Jan 14

Jan 14 Heritage And Honor

Heritage And Honor - book excerpt

Chapter 1

The bright shafts of afternoon sun cut through the barred window and mingled with dust and cigar smoke, forming a billowy blanket. The pot-bellied stove popped and crackled, spitting its fervor into the small room.

Charley’s pulse throbbed and her muscles clenched. Sheriff Cutler barely looked at her. He sat behind his desk and examined his cigar, its end chewed and mangled. He ignored what she’d just told him. To Charley, that could mean one of two things—either the man didn’t like her, or he just didn’t like taking information from a woman. Either way, it made Charley wary of him.

She’d liked the former sheriff. It was too damn bad he’d passed away three months earlier from a heart attack. Sheriff Adams had been dignified. Brave. Caring, even. She’d never had a problem with him. He had always respected her.

But this one…well, Cutler wouldn’t even stand when she entered the room. And the way he’d ignored her complaint—it was plain unacceptable.

She slapped her hat across her left thigh. “Sheriff, it’s the third time this week.”

Sheriff Cutler blew smoke from his mustache-lined lips. “Miss Mason, I done told ya, I have stage robbers to catch.”

Her eyes burned and twitched from the smoke. What the hell kind of cigar was that? It certainly wasn’t the kind her father smoked. Her father’s cigars filled her nostrils with a soft, almost sweet aroma. This cheap cigar smoke, mixed with the smell of stale coffee, made her stomach lurch. And the sheriff continued to piss her off.

She cleared her throat. “Well, Sheriff, that’s your job. And it’s also your job to find out who’s killing my cattle.”

Cutler dropped the cigar to the floor and smashed it with his worn black boots. He stood, his chair rolling back with a squeak and hitting the wall behind him. He pulled at his belt, catapulting his belly over the pock-marked desk. “Howz about you have yer brother come see me?”

“My brother...” she wanted to smash his face with her fist. Charley knew most men weren’t keen on independent women, but her father had always told Charley she could do anything. Even what a man could do. And running their ranch along with her brother Andy was just what Charley did.

Cutler squared back his shoulders. “Wearing pants don’t make you no man. Understand?”

Charley squinted at him. “You mean like how wearing that badge doesn’t make you a sheriff?”

Cutler sucked in air and coughed. “I don’t have time to play Pinkerton for your dead cattle.”

Charley laughed. “‘Play Pinkerton.’ That’s funny, Sheriff." She pointed to his shirt. "You wouldn’t know a clue if it jumped on that badge.”

Cutler’s face turned redand his eyes closed to slits. “Now listen—”

“Never mind.” Charley held up her hand. “My family and I will handle it. Thanks for nothing.” She turned and walked out of the office. She stepped on the boardwalk and shut the door shut, the SHERIFF sign rattling against the worn wood. “Son of a bitch.”

She heard a gasp and looked to her left.

Mrs. Haines and her daughter Emily stood outside the newspaper office. Mrs. Haines clicked her tongue, grabbed Emily by the arm, and led her into the general store.

Charley rolled her eyes. Dammit. Nothing like the town busybody and head of the Women’s Church Leaguehearing you cuss. Well, Mrs. Haines could wag her tongue about how unladylike Charley was. Wouldn’t be for the first time. And Charley was too pissed to send a cheeky retort their way.

To hell with Mrs. Haines and her prim, proper daughter.And to hell with the sheriff.

Charley looked across the street. The sign for the Broken Spur Saloon sang to her like a harmonica on a trail drive. A drink—or two—might just ease the fury burning in her gut.

She grabbed her long hair from off her neck and twirled it onto the back of her head, then forced her Stetson on top. With a jingle of spurs on wood, she stepped off the boardwalk and headed to the saloon.

Charley shoved open the batwing doors, making them bounce off the interior frame with a rickety bang. She looked around. Not too crowded here. A farmhand at the bar and two cowboys at a table in the corner.

Charley glanced at the one wearing the tan Stetson, sitting in a chair that he leaned back against the wall. His hat sat low on his forehead, but that didn't hide his chiseled features: thin nose, defined lips, square jaw. Strong, handsome features. She could tell he was watching her, but she was too far away to see the color of his eyes.

I’ll bet they’re beautiful.

Now why in the world would she even think that? Her go-round with Cutler must have messed with her head. She walked to the bar.

“Hey, Fred,” Charley called. She laid a silver coin on the dull surface,then tugged each finger of her gloved hand, removing the brown leather. She repeated the process with the other hand and arranged both gloves next to her coin. All the while, jumbled thoughts tumbled around in her head.

She and Andy had found butchered cattle on their range for almost a week, and the sheriff hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Which didn’t surprise Charley. The man wasn’t worth the contents of a spittoon. But he was the law, so she’d gone to him for help. All she’d gotten was a headache and the urge to drink herself into a stupor.

Fred came into the saloon from the back room and wiped his hands on the towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers. "Howdy, Miss Charley." He set a glass on top of the bar, pulled out a bottle from underneath, and looked at her with raised eyebrows. Charley nodded and Fred poured the liquid. "How's it goin'?"

“I’m horns and rattles.” She downed the whiskey in one gulp and set the glass on the counter. “Pour me another, please.” Charley swallowed that one down lickety-split. She pressed her lips together,then said, “You need better whiskey.”

He chuckled. “Miss Charley, ya say that every timeya come in here. That’s my best stuff.”

Charley laughed. She always liked to tease Fred. “I know, but you haven’t listened.” And neither had the sheriff.

“Something wrong?”

She pounded a hand on the bar. “Sheriff Cutler’s as useless as a saddle on a goat.”

“What’s he done now?” Fred asked.

“Soyou’re still dressin’ like a boy,” a familiar voice suddenly said.

Charley turned around and came face-to-face with her ex, Jesse Gardner. Her stomach flipped, and she clenched her right hand near her Colt .44. She didn’t know if she wanted to punch him or shoot him.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

Jesse shot her one of his infamous lopsided grins. “Aw, come on, Charley. Don’t get your back up. Buy me a drink.”

Her fingers itched to grab her gun, but she couldn’t kill a man just for being a scalawag. “I wouldn’t buy you a sermon on Sunday, Gardner. Now go cuddle a cactus.” Charley turned back toward the bar.

Morgan and Warren Ramsey sat at a corner table in the Broken Spur. Their beer mugs and a deck of cards spread out on the faded, scratched tabletop.

Morgan took a sip of his beer. “Warren, I hope we didn’t waste a week riding out here.”

“We have to get hired at the ranch first.” Leaning forward in his chair, Warren rested his elbows on the table and placed his chin on his folded hands. “Then we’ll get part ownership. Just like we’d planned back in Helena before we left home.”

Morgan raked a hand through his sandy-blond hair, grabbing his hat off the table and stuffing it on his head. “Getting hired on at the Bar M is one thing. Getting part ownership is another.”

“Morg, I’ve never let ya down, so don’t lose faith in me now. Besides, we have a foolproof plan.”

Morgan leaned forward. “Let’s go over it again. We know the son Andy does the hiring. There are two daughters. Charlotte does some ranching, and the youngest, Katherine isn’t involved at all.”

“She’s real ladylike, that Katherine. So I heard.”

Morgan nodded. “I’ll go to the ranch first and see if this Andy will hire us.” He took a sip of his beer. “Since the ranch breaks and sells mustangs, you can get hired as a bronc buster.” Heshifted his weight and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs.

“Me, a bronc buster? Why?”

“Because you’re damn good at it, and a good bronc buster is hard to find.”

“I’d rather be a cowhand, Morgan. I don’t want too much attention and—”

Morgan suddenly righted his chair and gazed at the door. “Who’s that?”

Warren looked toward the door and shrugged. “How would I know? Just some whippersnapper, I reckon.”He laughed. “Someone should fatten him up a bit.”

Even with the denim trousers and button-down shirt, Morgan could see she wasn’t a he. She had a long neck and her waist curved to small hips and thighs. Surely, Warren could see all that, too.

Morgan stared at the girl. She looked around the saloon, her gaze resting on him briefly, and then she walked to the bar. Her chin set, head high, and back as straight as a blade of grass reaching for the sun.

Soon, some cowboy came up to her, and after a few exchanged words, the girl turned her back on him. The cowboy grabbed her wrist and pulled. A Stetson flew in the air, and long blond hair tumbled out from underneath.

“Warren, look again.”

Warren looked up from his cards and opened his mouth, but Morgan held up a hand. He pushed away from their table, stood as he slid the edge of his long duster behind his gun, and then strode to the bar.

***

Jesse held Charley’s wrist. She tried to tug it away. He tightened his grip, sending stitches of pain up her arm. “Let go of me.”

“You always were purdy when you were mad,” Jesse said with a crooked grin. He bent his head closer. She twisted and pulled her wrist free.

Charley moved back a step, rubbing her throbbing right wrist. A man suddenly appeared beside her.

“I don’t think the lady wants your attention.” The stranger’s deep voice filled the saloon.

Charley looked at the stranger’s profile. It was the cowboy from the corner table. His hat still sat low on his head, and sandy-blond hair peeked out from beneath the back. He stood tall. Taller than her, and taller than Jesse.

“This ain’tnone of your business, mister.” Jesse took a step forward.

Charley heard a click. The stranger held a gun. She hadn’t even seen his arm move.

“I’m making it my business. Now leave.” His tone unyielding as he aimed the revolver at Jesse’s chest.

Charley watched the play of emotion on Jesse’s face. He didn’t want to heed the stranger’s warning. He looked at her, his eyes sparking like flint on steel. He wanted to fight with her some more. She held her breath. Jesse had always taken too many chances. Didn’t seem like he’d changed one bit in five years.

Jesse pointed at her. “This ain’t over, Charley.” He turned and walked out of the saloon.

The stranger holstered his gun and bent down to retrieve her hat. He handed it to her and tipped the brim of his tan hat. “Ma’am, I think this belongs to you.”

Charley took her hat and looked up into his face. She felt the pulse of her heart in her veins. “Oh, um. Yes. Thank you.”

She could see the color of his eyes now. And truth be told, she’d never seen that shade of green before; lush as a morning’s meadow, yet as inflexible as a cold branding iron.