she had not been able to banish her own feelings of guilt. Her life had been a steady stream of catastrophes; why had she believed marriage would be different? Why had she risked bringing her bad luck to a man who had been nothing but kind and good to her?

Benjamin couldn’t have treated a daughter with more respect than he’d treated her, a girl raised in a house of prostitution. And now he lay dead—murdered—and she felt so very guilty.

When she stubbed her toe on a limestone outcropping, half the water in her bucket sloshed down the front of her calico skirt. She stopped to tuck the tail into her waistband, taking care not to rip the portion she had mended the night before.

Sewing was definitely not one of her talents. She trudged the rest of the way to the rock-blanketed grave. Not that Lavender hadn’t tried to teach her a few homemaking skills…but Lavender herself was dreadfully lacking in the day-to-day essentials of running a household—a regular household, that is.

Once she married Benjamin, Ellie diligently mended his socks and patched his breeches and shirts, and even though her stitches were far from uniform, and the results bulky and unsightly, Benjamin never complained. Patiently, he assured her that she would learn in time.

She tossed the remaining water on the rose cutting she had taken from her bush at the front step. Then she sank to the ground beneath the old oak tree, reflecting on her future. The very idea of what lay ahead for her brought tears to her eyes.

The uniformity of her stitches wouldn’t matter, not working for Lavender. At least, she now had experience under a man.

And it hadn’t been bad, actually…certainly not the ordeal she had imagined. From talk around the Lady Bug, she had fancied it a horrid, painful experience, giving in to a man’s physical needs night after night until one could hardly walk from the soreness.

Of course the girls spoke of soldiers and cowboys. They