Chapter One

Barton Creek, Texas

1870

Morning came too soon on the day Nash planned to leave. The sky hung low over Barton Creek, a wash of dull gray that reminded Kate Cain of old army blankets: coarse, heavy, and full of shadows, best forgotten.

Inside the cabin, Kate felt a similar weight settling over her chest, thick and cold, preventing her from drawing a deep breath. Dread sat in her heart like a stone, and every passing moment carried Nash closer to the road that would take him away from her.

I don’t want you to go…

Standing beside the black range, Kate waited for the snap of kindling to let her know the fire was hot. Even though she’d spent a restless night, unable to sleep for dread of the dawn, she wanted to send her husband off with a hearty meal.

Dear God, bring him safely home. He came safely through the war. Surely he’ll come safely home this time, too.

The prayer had been in her heart all through the night. Even with Nash lying safe and solid beside her, fear and longing had tangled tightly inside her like a shroud. Now, dressed in a cheerful green print dress, Kate wished she could be strong, the wife Nash deserved. A wife who could send him off to do his duty with a prayer, a meal, and the assurance that he’d come safely back to her arms.

Even knowing she needed to be strong, Kate felt as shaky as a newborn colt.

A deep sigh passed her lips.

The coolness of the night hadn’t lifted yet. A fresh morning breeze rustled the cheerful, blue-checked curtains at the window. Light scents blew through the kitchen window of their tidy cabin: mud, horse manure, and a whiff of woodsmoke from other breakfast fires in Barton Creek. A hint of fragrant bluebonnets perfumed the air, faint but pleasant.

Kate tried to take comfort in her normal, everyday routine as she reached for the iron skillet, added a dollop of lard, and waited for it to melt.

Breakfast. Clean clothes for Nash’s knapsack. A packet of lunch for noon.

Oh, Nash! Don’t leave me!

Trying to still the rapid beating of her heart, Kate cracked eggs with a trembling hand. Fragments of shell landed in the popping grease, and a small curse passed her lips. Shoving the skillet off the hot lid of the range, she sighed in frustration.

Nash is leaving for who knows how long, and I’m worried about eggshells!

Intending to get her fill of him while he was still near, Kate went to the window and stared into their backyard. Bracing her hands on the sill, she watched Nash saddle Brandy in the pale blue-gray light of early dawn. His every movement was as plain and familiar to her as her own body. He worked in silence, checking the cinch twice. Lifting his bedroll, he placed it over the back of the saddle, then checked the rifle scabbard hanging down the horse’s side.

There was nothing hurried in Nash’s movements, nothing uncertain. Looking at him, Kate could almost imagine he was preparing for any ordinary ride, to the next town, perhaps. She wished desperately he weren’t going so far south toward the border.

“Now, Kate,” he’d reassured her when she first protested his going, “I’m the law, and the folks in Laredo reached out for help. You know trouble has a way of growing deep roots and spreading. If I can help make peace, I’m honor-bound. You know I can’t turn my back.”

Oh, yes, she knew, all right. She’d figured that out the first day she’d met Nash Cain in her brother Ethan’s office. Nash had brought in Daniel Whitlock, Barton Creek’s newspaper editor, after finding him wounded on the road. Nash’s sense of duty to help an injured man had outweighed any thought of his own safety.

That day, she’d known in her bones that he’d once been a soldier. That he’d been a lawman. Later, she’d learned that towns further west spoke of Marshal Cain like a storm that passed through, never quite tamed.

Marriage had tamed him somewhat, but certainly not completely. Kate didn’t begin to assume herself that persuasive.

No one could fully reign in a man as strong-willed as Nash Cain.

Outside, the town of Barton Creek began to wake up. A dog barked; another answered. Down the rutted main street, a wagonload of logs rattled, the horses’ harness jangling. Kate heard the clatter of pans coming from the boardinghouse kitchen, accompanied by an Irish woman singing a jaunty, full-throated tune.

The sounds proved that the town of Barton Creek had resumed its calm, peaceful existence after all the trouble last year. Men had died here—both good and bad. Blood had spilled in the street and washed away in spring rain. Violence and corruption had shattered the town before Nash rode in, but after he’d taken over as marshal, peace flourished.

But, as Kate knew well, peace never lasted long for a man like Nash before trouble came along to shatter it.

As her brother, Ethan, had often said, “Peace in Texas is often only the stillness between storms.”

With a final pat to Brandy’s mane, Nash looked up and met Kate’s eyes through the window. The slow smile that curved his lips never ceased to make her heart skip.

She thought back to the first time she’d laid eyes on him.

Her husband was the sort of man you looked at twice. First, because he was so tall and broad across the shoulders. Solid. Sure. Then, you looked again, because something in those dark brown eyes, the deep color of a dirt road after rain, stilled a room.

“I’m all set to travel, Katie,” he said, coming into the kitchen, filling the room with his presence.

Kate hurried forward and wrapped her arms around his waist. Pushing her face into the rough, sun-scented linen of his brown shirt, she wished she could hold on forever. “I wish you didn’t have to go.”

Nash sighed, deep and troubled. “It’s not like I want to go, either… but Marshal Holt asked for my help, and I feel honor bound to go to Laredo. Tracking down cattle rustlers is a dangerous job.”

“But why you, Nash? Can’t someone else help?”

“Now, Kate, we’ve been over this before. The rustlers are operating along the Texas border. Right now, they’re in Laredo—but what if they come north toward us? Barton Creek has peace now. Let’s keep it that way. We don’t want any trouble like last year.”

“I know…” Hot tears filled her eyes as she struggled to hide her fear.

The past year, she’d watched Nash’s struggles against the horrible cattle baron, Pike, and his evil men. Kate knew only too well the danger that followed Nash; she’d seen it firsthand. The thought of losing him weighed heavy on her heart, especially now, when their marriage was so new and filled with joy.

What would I do without him? How could I go on living?

“You knew the kind of man I am when you married me, Sweet Katie,” he said, kissing the top of her hair and gathering her closer against him.

Kate clung to him as though she could hold him there by sheer force of love, her cheek pressed to his chest as she listened to the steady beat of his heart. In that moment, she longed to stop time so she could stand there forever in the shelter of his arms, breathing in the clean scent of soap, of leather—the warm, familiar smell that was only Nash.

Yes, I know the kind of man you are. No matter how much you’d rather stay, you’ll never turn your back on a man in need.

“This goodbye won’t last forever,” he murmured, his lips brushing her temple, then the curve of her cheek. Then, he drew back to cradle her face between his hands, his dark eyes steady on hers. “As soon as I’m finished in Laredo, I’ll tear out and ride home as fast as Brandy can carry me.”

“You promise?” Kate hated the quiver in her voice. Her whole body felt unsteady, as if the ground beneath her had begun to shift. The thought of this house without him, silence at supper, an empty place beside her in bed, was almost more than she could bear.

“I swear it,” he said, and the quiet certainty in his voice made her eyes burn all over again. He brushed his work-worn thumb across her cheek before a single tear could fall. “I will come back to you.”

“I’d like to believe that with all my heart, Nash,” she said softly, “so I’ll do my best to hold your promise as long as you’re gone—only, don’t ask me not to worry at all. I love you too dearly to promise that.”

He kissed her, long and deep, as if he never wanted to leave.

With a shudder, Kate smoothed her palms down the skirt of her green dress and lifted her chin. “Well, at least let me see to your breakfast before you go,” she said, doing her best to steady her voice. “You’ll need something warm in your stomach on a morning like this.”

Nash opened his mouth, likely to protest, but Kate turned away and hurried to the stove to fry eggs and ham. Before long, she was setting the food before him, then sitting across from him at the small table and forcing herself to speak of ordinary things while flames crackled softly in the stove.

“Did you pack enough coffee? I hope I put enough clothes in your knapsack.”

He answered with a tenderness that nearly undid her. “Kate, you’ve done plenty. I’ll be fine.”

She tried to eat, but the food tasted like sawdust in her mouth. Swallowing felt like trying to force rocks down her throat. She longed for these last few minutes to feel warm, peaceful, and full of love, not sorrow.

But, at last, there was no putting it off.

Nash wiped his mouth, stood from the table, and reached for his wide-brimmed tan hat.

The simple action struck Kate like a knife to her heart. She walked him to the door, then followed him to where Brandy stood patiently tied to a hitching post. The stallion stamped and tossed his head impatiently, ready to travel.

“Love you,” Nash whispered, pulling Kate into his arms, and kissed her as every bit as passionately as he had when they married. All too soon, he pulled away and touched her cheek with his callused hand. As he climbed into the saddle, her heart broke.

Kate folded her hands together at her waist. “Ride careful,” she said softly.

“I will. You take care, now. If you need any help, you’ve got Ethan in town.” He smiled down at her. “I’ll be back sooner than you think.”

She nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

Nash touched the brim of his hat, turned Brandy toward the road, and rode away just as a shaft of sunlight pierced the gloomy clouds.

Standing where he’d left her, Kate held her back straight and her chin high, despite the hot tears spilling unchecked down her face. She lifted her hand, waving bravely as he disappeared over a slight rise past town. Only then did she let a sob break out.

Weeping as if her heart had broken in two, she turned and went back to the too-silent cabin.

Chapter Two

Road to Laredo, Texas

“Looks like we’re in for some weather, eh, Brandy?” Nash asked as they rode along the hard-packed trail south toward Laredo. Not that he expected an answer, but the stallion flicked an ear and gave a low whicker, tossing his head as the wind freshened.

For the past couple miles, a hard wind had pressed them from behind, carrying the raw scent of rain. Now, the first cold drops spit against Nash’s face. He reined in long enough to pull his oilskin poncho from the saddlebag and shrug it on. Behind him, the sky had gone black and swollen, clouds piling over one another like bruised cotton bolls rolling across the horizon.

Won’t be long before that storm breaks.

Nash cast a measuring glance across the open ground, looking for shelter. Nothing. The country stretched, wide and exposed, broken only by mesquite, prickly pear, and low scrub that would offer no more protection than a sprig of grass. Off to one side, a creek twisted through the land, its banks already frothing and foaming over.

Best just keep on riding and stay hopeful.

When the rain came, it seemed to gush out all at once. One moment, the air felt tight and expectant; the next, the sky opened like a great, heavenly cistern had overturned above them.

Water slammed against the brim of Nash’s hat and shoulders, drumming on the oilskin, soaking everything the coat didn’t cover. Within minutes, his trousers were clinging to his cold legs, water seeping into his boots with every shift in the saddle. Brandy’s dun coat darkened to a slick sheen, ears flattened as the stallion lowered his head into the driving rain.

The road became treacherous under their feet. What had been hard-baked earth softened into thick, clinging mud that sucked at Brandy’s hooves and blurred the ruts beneath standing water.

Nash tightened his grip on the reins, giving Brandy leeway when he could and murmuring low encouragements as the stallion picked his way forward. There was no use fighting the storm outright; all Nash could do in weather like this was keep his seat, trust his horse, and pray for shelter.

Along with the rain came a biting chill that worked its way through Nash’s sodden clothes and set his teeth to chattering. His hands grew numb on the reins, and for every mile he rode, the storm seemed to gather fresh strength, as though the sky had set itself against them.

Nash reckoned he’d been traveling due south near four miles when, through the wavering gray curtain of rain, he caught sight of what might be smoke rising, thin and wispy, into the air. Hope stirred in his heart as he clucked to Brandy and turned him toward it.

They followed the edge of a swollen creek, which boiled over its banks in brown, churning water. As they drew near, dim lamplight peeked through the gloom, trembling in the window of a small ranch house like a promise of warmth.

With any luck, I’ll find some friendly folks inside.

Nash swung down near the narrow porch, boots sinking into mud at once. Rain pinged against the tin roof overhead while water streamed from the brim of his hat and the hem of his oilskin. He tied Brandy quickly to a porch post, gave his wet neck a steadying pat, then took the two steps onto a creaky porch. Grateful even for that little bit of shelter, he rapped his knuckles against the door, hoping whoever lived here might welcome him into the fire.

Sure could use warming up about now.

As the sturdy door swung inward, relief flooded his chest. “H-hello, I’m—whoa, now!”

He’d expected a greeting, perhaps not the warmest, but certainly not the dark, unblinking barrel of a shotgun leveled straight at his chest.

Framed in the doorway stood a small, wiry woman in a faded homespun dress, her thin shoulders squared with surprising resolve as she gripped the long Winchester. The lines of her creased and weathered face formed a map of hard living. Pale blue eyes shone like chips of ice beneath a wild tangle of gray-streaked hair. Suspicion and defiance radiated from her like heat from the brick fireplace.

“Whoever you are, mister,” she growled, her voice as flinty as the stare, “you can turn around and git right now. We ain’t havin’ yer kind here.”

“I’m not here to cause trouble, ma’am,” Nash said carefully, showing her the silver star on his leather vest. “I’m Marshal Cain from Barton Creek, on my way to Laredo. I got caught in the storm and would be most obliged for shelter.”

“Here?” The idea seemed to startle her. She began to shake her head until a weak voice called out from farther in.

Nash couldn’t make out the words, but thankfully, the woman lowered the rifle a few inches and turned her head. “Says he’s a marshal from over Barton Creek, name of Cain. Askin’ for shelter.”

“Let him in.”

The woman frowned but pointed the rifle to the floor and pushed the door open wider. “Reckon you can come on in an’ get dried off. I’m Violet Bishop.”

Nash stepped inside, dripping, and looked around. The cabin was small, with one room for cooking and living and a curtained bed near the back wall. A man lay propped on the straw tick, his whiskery face drawn. Heat rolled off the brick fireplace, almost stifling after the cold rain, but Nash welcomed it.

Three towheaded boys with pale blue eyes beneath long, pale lashes stared at him from the rough-hewn table, each with a bowl of stew that made his empty stomach tighten.

“Thank you kindly, Mrs. Bishop,” Nash said. “I’d best see to my horse before I get too settled. Mind if I bed down in your barn tonight?”

Violet narrowed her eyes at him, then looked toward the man in the bed. “Luke? Reckon it’s all right if the marshal stays in the barn?”

“Have to think on it, but he kin at least rest a spell an’ dry off,” came the gravelly reply. “Tucker, you kin take the marshal out to see to his horse, an’ make sure them cows are in the barn. Storm like this, the creek’s likely to flood.”

“Yes, Pa.” The biggest boy rose from the table, then grabbed an oilskin and a rumpled cap from a peg beside the door and held the door for Nash to follow.

Glancing longingly at the bowls of stew, Nash gave the rest of the family a brief nod before heading back out into the rain. He wondered how long Luke would take to decide his fate. If the man refused to let him sleep in the barn, he might be forced to ride on. It was a dismal thought, especially since dusk was setting over the land.

Brandy’s coat was soaked through, but perked up when Nash took the reins and followed Tucker into the warmer shelter of the barn. He led Brandy into an empty stall, taking in the solid condition of the structure. Hay filled the loft, and sacks of grain were stacked neatly along one wall. Except for a couple flapping shingles on the roof letting in a spit of rain, the place seemed in fair repair.

If nothing else, guess we can warm ourselves a bit before we have to ride on.

“Sorry Ma and Pa ain’t more friendly,” Tucker said as they stepped out of the downpour. “Pa got throwed from a horse about four months back, did somethin’ awful to his spine. Doc says he’ll be cripped for good… if he lives. It’s left Pa bitter, and he don’t trust many folks no more.”

“Sorry to hear that,” Nash said.

Tucker shrugged. “I do most of the work around here now. Ma says not to let on to Pa how much we’ve had to do to make ends meet. Them cows he’s so worried about is too far out in the pasture to find tonight. We had a purty decent herd, but had to sell some. I got to go an’ bring in the milk cows—be right back.”

Nash took the time to rub Brandy down and see that the stallion had water and grain before examining what would hopefully be his bedroom for the night. The barn was in decent shape, but there was no missing the strain the family had been under. Many stalls in the spacious barn were empty, cobwebs swinging from the rafters.

When Tucker returned, leading a few thin dairy cows, their coats slick with rain, Nash stepped in to help. Together, they got the animals groomed, fed, and watered, then repaired a section of loose fence in the pen outside.

“Much obliged,” Tucker said, swiping rain from his thin cheeks as they hurried into the barn again. “Pa can’t do chores no more, and sometimes, it’s hard managing it all alone. Pete and Jubal try, but they ain’t but little. I been worried ’bout that fence for days now.”

Nash leaned against a stall gate for a moment, rubbing the damp from his face with a handkerchief, and looked at the boy. “How old are you, Tucker?”

“Fourteen. Pete’s ten, and Jubal’s only eight.”

Tucker pulled off his soaked cap and oilskin, grabbed a hammer, and headed toward the ladder leaning against the loft. “Reckon I best fix that shingle on the roof, so’s it don’t leak on you tonight.”

Nash watched for a minute. “You figure your pa will let me stay?”

Tucker flashed a quick grin. “Aw, don’t you fret none. Ma’s too softhearted to turn a man out in a storm, no matter what Pa says.”

“Then let me help.”

As they worked, fastening the shingle that banged in the wind, Nash found himself taking an immediate liking to the boy. Tucker had the same steady, capable air Nash remembered in himself at that age.

“You got brothers, Marshal?” Tucker asked.

Nash shook his head. “No, just me and my folks. Pa was a lawman, and my ma kept house. Always wished I’d had a brother, though.”

“That why you became a lawman—’cause of your pa?”

“Probably.” Nash nodded. “Pa believed in justice and knew that, sometimes, a man had to be hard to right a wrong. I reckon that’s part of why I took the badge myself, to honor his memory. Like to think he’d be proud.”

The boy’s face took on a wistful look. “Seems like it’d be a fine life, being a lawman. I always figured I’d follow in Pa’s footsteps. He used to be the best horseman around, knew everything there was to know about buying and selling stock. Folks came from miles away when we had good horses. But now…” He gave a small, resigned shrug. “Since he got crippled, we had to sell near all of ’em but the plow team.”

Nash wished he could offer some comfort, but no easy words came. His father had taught him long ago that some troubles couldn’t be talked away; a man either bent beneath them or learned to bear the weight.

Tucker let out a sigh and reached for his oilskin. A crash of thunder rolled over the barn, setting the horses to shifting in their stalls and the cows to lowing uneasily. “Sure hope this storm lets up soon, or‍—‍”

Whatever else he meant to say was cut short when the barn door flew open, and one of Tucker’s brothers—Pete, Nash guessed—came skittering inside, rainwater streaming from his hair and down the front of his shirt. He clutched a dented tin bowl covered with a piece of oilskin in both hands, careful not to spill its steaming contents.

“Ma sent this for you, Marshal,” he said, a little breathless. “Stew. And Pa says you can stay, but iffen you steal anything, he’ll see you shot.”

Tucker rolled his eyes.

It wasn’t the most gracious invitation Nash had ever received, but he accepted it and the food gratefully. A flash of lightning lit the yard as Tucker and Pete ran back to the cabin, followed by the roar of thunder.

“Well, Brandy, reckon we should dry off proper.” Nash lifted his saddlebags from the hay-strewn floor and hoped the storm would stop before morning.

If not… Well, ain’t no sense in worryin’ until I for sure got something to worry over.