Chapter One

Somewhere outside Santa Fe, New Mexico

1881

It was late June, and mean, ugly heat was holding the land hostage. Molly’s face was dirty and soaked with sweat. Her tongue felt drier than a dying horse being circled by vultures. She paused next to some bear grass and looked around. This is dead land begging for water. Ain’t nothing out here but killing and shallow graves. Sometimes she wished she was already under the dirt. She wasn’t nothing but a dead cactus herself.

A familiar bitterness filled her heart as her eyes locked on a ranch house resting about a hundred yards or so away, surrounded by hard land. She eased forward to a cholla tree and stopped. Some folks had different names for the tree—some of the names were fancy. She just called it a cholla tree. Tree? Nah. Just a miserable, splintery cactus in her eyes. Nothing was beautiful to her. Not even up in the Santa Fe area.

The sound of a baby made Molly look down. In her arms…in her arms was a little girl about a year old or so. She stole this baby from the orphanage in Hudson Rock. Sheriff there wasn’t likely to send out a posse. Orphanage was just a run-down rock raising future gunslingers and saloon girls. This girl in her arms didn’t have a lick of hope. Never would. She was just like Molly. Lost. Dead. Hopeless.

Molly saw herself in the baby—more than she wanted to admit. Her Ma had sold her to a gang of banditos when she was eight. Ma was nothing but a cheap saloon girl, paying a debt. She didn’t mean nothing to her. This girl… she won’t be no better off. As much as she wanted to hate the baby she had stolen, she couldn’t. She’d even named her “Hope,” which was a mighty stupid thing to do. But she’d done it anyway. Because deep down she wanted the baby girl to have a chance—a chance Molly never had.

“I best get this over with. Mateo don’t take lightly to me not minding him,” she muttered.

Molly hated herself for obeying Mateo. He was the leader of the banditos that her Ma sold her to. Emilio Cruz, Mateo’s cousin, raised her up. He taught her how to mind, keep her mouth shut, and do what she was told. Out of all the banditos, he was the least violent. In her heart she knew he hated riding with blood on his boots, but he had no choice. “Gotta protect my family, Molly,” he’d once confessed to her while getting whiskeyed up. “If you ride with the wolves, they don’t bite at you.”

Emilio was only ten years older than she, but the fear of a noose shot down his face. Molly knew he was a walking dead man—but, like her, he was trapped inside a hot grave. She loved him as her own brother, yet she also resented the boots he wore. Why? Because he was a coward. Never once did Emilio fight for her when she was being beaten, kicked, and spat on. He’d just turned his head.

“Don’t matter,” Molly heard herself mutter. “I’m too worn out to care. I’ve been on the road from Texas for days now. If that house up yonder don’t belong to Logan Creed, I just might take Hope and run.”

Did she mean her words? She thought so. She was far enough away from Mateo to run. He wouldn’t waste time looking for her. Not if she went north up into Colorado. What for? She didn’t have no money. Only had an old brown wash dress to her name and boots that were falling apart. She looked worse than her Ma did, and she was only twenty-two. She felt a hundred. Even if she did run, she knew she would end up in a bad way.

At least Mateo gave her money every now and then. She never went hungry… and no man ever tried to touch her. She wasn’t anyone’s property, just… a slave. She cooked, washed clothes, cleaned guns and rifles, sewed, tended to wounds, handled horses, kept lookout—and when bullets started cooking the air, she rode hard and shot to kill.

“Come on, Hope. Let’s get this over with,” Molly said.

She lifted her eyes. A night sky filled with clear stars said hello. The stars were mighty pretty, but the dreams each star held weren’t for her. Some gal in some place like New York or Boston was probably making a wish right about now. Maybe it would come true for her. None of Molly’s wishes ever came true. Probably be the same for Hope.

Before moving on, she listened. Emilio taught her to listen to the night. The darkness held many dangers. Sleeping snakes, scorpions, coyotes—even spiders. Tarantulas were dangerous; and a pest. She hated spiders worse than anything. Of course, walking up on a rattler was no fun, either. Scorpions were just as evil. She had been stung by a scorpion when she was ten. She cried and cried until a bandito took his boot and kicked her unconscious. After that she learned to never cry in front of anyone again.

As she got moving, her right boot struck a rock. She tumbled forward, lost her balance, and fell down onto her knees, nearly dropping Hope. She felt her dress rip and smaller rocks cut into her flesh. She nearly cried out in pain. Instead she bit down on her lower lip as hard as she could. Don’t cry. Don’t cry… you just scraped yourself is all. Don’t cry.

Only the more she told herself not to cry, the more she felt stinging tears start biting at the edges of her eyes. She was exhausted. Thirsty. Hungry. Her hair—which she guessed was still blond—was dirty with trail dust. She didn’t feel like a woman. Never had. She felt worthless, lost, ugly, unclean, and broken.

Tears began to fall. Instead of kicking herself she bowed her head and just let herself cry for a bit. Hope didn’t stir much. She was asleep. Mighty thankful for that. Can’t help but to cry. Feel so lost. Can’t stand the thought of going back to Mateo. He’s worse than a pit full of scorpions. He don’t let no man touch me, but he treats me like a rabid dog. I can’t go on like this. I want… I want… to be loved and taken care of. I want a home. I want… to stop being scared all the time.

It was hard for her to stop crying. She wanted a good man to appear and put his arms around her shoulders and hold her. Only there wasn’t a good man around. When she rode into a town with the banditos, she watched the horses. Sometimes Emilio would bring her a shot of yellow whiskey or a hot beer, but she never took it. Instead, she watched the women in the town. Envied the pretty dresses they wore. The way they walked and talked…but she despised how they looked at her. She was a “bandito” woman. A trail rat. Nothing more.

No decent man was ever going to ride up to her. Whiskey drunks and soulless killers, yes…a man whom God would smile upon? No.

Molly let her tears fall for a good while and then finally stood up. Gonna have to mend the tear. This dress has been mended so much it’s nothing but a worthless potato sack. She used her left hand to wipe at her eyes while holding Hope firmly with her right arm. She was such a beautiful baby. She reckoned she would grow to become a real pretty woman. Which was too bad. Beauty gets you killed. Best to stay real ugly, Hope. As ugly as you can.

Her eyes locked on the ranch house again. The front window had light in it. She waited a minute to see if anyone would walk in front of the window. Someone’s awake in there. No one with a lick of sense leaves a lantern going or candles lit. Hour is getting late. Has to be getting close to midnight. Surprised to see a light in the window. Mighty dangerous thing I’m doing. I know what Mateo told me, but this Logan Creed fella might not even be in that house. Could be outlaws in there or some lonely fella who might try to grab me and have his way about things.

In her heart Molly wanted to turn and run. But where to? Colorado? With what money? She was on foot. She had sold her horse to buy food. Walking out to Logan Creed’s ranch—if it was that fella’s ranch—had taken all the strength she had. The sun had set on her hours back. She followed the way of the moon and kept moving west, fearing she was lost. When she spotted the ranch house, bow howdy, did she breathe happily. Only, even if only for a second.

Another problem she was having was Hope. She had stolen the baby. Guilty, as the sky was blue. But…the more she held Hope in her arms and tended to her, the more she wanted to be her Mama. She wanted to make things right for the girl in a way that had never been right for her. Hope was innocent. She was not. She watched Emilio gun down a deputy in cold blood and just rode off with him. The dead man haunted her dreams for months, and she never stopped hating herself for riding off with Emilio, even if she’d had no choice.

“I can’t give you nothing you need,” she whispered. “Just thinking I can is worse than being kicked in the head by a mule, Hope. You need a real Mama. Not me.”

If only she had a bit of money. Robbing a bank wasn’t an option, but she understood why outlaws did it. When you didn’t have no money, life got real tough. No home. No clean clothes. No food. Folks looked down on you in a real bad way, too. When you were looked down on enough, you stopped caring and became a bloody saddle. One time a woman called her a real awful name and before she could stop herself, she hit her right in the mouth. She saw her blood. The pain she caused. But that woman never saw how bad she cut her in her heart and how much pain she walked away with.

“I best get on with my chore. I’m in a real bad way.” Molly bowed her head for a second. “Lord, you know I ain’t no good, but I got this baby I stole to take care of. Just asking for some help is all. Amen.”

With her prayer said, she started toward the ranch house. She felt blood running down her knees. Didn’t matter, and she didn’t care any more. Blood was blood. Pain was pain. Her knees would scab over and heal. Didn’t need to have pretty legs anyhow. She wasn’t some fancy lady on her way to some social outing. Just trail dirt is all. Always was and always would be. Just how it was.

Molly felt her heart go dead again. Feeling nothing was better than feeling all the pain and hurt she shot blank bullets at.

By the time she reached the front porch of the ranch house, she was prepared to either encounter Logan Creed or die. Wasn’t no man going to take advantage of her or hurt Hope. She had a gun tucked under her dress and she was bound to use it if needed.

She listened. Silence.

Molly knew once she made her way up onto the front porch, she would make plenty of noise. “Lord, please…I ain’t nothing, but I’m begging for help.”

She drew in a deep breath of night air, looked down at Hope’s shadowy face and started onto the front porch. The dry wood immediately began creaking and fussing. She winced but kept going. When she drew close enough to the front door she drew back a hard, angry hand and began knocking as loud as she could. “Anyone in there? I need help! Please!”

Once Molly yelled out, she knew there was no turning back.

When she heard what sounded like a gun being pulled out of a holster and boots start toward the front door she stepped back and waited. That’s all she could do. “Please, Lord… please…”

Chapter Two

Sleep never came easy for Logan Creed; he found himself staying up close to the midnight hour almost every night and waking up with the sun. When sleep did come—so did the nightmares. Many times he would jerk awake in a cold sweat, thinking he was back in Fort Worth. “Sally… get John…” he always screamed the same thing.

His wife and son were dead. Shot down like dogs. No one lay next to him on the cot he slept on. No one was in the small bedroom he had built. Just heat, darkness, and misery. He couldn’t even bring himself to sleep on a bed anymore. Without his wife…the feel of a bed felt…like a grave.

He was just about to put out the lantern when he heard a loud banging on the front door, and a woman start yelling. Instinct rode in the next moment; he went for his gun and moved toward the front door, staying clear of the middle.

“Who’s out there?” he hollered.

“Name is Molly McKenna… please, mister, I got a baby with me. I’m plumb worn out… lost my horse…”

The voice did sound tired. But what was a woman doing so far out? His ranch sat a pretty good stone’s throw away from Santa Fe. He preferred it that way. He ran some cattle, just enough for him to handle on his own. The cattle sold good enough. He didn’t eat much. His ranch house was on the small side. Didn’t require much by way of supplies. Hardest thing was keeping enough wood to burn during the cold months and good grazing land for the cattle. Hay was hard to come by, too. The two quarter horses he owned had to eat. He did okay, though. No one paid him much mind. He wasn’t a threat to the bigger ranches. His spread was small and hard to find if a fella didn’t know where to look.

Logan reckoned the woman had gotten herself lost. She probably took a beating from a drunk hand and ran off. He’d seen it happen before. The thought pulled him back to Fort Worth. He had been the sheriff. Before his wife and son were shot down, the badge he wore meant something. Many a time he had arrested a drunk husband for taking a hard fist to his wife or gone to fetch a woman who had run off and gotten herself lost. A lost woman with a baby wasn’t uncommon if she was running from a drunk hand.

“Hold on a sec…” he called, then unlocked the front door and eased it open. He didn’t put his gun away, keeping his back pressed up against the left wall as he peeked outside. The lantern sitting on a wood table threw out enough light for him to see a sweaty, dirty face—along with two arms holding a baby.

“Name is Logan Creed,” he said steadily. “ I’m alone here. Best I can offer is a roof for the night and then I’ll ride you into town tomorrow.”

“I got a gun. You try to touch me and I’ll gun you down.” The woman’s words were tough—but what bothered him was that he saw her eyes change some when he mentioned his name. Not a lot, but some.

“Ma’am, I ain’t that sort,” he retorted. “Plenty of saloon girls in town for a fella who wants sin. I fear the Good Lord.”

“Well… okay, then. But you best be telling the truth.”

“You better come on in.” He scanned the night. Didn’t see much. No horse. No hidden guns.

This Molly McKenna carefully eased through the front door and then scooted off to the side, even as Logan closed and locked the front door and holstered his gun.

“Where are you coming from?”

“You always wear your gun belt this late, mister?”

His right hand rested on his gun from instinct. He never took off his gun belt until it was time to tangle with sleep. Even then, he kept his guns lying on the floor within arm’s reach. “Reckon so. Now, answer my question.”

“Coming from Texas.”

“Texas is a long ways off, ma’am—”

“Name is Molly.”

Logan stared at Molly. Despite the dirt and sweat, she was about one of the prettiest women he’d ever seen besides his own wife. But her beauty was scarred and beaten. Her hair, which was blond but dirty and brown from trail dust, was all tangled. She was wearing a wash dress badly ripped around the knees. He saw blood. “You’re hurt,” he said, nodding downward.

“I fell. My knees hit some rocks.”

He studied Molly’s eyes. She had been crying. He could tell. “Horse?”

“Sold it to buy food.”

“Where?”

“Town east of Santa Fe. Family with a wagon picked me and the baby up and took us into Santa Fe. Started walking early this morning.”

His gut told him Molly was tossing half-truths at him. That was to be expected. His guess was she was from the Santa Fe area and running from a drunk hand.

She sure is pretty. Don’t see no bruises on her face. Just the blood near her knees. Boots look worn down to the dirt. Dress is as poor as dirt, too. She didn’t come from no spread around here I know of. But there’s no way she started west from Santa Fe on foot. Could be one of those mail-order brides that ended up trapped in a house run by whiskey bottles. Don’t know every spread around here. Can’t say for sure. Spreads I do know… she didn’t come from them.

“Hungry?” he heard himself ask.

“Well… more thirsty.”

“Water bucket is full. Have a seat.” He nodded toward a round table sitting in the kitchen. The kitchen wasn’t much to brag on—wood burning stove, table, supplies, sink. His wife had kept her kitchen in Fort Worth tidy, clean, and filled with all sorts of lady things like flower curtains and tablecloths and stuff like that. The kitchen he built was just plain old wood.

He saw Molly look around. Her eyes sank a little at the sight before her. She walked into the kitchen and sat down. “Baby is tired.”

“Got a cot in the back room. I’ll sleep on the couch.” He fetched Molly a glass of water and then went for some biscuits he had cooked earlier. He put two biscuits on a tin plate along with some bacon he didn’t finish eating for supper. “I can hold the baby while you eat.”

“Well… reckon so.”

Molly tentatively handed him the baby. A girl. Prettiest baby he had ever seen, too. “Pretty baby.”

“Keep the baby’s neck supported… don’t let the blanket come loose,” Molly ordered him.

“I know… I…” Logan almost said I once had a son. Instead, he just nodded and sat down across from Molly. “What’s her name?”

“Hope.”

“Hope. Good name.” Hope’s eyes were closed. He saw sweat on her forehead and her mouth seemed fussy. She was hot. “Gonna take this blanket off her. She’s too hot.”

“Well… reckon that will be okay.”

Molly whispered what he guessed was a prayer and then dug into her grub. She’s eating like she’s starving. Bless her soul. She put down her food before he could blink three or four times, it seemed like.

“More?”

“Got more to offer?”

“I can cook some more bacon. Got four more biscuits in the pan over there.”

“Well… some more biscuits. No need to cook bacon. But let me get the biscuits. You’re holding Hope.”

Molly fetched herself the last four biscuits and gobbled them down. Then she went for her water. One glass… then another… and finally a third. She wiped at her mouth and set her glass down. “Better. Much obliged to you.”

She talked like a woman who had never stepped foot in a schoolroom. He guessed her to be about twenty-two or twenty-three, give or take a year. She wasn’t ladylike in any way—instead, her mannerisms were rough and edgy. What struck him most was the fact she didn’t look like a mother. He knew the look. Having a baby changed a woman—changed their appearance. A woman began carrying herself differently, acting differently, and talking differently.

Baby looks to be about a year old. Reckon she could be the mother, just don’t seem likely. Her eyes don’t have the look. Could be wrong. Don’t think so.

“Well, it’s getting late. I was getting ready to put the lantern out. You and the baby can take the back room. I’ll sleep on the couch, like I said.”

“Well…” Molly stopped and yawned seemingly against her will. Her eyes were tuckered out. He knew she would be out before her head hit the cot. “Reckon some shuteye sounds good. But I’ll be sleeping with my gun, you hear me?”

“Done told you I ain’t that type of fella. Understand?” He stood up and pointed to the bedroom. “I can sleep back there if you want…or go sleep in the barn.”

Molly stared at him for a minute. “You best sleep on the couch. Don’t see no harm in you, mister.”

“Name is Logan Creed. Already told you that.”

When he said his name he saw Molly’s eyes change again. Not much, but the change was noticeable. He couldn’t put his finger on why.

“Well…I best get Hope to bed. I’ll be seeing you come morning. Night.” She left the kitchen and went to the bedroom, then closed the door. A few seconds later he heard her pushing a writing desk in front of it, about the only piece of furniture in there besides the cot.

Logan put the lantern out and laid down on the couch. Why had Molly’s eyes changed? Just a quick change…but a change, nonetheless. He didn’t know the woman from a hole in the ground. Never seen the baby, either. His name was well known back in Fort Worth. Maybe she was wanted for some crime and recognized his name? “I’ll question her some more come morning,” he mumbled.

Sleep didn’t come easy. He lay awake until he heard some snoring. Molly was out. Figured she would be. “Lord, please let the baby sleep good, and give that woman some rest,” he whispered. “In Jesus’s name, amen.”

He didn’t get much shuteye. What sleep he did get was shot up by bad dreams.

He was up with the sun, making coffee, when Molly came out of the bedroom holding the baby. “Outhouse is behind the barn. I can watch the baby.”

“Reckon you need to. All that water… well… I best go.” Molly handed him the baby and went to do her business. She came back about twenty minutes later in a hurry. “Rider is coming.”

Logan handed Molly the baby and stepped out onto the front porch. Yep. Molly was right. Rider was coming his way from the east. He recognized the horse. “Boy from town. He delivers messages to the spreads around this part.”

Young Henry O’Mally rode up on his favorite Pinto looking fresh as the morning air. “Morning, Mr. Creed. Got a message for you.”

“Morning, Henry.”

Henry reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a telegram. He saw Henry look at Molly. “Ma’am.” He nodded his head.

Molly didn’t say a word back.

Henry handed him the telegram and wiped sweat off his forehead. “Already sweating like a stuffed pig, but the air is fresh. Tastes sort of sweet. Well, I best get going. I have to ride out to the Finnigan spread.”

After he left, Logan read the message Henry delivered. Need you back. Banditos are back. Need help. You can stay at my ranch. Send word if you’re coming.

This is from Charlie. Charlie had been his deputy—a good man. One of the best. A bullet had taken out his right leg. Now he walked with a bad limp. After Logan left Fort Worth, Peter Collins became sheriff. Charlie didn’t have a lot of good things to say about the guy. “He’s too blasted young!” he’d fussed in a letter.

Now Charlie was asking him to come back home because the banditos were back. They’d only caught three of them. Mateo Cruz took over after his brother ended up at the end of a rope. Heard they were riding bloody. Just never thought they would get the guts to go back near Fort Worth.

Raw rage kicked his heart, but he tried to hide it. When he turned around, Molly was staring at him.

“I’m going to Fort Worth, Texas. You’re welcome to come if you want. If you don’t…well, you can stay here until I get back. Got plenty of supplies.” Maybe it was the tone in his voice—or the rage in his eyes—but Molly stepped back some, and he softened his voice. “Don’t mean no harm.”

“Reckon not,” Molly responded. As she did, the baby started to cry. She began rocking the baby in a way that an experienced mother wouldn’t. She looked around for a minute or so. “Going back to Texas might be smart. Ain’t nothing out this way but dead land. If you don’t mind hauling me and the baby along…well, I reckon we’ll come with you.”

“I’m leaving come first light tomorrow. Best go feed the baby. She’s hungry. Got some goats. I’ll go get some of their milk. Better on the baby than cow’s milk. You can mush up a biscuit in the milk.”