Dorothy Garlock - [Colorado Wind 03] Read online

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  A Time Warner Company

  WIND OF PROMISE. Copyright © 1987 by Dorothy Garlock. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote brief passages in a review.

  For information address Warner Books, Hachette Book Group, 237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017.

  A Time Warner Company

  ISBN: 978-0-7595-2274-9

  A mass market edition of this book was published in 1987 by Warner Books.

  The “Warner Books” name and logo are trademarks of Hachette Book Group, Inc.

  First eBook Edition: April 2001

  Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroup.com

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  EPILOGUE

  Under the star-filled western sky . . .

  “It was your money the thieves were after tonight, and you’d be dead if that bullet had hit you,” Kain said.

  “I was protecting what was mine,” she said stubbornly, but her voice lacked the sharpness it held before.

  “If I let go of you to light a smoke will you run away?”

  “Run? Why should I? Am I your prisoner?”

  “No.” And then he said, as if to himself, “but I may be yours.” The match flared and he held it between cupped hands until it blazed. The light outlined his face and turned it into a bronze mask.

  Vanessa’s eyes clung to the smooth skin and straight brows. He was too handsome, far too handsome, despite the jagged scar that slanted across his hard cheekbone and disappeared into the thick brown hair. The gold-tipped lashes lifted and the amber eyes looked into hers. Oh, my God! Why did she have this feeling of rightness when she was with this . . . stranger?

  He blew out the match. “What were you thinking, little red bird, when you looked at me with those beautiful eyes?” His fingers gently fondled her cheek and looped a strand of hair behind her ear. Vanessa caught her breath sharply. She tried to move away, but he held her with his words. “Don’t go.”

  “THE RAREST OF ALL GIFTS . . . DOROTHY GARLOCK BRINGS AN OBVIOUS LOVE AND UNDERSTANDING TO THE MEN AND WOMEN WHOSE COURAGE AND SPIRIT OPENED THE FRONTIER.”

  —“Ann’s World,” Hurst Cablevision

  Books by Dorothy Garlock

  Almost Eden

  Annie Lash

  Dream River

  Forever Victoria

  A Gentle Giving

  Glorious Dawn

  Homeplace

  Lonesome River

  Love and Cherish

  Larkspur

  Midnight Blue

  Nightrose

  Restless Wind

  Ribbon in the Sky

  River of Tomorrow

  The Searching Hearts

  Sins of Summer

  Sweetwater

  Tenderness

  The Listening Sky

  This Loving Land

  Wayward Wind

  Wild Sweet Wilderness

  Wind of Promise

  With Hope

  Yesteryear

  Published by

  WARNER BOOKS

  To a special man, with special love—

  my husband, Herb

  ROCKY MOUNTAIN WIND

  Blowing through the towering crags of hard rock;

  across blossoming but wild blankets of nature;

  bringing seasonal and occasional violent changes in weather;

  the billowing wind of the Rockies—the wind of promise.

  Adam Mix

  Chapter One

  Only death would end it now.

  The cheering crowd in front of the Dodge House watched the primitive game called lap jacket being played by two Negroes. It was said to be an African sport. In reality it was supposed to be a way to settle a dispute without a killing if one of the participants cried uncle while they lashed each other with a bullwhip. The fight had turned into a murderous duel; blood flowed freely, ears had been lopped off, jawbones exposed. Now each was aiming at the private parts of the other while the crowd, worked into a frenzy by the vicious fight, cheered them on.

  Kain DeBolt leaned against the porch post and watched the duel. It was easy to see that the town marshal, who was overseeing the settling of the dispute, had no intention of stopping the fight. Kain turned away in disgust, stepped off the porch, and ran headlong into a woman in a dark sunbonnet with a basket on her arm. He reached out to steady her to keep her from falling. As soon as she regained her balance, furious blue eyes blazed up at him and she jerked her shoulders from his grasp.

  “Get you hands off me!” she hissed.

  “I beg your pardon, ma’am.” Kain was surprised by the venom in her voice. The collision had been as much her fault as his, and he was tempted to tell her so. Instead, he put his fingers to the brim of his hat and moved aside so she could pass. He watched her walk away, head up, shoulders erect, indignation expressed in every line of her slender body. He couldn’t suppress the grin that played at the corners of his wide mouth as her quick steps took her down the boardwalk. She swept past a drunk who had just been tossed out of a saloon, holding the skirt of her blue calico dress aside so it didn’t touch him, and then turned the corner.

  In 1873, Dodge City, Kansas was living up to its reputation of being a wicked little town. The Kansas City Star, which Kain had tucked inside his coat pocket, proclaimed it the “Gomorrah of the Plains.” “Dodge City,” the reporter wrote, “is the beautiful bibulous Babylon of the frontier. In truth, Dodge City is hell in a loosely tied package.”

  Less than a year before the Sante Fe Railroad had arrived and a station was opened in a sidetracked boxcar. At that time the infant town already had two saloons under tents and a general store. Within a month track workers, teamsters, rawhiders, whores, pimps and gamblers had flocked into town and mixed it up with the tough frontier soldiers from nearby Fort Dodge. Frame houses and false-fronted stores sprang up along Front Street. Dozens of boxcars arrived each day with grain, flour and provisions, and left again filled with buffalo bones and hides. The hides were shipped to the eastern tanneries, the bones to manufacturers for all manner of products from fertilizer to bone china. Buffalo hunting was the pillar of the town’s economy, and the bull whackers who brought in the hides, the soldiers, and the railroad gangs its populace. Both the hunters and the freighters had about them a peculiar smell from their dead cargo, and remarks made about those unpleasant odors often led to gang fights and killings.

  As Kain passed the Lady Gay Saloon, an overweight trollop leaned out of one of the upstairs windows and wheezed, “For five bucks I can give ya a mighty fine time.”

  He looked up at the bloated face and decided a man would have to be desperate, crazy, or both to relieve himself with a crib girl from the Lady Gay. He shook his head and walked on.

  “Piss on ya, then,” she yelled. “You probably ain’t got nothin’ but a little ole bitty
, nohow!”

  Kain grinned, reached into his pocket for a cigar, bit off the end, and paused on the street corner to light a match. People, he told himself, were the same world over. Those same words, or a cruder version thereof, had been flung at him in a hundred towns such as this. He glanced at the reflection of himself in a darkening store window. His eyes could make out no detail, but he knew what was there. A tall man, lean of body, wide of shoulder. His face was narrow and clean shaven, his cheekbones high, and his jaw strong. A bullet scar on his jaw gave his face a somewhat sinister look until he smiled. His hair was brown and wavy, and his eyes, beneath straight dark brows, were a light tawny gold. He wore a black frock coat, a fancy vest and a flat-crowned, black hat. Yet Kain DeBolt saw a great deal more than what was reflected in the window. He saw a restless man, seeking to fill an emptiness inside him.

  At any time, day or night, there were about a hundred freight or light wagons in the streets of Dodge City. Now, in the late afternoon, a wagon carrying a crude wooden coffin turned off a side street, and Kain paused to let it pass. A black man playing a moaning tune on a squeeze box sat on the tailgate of the wagon and a whiskered man in black broadcloth coat and high silk hat drove the black-draped team of horses. Another resident for Boot Hill was making his last journey. The cemetery, reserved for the many characters who died with their boots on, had received its first resident only six months before and already had a population of twenty.

  Kain walked past the harness shop, the dry goods store, and the Longbranch Saloon. He passed the depot where he had stepped off the train early that morning. At the edge of town he paused to take a deep breath of fresh air. Even the smoke from the locomotive that brought him from Kansas City was preferable to the stench of hides, rotten meat, unwashed bodies and privies. His dust-reddened eyes swept over the sod houses that surrounded the town. Dirty and desolate were the only words that came to his mind. The people who lived in those huts lived with despair and hardship. He would be glad to see the last of this place.

  A commotion at the end of what appeared to be a peddler’s or traveling troop’s wagon parked in the middle of a vacant lot well back from the railroad tracks drew his attention. A dozen men had formed a circle and were laughing and throwing coins into the center. Another fight—one of the many fought each day in Dodge City, Kain thought. He started to retrace his steps back to the Dodge House when he saw the woman in the dark bonnet and blue dress running toward the wagon from the other side of the tracks. He wondered as he hurried toward the wagon if it was curiosity that had put his feet into motion or if he wanted to see her furious blue eyes again.

  The woman reached the scene first.

  She grabbed a shovel and forced her way through the ring of shouting, laughing men. A thin-bearded youth had a big blond man down on the ground and was pounding his face with his fists.

  “That kid’s a fightin’ son of a bitch!” an excited male voice rang out over the jeers of the crowd.

  The woman lifted the shovel and brought the metal scoop down on the back of the man on top. She lifted it again and hit him with a resounding blow to the side of his head. The small man came up fighting and her next blow caught him on the shoulder.

  “Leave him alone, you filthy, little swine!”

  The short, shaggy haired, thin-bearded youth clenched his fist as if to hit the woman, then thought better of it and backed off. He spit in the dust, grinned cockily at his friends and began to pick up the coins.

  “I tole ya I could do it,” he crowed. “I tole ya I could beat that big ole boy into a spitball.”

  The woman in the bonnet stood protectively between the man on the ground and the trail hands who had fallen back a few paces when she had lifted the shovel threateningly.

  “Get! Get, I say!”

  “Ah, ma’am. We was just funnin’. We was waitin’ on the pie.”

  “Funning? Why you unwashed bunch of mangy . . . warthogs! I don’t bake pies for a bunch of lily-livered clabberheads who think it’s funny to encourage a cocky little rooster to show off. Now get out of my camp! Go on, get!”

  The men backed away. They were rough, but they knew that to bother a good woman in Dodge City was like putting a noose around their necks. An older, whiskered man with a bald spot on the top of his head who was holding his hat in his hand moved to the front of the crowd.

  “I ain’t with ’em, ma’am. I shore be sorry. I didn’t have no idey ’bout the young feller there. I heared ya was sellin’ pie ’n I come to get me some. We ain’t had no makins fer pie since Injun Territory, ’n it’s many a dusty mile pushin’ that team to Dodge.”

  “All right, stay. The rest of you big, brave men,” she spat the word contemptuously, “hightail it back to the dung hill you crawled out of.”

  “Now see here, ya ain’t got no call to be so uppity.” The cocky youth was still looking around on the ground for coins.

  “I’ve every right to be whatever I want to be. If I were small like you, I’d not choose to make myself appear bigger by standing on someone else.”

  Her words stung the youth and his head snapped up. “Goddamn! Why you . . .” He took a step toward her.

  The woman in the bonnet stood her ground, holding the shovel as if it were a club. “I thought that’s what you were trying to prove. I’ve seen your kind before—a little man who’s only knee-high to an ant trying to make up for his lack of size by picking on someone bigger than himself. You’re nothing but a cocky little bully!” Her clear voice was filled with contempt.

  The boy muttered a few curses and his fists clenched. He was so angry he was shaking. “At least I ain’t no dummy,” he said spitefully, and spit toward the man on the ground.

  “I’m not so sure about that! I’m surprised you’ve got enough brains to hold your ears apart. Run along, little boy. If you come around here again, I’ll spank your bottom and send you home with a tail full of buckshot.”

  There were snickers from the men, and then a cough to disguise a laugh. The tables had turned and the men were enjoying the show. The bully was livid with anger.

  “Ya . . . ya . . . bitch,” he snarled. “Ya’d better watch out! That’s what ya’d better do. Ya’d just better watch out!”

  “And you’d better watch your mouth, kid.” Kain spoke quietly, but his voice carried to each man. They turned in a body to look at him, as did the girl in the bonnet.

  “Ya wantin’ a little a what I give him?” The youth flashed a boastful grin at his companions before he looked fully at the man who had spoken.

  “If you think you can do it, come on. I’ll chew you up and spit you out in nothing flat. The best thing for you to do is to run along, like the lady said.”

  “I ain’t runnin’ along cause a duded up, spit ’n polish, greenhorn tells me to.” He put on his hat, hooked his thumbs in his gun belt and looked at Kain belligerently.

  Oh, no, Kain thought. Why the hell hadn’t he kept his damn mouth shut? He stifled a sudden burst of temper. The damn fool kid was probably suckled on wolf’s milk and didn’t have enough sense to back down.

  “Don’t make a move toward that gun, kid. I don’t want to kill you—not that I’d aim to. That gun hand is only inches from your belly and I’ve been known to shoot wide.”

  “C’mon, George. Yore goin’ to mess around ’n get yoreself killed.” A youth in a flat-crowned hat and the ragged buckskins of a rawhider stepped out and took the boy’s arm.

  “Your friend’s right.” Kain stared unblinkingly at the boy.

  “I ain’t no greenhorn with a gun,” the kid declared in a strident shout.

  “I’m sure you’re not.”

  “C’mon, George. The old man said we could collect our pay at sundown.”

  “I ain’t forgettin’ this,” the boy said threateningly as he turned away.

  “You’d better forget it and leave these folks alone. If the lady doesn’t fill your hide with buckshot, I will.”

  Kain watched the men leave. They were not a bad
lot and he doubted they would give the woman any more trouble. The kid and his friend were another matter. He turned to look at her and saw that the man on the ground had rolled over onto his knees and was crawling toward the wagon. Kain felt a spurt of embarrassment and glanced away before looking at the woman. She met his eyes defiantly as if daring him to comment. The big blond man reached the front of the wagon and sat with his back to the wheel, his head in his hands. An older woman hurried from around the wagon. She went to him, knelt down and placed a wet cloth on his face.

  “Apple or raisin?” the young woman asked him.

  For a long moment Kain stood looking at her white face. She did not move any part of her body, but her breasts strained against the soft material of her dress with her intake of air. Her brilliant eyes staring at him through the tunnel of her stiff-brimmed bonnet barred any advance on his part.

  “Or did you come to buy a quirt?” Her voice came faintly to him from across the vast emptiness yawning between them.

  “Quirt?”

  “Quirt or pie. Which do you want?”

  “Oh, uh . . . pie. Raisin.”

  “Get the man a raisin pie, Aunt Ellie, and collect his money. Which do you want, mister?” she asked the old man who was still waiting with his hat in his hand.

  “One a each, ma’am. If’n ya got ’em to spare.”

  “We’ve got plenty. It looks like our business will be off today.”

  “I’ll spread the word, ma’am. If ya be awantin’ me to.”

  “We’d be obliged. You do that and we’ll charge you for just one pie.”

  “That’s mighty kind a ya.” The old man placed a coin in her hand, picked up his pies and hurried away.

  “A quarter, please,” the older woman said as she walked up to Kain holding a platter of fried pies. He dug into his pocket and placed a coin on the platter before he selected one.

  “Thank you for what you did.” The woman’s voice was low, but the young woman in the bonnet heard it.