Enchanted by Her Rebellious Spirit (Preview)

Prologue

1865

It was at the end of the Civil War, when a combat-weary county held its Independence Day celebration, that Ethan embraced a dead girl.

The day had started out normal enough. The sun beat down on waving grass and people alike. They’d gathered at the small creek that ran through the center of a Colorado town, as though it weren’t a mere score or so of miles from some of the tallest peaks in the country. They weren’t just there to chill their bottles of cider and whatever other libations they could slip past the Reverend Jenkins. They dipped handkerchiefs and bandanas and wrung them out to wear on the back of their necks and to daub at their faces, replacing hot, salty sweat with pure, sweet water.

Some kicked off their shoes and socks and waded carefully into the shallow stream, cautious to keep pant legs and skirt hems as dry as possible under the temptation of a fast-moving trickle that still carried the kiss of Rocky Mountain snow.

A few of the children began to splash and play, but frustrated mothers summoned them back to the respectable dry land and tut-tutted over water marks that would never wash out. The young became divided, girls rebuking the mud and filthiness of the stream, boys reveling in whatever the girls found distasteful.

Ethan took neither side. He sat alone, waiting with the patience of Job for the great rotisserie that slowly spun an entire golden pig over hot coals. The skin had already split, and the smell of roast pork was maddening. It was for the food that Ethan had attended, making no mistake that his presence or absence would not have been noted either way. People tended to forget Ethan was in the room with them. He’d taken to standing like a polite ghost as the world moved around him. That way, most people left him alone.

Today, he would eat his fill and tonight, he would sleep the slumber of the sated, a situation rare enough for him since his Pa died. Right now, everything depended on how soon that bell rang and the juices could stop running into the coals and into his mouth.

He watched the children playing with the interest of one long accustomed to being left out of the games. That didn’t mean he didn’t note the sides being drawn up, or the other solitary figure being left out of the discussion. Perhaps she, too, rejected choosing sides, sitting out from a war that made little sense. This was a girl, young, but not too young. She wasn’t like the little ones whose mothers turned a blind eye when they stripped off their fancy white dresses play in the mud in their underthings. This particular girl was about Ethan’s age, that is to say about eight or so. Unlike the other girls her size who flaunted their Sunday best and even carried parasols in imitation of their elders, this girl was dressed simply, even plainly. Her dress was of simple cloth, stained with the marks of a workman’s use.

She wandered alone, like him, but seemed to be fascinated by the eddies of the stream under the foot bridge that had spanned its width for as long as Ethan had lived. From his perch on the hillside, he watched her with great interest. There was something similar about them. He wondered if a girl like that would understand his patched trousers and his “best” shirt with the jagged stitching holding the sleeves together. She was pretty, if you bothered to imagine the smooth skin under the dirt that covered her cheeks. Her hair was blonde, the color of the sunlight that touched it. She raised her skirt, bare feet caressing the grass as she tentatively dipped a toe into the swirling cool waters and squeaked in surprise.

Ethan smiled and turned his attention from the roasting pig to the little girl, watching as she raised her skirt over her knee to boldly trod into the slick mud of the creek. She allowed the skirt to fall again, pooling on the water and wicking up the creek until it became sodden and heavy with water.

No one called for her, no one chastised her or summoned her to shore. She was adrift, as was he. Across the distance of several hundred yards he felt a certain connection to the girl, a bonding between invisible and forgotten people.

She looked downstream, where a group of barefoot boys were playing a game of pass-the-baton with a bottle that looked like anything but cider while old man Johnson shouted imprecations at them. For a moment, she and he were both distracted by the sight of Reverend Jenkins entering the fray, shouting fire and damnation at the old man.

The situation had grown ludicrous and the girl laughed. For a moment, from his perch high on the hill, that sound reached his ears and he was swept away in her laughter. He couldn’t help but smile in response. He watched, releasing a chuckle of his own as she took one step closer to the foot of the bridge where the water swirled and spun.

In that instant, she vanished.

Ethan grinned. She would pop up soon, soaking wet and spluttering, with cussing fit to beat the band. It took him a moment to realize something was wrong. His grin vanished.

She hadn’t returned from the water.

Ethan shouted, the sound of it echoing as he rose. The boys dropped their bottle. The harangue from old man Johnson directed at the good Reverend Jenkins stopped midsentence. The entire assembly watched in confusion as Ethan started screaming. Until now, no one had noticed the towheaded boy who came running fast down the hill, stumbling, and caterwauling as he came. His foot caught a rut and he tumbled end over end, rolling to his feet and losing not a whit of his momentum.

The hysterical child had everyone frozen, the entire town a silent tableau right up until the boy dove off the bridge. Only then did a chorus of other cries break out, the shriek of several women followed by the baritone exclamations of a handful of men.

Of course, the stream was too shallow for such nonsense. The boy was going to break his neck, he was going to dash himself on the shallow bottom of the stream. He heard their warnings dimly as the men folk ran with all the vigor of their youth to do… something.

They stopped as one when the boy vanished. Right at the piling of the bridge, he disappeared in a splash-less dive.

The boy’s head emerged again as they stirred themselves again to frantic action. The butcher grabbed the neck of his shirt and, with powerful arms, lifted him clear of the water. To the gathered inhalation of the others, the boy had a death grip on a girl, a pretty thing with a dress so sodden it had to have weighed more than she did.

Reverend Jenkins ripped the girl from the boy’s arms and raced off to find Doc Williams, while the butcher lay the boy out on the grass. Hands came from the crowd, clawing at him, imploring him to breathe.

Ethan rolled over and threw up what seemed to be half the water from the stream. Unsteadily, he tried to stand. Voices from the town lectured him, telling him that was no place to play and that he’d just as likely drowned that poor girl.

“Her death is on your head,” one quavering elderly voice spat the accusation. “Of all the impudent, ill-thought places to play. You’re supposed to protect the people you’re with, fool boy!”

Ethan found himself exposed, visible for the first time in too long. They were talking now about his father, voices nowhere near hushed enough as they examined the tragedy that had left him to become a hellion. The phrase “that mother of his” figured strongly in the criticism.

The words stung, but none of it truly mattered. Not when the girl he’d laughed at when she went under the water was dead. If he’d run faster, hadn’t tripped, hadn’t wasted time laughing, he might have gotten there sooner.

Ethan ran.

The roasting pig no longer held any interest.

The town could go to perdition for all he cared.

I’m not going back.

The resolve was not so hard to make. His mother would likely never even notice if he didn’t come home. She’d stopped noticing anything about him when his father died.

Instead, he only saw one thing: the pale face of the girl who’d drowned.

It would keep him awake for years to come.

Chapter One

1884

Elvira sat up straight in her bed. She’d heard her father’s voice; he sounded aggrieved as if the mare he was trying to halt was refusing to listen just to vex him. She twisted, ignoring the way the sheets clung to her legs and looked out of her window to the open little square of dirt between the house and barn.

Harrison Wamsley stood tall in the saddle, his feet in the stirrups. He still cut a proud figure, a tall man, with broad shoulders and a squared jaw that held a great deal of its former glory. In the pale, reluctant light of the half-moon, the ravages of time and sorrow and alcohol were hidden in shadow. For a moment he seemed strong, even brave the way he had been back when she was a child. Her heart soared. Maybe he was his old self. Maybe tonight was different.

Then he lifted his right leg to dismount, and the horse, feeling the pull of the saddle, side-stepped to the right. Her father did not move with the horse. His leg, already clearing the withers, continued its journey until he fell in a deafening thud, dropping like a bag of potatoes.

He lay in a heap at the bottom of his horse. Elvira tore the bedding from her legs and ran to her door, throwing it open and taking the steps faster than she should. Using the landing at the bottom as a back post, she allowed herself to slam her shoulder into the wall and deflect to the sitting room and the front door, so not to lose momentum.

She burst out through the door, letting it slam against the house, recoil, and slam back again, as she ran barefoot across the rough patch and to her father’s side. From the smell, it appeared as though he’d had one too many.

One? More like twelve.

“Oh, Daddy.” She knelt beside him and gently touched his cheek. He was conscious, but confused. The horse, free from instruction from rider or lead, stood passively, absorbing the half-whispered harangue of her father as she helped him to stand.

“Stupid horse,” he mumbled under his breath, casting a white eye toward the animal as though everything were somehow its fault. Elvira took his arm and reached out for the reins. Steering both the drunkard and his mount toward the house, Elvira let go of him long enough to tie the horse to the rail and then quickly caught her father before he fell again. She wrapped one large arm around her shoulders and held him upright as he struggled to lift his foot high enough to clear the porch. Getting through the front door was a negotiation, but she was able to drop him into a chair in the parlor where he sprawled, his head down in defeat.

“Ah, Vi. With your brown hair all a-tumble like that around your shoulders, you look just like your mother.”

She didn’t want to hear it. She had no interest in his excuses, the platitudes and promises that had made up too many of these late-night dialogues. In the meantime, her father’s poor horse stood waiting patiently when it was more deserving of a measure of grain and a good armful of hay for having to carry home someone who couldn’t have found the way without him.

“You wait there,” she told her father crossly, ignoring the soft snore that told her the command was unnecessary. The man would likely spend the night just so, without moving unless he rolled out of the chair onto the floor.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Back in her room, she dressed, muttering a few choice words under her own breath, things that would have made her dead mother cringe had she still been with them.

Of course, that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Had her mother not died, none of this would be happening now, would it?

“It’s not her fault,” Elvira reminded herself, not liking how the bitterness had recently begun seeping into her thoughts. She twisted her hair back into a rough braid to get it out of her face and grabbed her father’s coat from the peg near the door and bustled outside, stopping only long enough to ensure that her father was still snoring peaceably in his chair.

A blanket. I shoulda put a blanket over him.

Elvira shook her head, a shade of stubbornness creeping into the set of her jaw as she tossed her head, feeling the thud of her braid against her back. Let him be cold. Let him feel the discomfort of sleeping in the chair. She had chores in a matter of hours and, right now, if she’d had her druthers, she would much prefer to be in her own bed, catching what sleep she could before the start of the day.

It wasn’t the horse’s fault, though. He’d spent most of the night tethered to the hitching post outside of the saloon and even now stood in the chill, patiently waiting for someone to give him notice. With that in mind she hurried, her boots making sharp rapping noises against the porch which seemed overloud in the small hours of the night, when everything was so still. The horse whickered when he saw her, lifting his tired head to eye her, something long-suffering in his gaze.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said as she grabbed the reins and led him toward the barn, not giving voice to the thought she carried in the back of her head all too frequently now. Neither of them did.

Once there, it seemed foolish to not make a start on the morning chores after all. She threw feed to the animals and checked water. A quick mucking of stalls left the barn ready to face the day, even if she wasn’t. Tiredness dragged at her limbs as she returned to the house, pausing only to note the lightening of the sky. Behind her, the mountains still slumbered. Across the plains came the distant low of cattle.

“I ought to go back to bed…” she muttered, but knew she wouldn’t. There was bread to start and breakfast to put together. Not for the first time, she wondered at how her mother had made this part of the ranch work seem so easy. Elvira struggled with the dough, and even if it rose, her attempts weren’t always the most palatable. In the last two years she’d become an expert at beans, though. She set out a pot on the back on the stove, adding seasoning and chunks of ham almost without thinking. This would be lunch. They’d be hungry when they came in from the range.

She wiped her hands on her pants, leaving a smear through the flour that already dusted the denim. She’d forgotten the apron again—not that it mattered, when she was already wearing clothes more suited to ranching then tending the house. At least breakfast was nearly ready. With last night’s dishes washed and drip drying on the drainboard, she felt like she was caught up for once. With a satisfied look around the kitchen she bent to grab a mug of hot coffee from the table and returned to the parlor.

Her father slumbered on, the blanket she’d cast over his shoulders after all having fallen halfway to the floor.

“Hey, Pa.” She delivered a solid kick to the bottom of his foot, jarring his leg hard. “Wake up. The men’ll be up here for breakfast.”

‘Men’ was kind of a loose term. In truth, her father had let most of the ranch hands go. All that remained was old Gunther, who lived alone now out in the bunkhouse. The man was deaf as a post, meaning he’d likely slept through last night’s fracas. He didn’t do much work anymore, spending most of the day dozing in the sun. Elvira hadn’t had the heart to fire him when they’d let the other men go, finding Gunther’s meager wages out of the household budget. He’d putter about the place, doing little tasks that needed doing, having become too old to haul himself into the saddle anymore.

“Whazzat?” Her father opened one eye, to look at her and groaned deeply. He tipped his head back and pulled the blanket over his face. “Daughter, it would be a blessing if you would have just let me die.”

“To whom, you or me?” she muttered and kicked him again, this time bending to flick the blanket off onto the floor. “Up!”

“You be a cruel child,” Harrison muttered, sitting up and running a hand roughly over his face. “Tell me if that might be coffee in your hand? I take back every word I said. I am a blessed man to have you.”

Elvira rolled her eyes and handed him the mug. There had been a time when she’d lived for such praise. Her father’s opinion had been her world. It was fast becoming less so.

“Breakfast,” she reminded him and turned to go, only he caught at her arm and held her back.

“Vi, I’ve done something…”

She sighed. This conversation, too, had been more and more common of late. “How much, Pa? And who do you owe it to?” Mentally, she started tallying the numbers of cattle still on the ranch, multiplying that number out by about how much they expected to get for each at market. Another head more or less wouldn’t hurt them… too bad.

He stared at her, bleary eyed, sober now, with the mug of coffee still untouched between his work worn hands. “All of it,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I lost all of it.”

Chapter Two

There’d been a time when she would have consoled him. Probably even helped him up so that he could go to his bed for a few more hours of much-needed sleep. She’d always loved her father, had been particularly close to him in her growing-up years. And didn’t she understand what it had been like, to lose the love of his life? Her Pa had been a different man after Ma died. The illness had been so sudden. It had seemed that one day she was there and the next, gone… that kind of thing had a way of cutting a man down to the quick. That he had taken to hiding from his grief in drink and nights spent playing cards down at the saloon was even reasonable to a degree. So long as the winning and losing balanced out somewhat and he didn’t get so soused that he couldn’t find his way home, what business was it of hers?

But, lately, those losses hadn’t been balancing out too well. And this? This was more than the loss of a few dollars. Still, it might be that “everything” didn’t literally mean everything. She held on tight to the idea that he meant he’d lost quite a bit, that it wasn’t as complete as he’d made it seem. Still, her heart knew better, and she found it hard to swallow around that lump.

Elvira sat heavily on the horsehair couch, one hand going to her breast. She could feel her heart beating hard through the soft chambray, proof that she was still living though she’d swear it had stopped with those few words.

“Everything?”

His somber nod told her all she needed to know.

Everything. The last bit of hope crumbled.

She’d had a bad feeling about this for a while. Had dreaded this day coming. “I’ll go to work, then,” she said suddenly. “I’ll take in sewing. Or laundry. I can do laundry.” The words tumbled from her lips, half hysterical. But then, work had a way of solving things. Did it matter that she couldn’t sew a straight seam to save her life and that she hated laundry with a passion? Something, anything to put a few more coins into the coffers would surely help, would keep whatever person they owed the money to at bay. This was her home. To be forced to leave would be inconceivable.

For a moment, she thought her father might say something. There was something in his expression, a terror he was trying hard to hide. She looked away, thinking she knew what he wasn’t saying.

Taking in a few boarders or selling baked goods at the general store wasn’t going to solve this. She knew it in her heart before he even opened his mouth.

“You need to go.”

“What?”

She jumped to her feet. Of all the things her father could have said, this wasn’t anywhere near what her imagination had been putting together. She stared at him, honestly confused as if he’d suddenly begun preaching in Latin. She tried to make sense of the words, but they couldn’t connect in her mind.

“They want… more… than I can give. There might be trouble.”

“Then I need to stay here!” She grabbed the gun from over the fireplace and cracked it open, loading it expertly from the shells kept on the mantle. “I’m not leaving you!”

He stared at her for a long moment and began to laugh. In fact, he laughed so hard that he bent over, hands pressed over his eyes as he positively howled. Elvira lowered the gun, angry and confused.

“I fail to see what’s so funny. You taught me to shoot. You know I’m every bit as capable… well, as anyone,” she snapped at him and flipped the gun closed with an angry snap. She was lacking in comparisons for her abilities, as there were no more workers on the ranch to set the standard.

When her father looked up, she noted in shock the way his grizzled face was wet with tears. His eyes… his eyes were tragic to see. “I’m not laughing at you, daughter. Truth be told… mebbe I’m overreacting some. Your grandfather wrote, he wanted you to come visit… never mind. It’s fairly obvious that I ain’t woken up yet. You said something about breakfast?”

As in answer to her Pa’s question, there came a shout of “Halloooo!” from the doorway. Old Gunther had arrived, obviously with the same thought in mind. Father and daughter looked at each other and laughed. This time, the laughter was genuine, and the tinge of mania that had colored the last one was gone, but there was still a darkness in her father’s eyes. The laughter was a tension release and much needed.

Her father stood up, rubbing his hand over his face a second time, not bothering to stifle his yawn. “Why don’t you go dish up? I’d like to splash some water on my face.” He glanced dubiously down at his attire, rumpled and smelling sour of old sweat and a night in the saloon. “Mebbe put on a fresh shirt.”

“You do that,” Elvira said, smiling, though inwardly she hadn’t forgiven him. All of it? She glanced around the parlor, maybe a touch shabby now, but still dearly loved. This was her mother’s favorite room. She’d been so delighted when they’d gotten the small organ in the corner, dusty now from disuse. Her picture on the mantle showed a smiling woman with dark hair, looking so much like she did before she’d died that Elvira found herself sniffling a little as she turned away. She paused, unwilling to complete the turn, unable to set her back on her mother.

Two years. You’d think in two years the grief would pass, would grow less. So far, it hadn’t. For any of them. To be honest, if her father had found a way to numb the sort of pain that cut through Elvira’s midsection at that moment, she could scarcely blame him for it.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said softly, touching her fingertips to the silver frame before turning away to let Gunther in.

He wasn’t alone.

Chapter Three

Gunther stood on the front porch, his face freshly scrubbed so hard that the skin had taken on that red, raw look only emphasized by a lifetime of being scorched by the sun and windburned on the plains. His white hair stood out in tufts around his ears, his head gleaming in the morning sun as he’d whipped off his hat to greet Elvira. Had it not been for his uneasy stance, the way he shifted from foot to foot all the while casting sidelong glances at the man next to him, Elvira might not have thought anything at all of their visitor. He could have been any cowboy, someone stopping by looking for work, maybe.

“Mistress…” Gunther started, his raspy voice seeming more so, as though this introduction cost him something, “This gentleman here says he has business with… you.”

“Me?” Elvira’s eyebrows shot up. She looked the stranger up and down, searching for some sign of recognition, but the dark hair and glittering eyes called to mind no recollection in which to place him. “Thank you, Gunther. You may as well start in on breakfast. I know you’ve got work to do. Pa ought to be down shortly. Mr.… I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage… if you could perhaps state your business? I’m afraid I don’t recall our having been introduced, and as you can see, we’re rather busy.”

The man smiled, the lifting corners of his mouth somehow coming off more feral than friendly. She’d seen a wild dog curl the corner of its lip like that as it hovered over a fresh kill—as though to say this was his.

A cold knot settled in Elvira’s stomach. She could hear Gunther in the kitchen, humming something as he rattled cutlery against his plate while he dished up his breakfast. The old man couldn’t hear a word they said from there, but she found herself stepping out onto the porch all the same, and drawing the door shut behind her, closing herself and the stranger away from the rest of the household.

“I wouldn’t know your name, would I, sir?” she asked, staying near the door, one hand on the knob to allow for quick retreat. “And your business is not with me so much as my father.”

The man snickered. “Ye’re a right quick one. Though on the contrary, I’d say my ‘bizness’ as you put it, is more accurately with you. Me and the boys had a hankerin’ to see what was rightfully ours.”

He nodded toward the yard and for the first time she noticed the riders, three of them, gathered near the watering trough. These were rough-looking men who stared at her with such familiarity that for a moment, Elvira felt stripped under their gaze, as though they could see past such petty things as porch railings or even clothing. She fought the urge to fold her arms across her chest, to hide herself from their view. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her rattled, even as the leader dismounted and started toward her.

“Without having seen any documentation to prove otherwise, I fail to see a thing here that is ‘rightfully’ anything but ours. I’d thank you to leave us alone.”

With that she turned back toward the house, intent on getting inside and locking the door before he got any fine ideas about coming in, now that he was halfway up the porch steps.

A low whistle stopped her. “Well, landsakes, but I don’t see why more women don’t wear pants. To my way of thinking, they’re a mighty fine concept. I expect once things are settled properly, I could see fit to allow you to continue wearing them. Not around the boys, though. They might git ideas.”

Elvira froze, cheeks blazing. Briefly, she wished she had taken the gun outside with her, and shown him that pants also came in handy when hunting varmints. “Ideas…” she muttered, half turning to give him a piece of her mind.

But he was there, too close for comfort, moving quicker than lightning. One hand shot out, catching her hand even as the other arm encircled her waist to bring her up tight against him. “I think you know the kinds of ideas I’m talking about,” he said, bending his head toward her.

His breath was foul, his beard rank. She stomped on his foot hard enough to make him fumble his hold on her, using the confusion of the moment to twist free. “How dare you! As though you think I’d ever let you near me! For your information, I wouldn’t work for you even if you had the whole of the ranch. And I certainly have no interest in your ‘ideas!’ And for your information, I’ve a right to wear whatever I’ve a mind to.”

With that, she flung open the door and stepped inside, slamming it hard behind her and throwing the lock home in the same swift movement.

She could hear him laughing on the other side. She was afraid he’d press the matter and insist on invading even this space, but eventually the heavy thud of his boots, the jangle of his spurs told her that he’d left the porch. She only dared risk a glance out the nearest window once she’d heard him shout to the others, watching in relief as he rode away.

Her heart was still shaking, positive she could still feel the man’s vile hands upon her when her father came quietly to stand beside her. “Father, who was that?” she asked, struggling to breathe normally, to not let him see how rattled she was. He hadn’t seen what had happened, he couldn’t have. She wasn’t about to tell him the whole of it, not when she felt so… unclean.

Together, they stared at the cloud of dust as the horses became specks on the horizon. They were riding hard and fast, not toward town but somewhere else entirely. The mountains, maybe? She knew there were places there where such men could hide, for surely someone such as he was an outlaw.

“I’m sorry, daughter. I’m sorry you had to meet him like that. Did he harm you any?”

There was no way to answer that without admitting she’d been in his arms. Elvira gritted her teeth, finding comfort in her anger. “Only my temper,” she muttered, stepping back now that the outlaws were clearly out of sight and not doubling back. She wouldn’t put it past them. Sidewinders, the lot of them.

Her father drew her aside into the parlor. “Vi, honey, I’ve been thinking on what I said before. Mebbe you heading out to visit your grandfather might be a good idea. Men like these… they aren’t the sort to listen to reason. I was thinking if I sold the cattle, that they’d…well… they might be willing to give up the agreement. I could sign an IOU for the rest, work it off somehow. But I… well, they might insist on making good on that note. Things could… get kind of ugly. If you weren’t here—”

“You haven’t even told me who they are!” Elvira shot back, throwing up her hands in frustration. “You think I can’t hold my own if someone gets a little squirrely? It takes a lot more than some”—she paused to think of what to say—“thinly veiled insult to get under my skin—”

“Elvira, you’re not listening. Those men… That’s Jefferson Sims and his brothers. The third man, that tall brute that rode out of here on that roan is Fast Gun Brody himself.”

Elvira sank down on the couch, her legs giving out all of a sudden.

“The Sims gang? You were playing cards with the Sims gang? Father, whatever possessed you…”

“I didn’t know it was them. I was playing with Doc and old Tom Walker, when they came in. Next thing I know, Doc and Tom were heading for the door and I was left alone at the table. Before I could get my wits about me, they sat right down. ‘Deal me in,’ says that black-haired devil, and what could I do but to deal the cards. One thing led to another…”

“One thing led to another!” Elvira exploded, burying her face in her hands. “You were so deep in your cups you didn’t have the sense God gave you. Doc and Tom had the right of it, to get out when they saw trouble coming. What do you do, but deal them into the game? I swear, father, you’d play the devil himself if you thought you were feeling lucky!” She got up and paced around the room. “So, we’ll get the sheriff—”

“The sheriff ain’t going to do nothing, don’t you understand?” Harrison pounded his fist against the wall, hard enough that the plaster broke, leaving a gaping hole. He didn’t even seem to notice. “I SIGNED A NOTE. They’re going to expect me to honor it and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, you’re going to GIT TO YOUR GRANDFATHER’S LIKE I’M A-TELLING YOU!”

Elvira stared at him. This wild, frothing man couldn’t be her father. She felt the tremble deep in her limbs as for the first time in her life she stepped backwards, away from him. “I understand,” she said softly, so cold inside she might have been formed from ice. “I will do as you say.”

With that, she fled the room.

She never once looked back. Not even when he called her name.

It was at the end of the Civil War, when a combat-weary county held its Independence Day celebration, that Ethan embraced a dead girl.

The day had started out normal enough. The sun beat down on waving grass and people alike. They’d gathered at the small creek that ran through the center of a Colorado town, as though it weren’t a mere score or so of miles from some of the tallest peaks in the country. They weren’t just there to chill their bottles of cider and whatever other libations they could slip past the Reverend Jenkins. They dipped handkerchiefs and bandanas and wrung them out to wear on the back of their necks and to daub at their faces, replacing hot, salty sweat with pure, sweet water.

Some kicked off their shoes and socks and waded carefully into the shallow stream, cautious to keep pant legs and skirt hems as dry as possible under the temptation of a fast-moving trickle that still carried the kiss of Rocky Mountain snow.

A few of the children began to splash and play, but frustrated mothers summoned them back to the respectable dry land and tut-tutted over watermarks that would never wash out. The young became divided, girls rebuking the mud and filthiness of the stream, boys reveling in whatever the girls found distasteful.

Ethan took neither side. He sat alone, waiting with the patience of Job for the great rotisserie that slowly spun an entire golden pig over hot coals. The skin had already split, and the smell of roast pork was maddening. It was for the food that Ethan had attended, making no mistake that his presence or absence would not have been noted either way. People tended to forget Ethan was in the room with them. He’d taken to standing like a polite ghost as the world moved around him. That way, most people left him alone.

Today, he would eat his fill and tonight, he would sleep the slumber of the sated, a situation rare enough for him since his Pa died. Right now, everything depended on how soon that bell rang and the juices could stop running into the coals and into his mouth.

He watched the children playing with the interest of one long accustomed to being left out of the games. That didn’t mean he didn’t note the sides being drawn up, or the other solitary figure being left out of the discussion. Perhaps she, too, rejected choosing sides, sitting out from a war that made little sense. This was a girl, young, but not too young. She wasn’t like the little ones whose mothers turned a blind eye when they stripped off their fancy white dresses play in the mud in their underthings. This particular girl was about Ethan’s age, which is to say about eight or so. Unlike the other girls her size who flaunted their Sunday best and even carried parasols in imitation of their elders, this girl was dressed simply, even plainly. Her dress was of simple cloth, stained with the marks of a workman’s use.

She wandered alone, like him, but seemed to be fascinated by the eddies of the stream under the footbridge that had spanned its width for as long as Ethan had lived. From his perch on the hillside, he watched her with great interest. There was something similar about them. He wondered if a girl like that would understand his patched trousers and his “best” shirt with the jagged stitching holding the sleeves together. She was pretty if you bothered to imagine the smooth skin under the dirt that covered her cheeks. Her hair was blonde, the color of the sunlight that touched it. She raised her skirt, bare feet caressing the grass as she tentatively dipped a toe into the swirling cool waters and squeaked in surprise.

Ethan smiled and turned his attention from the roasting pig to the little girl, watching as she raised her skirt over her knee to boldly trod into the slick mud of the creek. She allowed the skirt to fall again, pooling on the water and wicking up the creek until it became sodden and heavy with water.

No one called for her, no one chastised her or summoned her to shore. She was adrift, as was he. Across the distance of several hundred yards, he felt a certain connection to the girl, a bonding between invisible and forgotten people.

She looked downstream, where a group of barefoot boys was playing a game of pass-the-baton with a bottle that looked like anything but cider while old man Johnson shouted imprecations at them. For a moment, she and he were both distracted by the sight of Reverend Jenkins entering the fray, shouting fire and damnation at the old man.

The situation had grown ludicrous and the girl laughed. For a moment, from his perch high on the hill, that sound reached his ears and he was swept away in her laughter. He couldn’t help but smile in response. He watched, releasing a chuckle of his own as she took one step closer to the foot of the bridge where the water swirled and spun.

In that instant, she vanished.

Ethan grinned. She would pop up soon, soaking wet and spluttering, with cussing fit to beat the band. It took him a moment to realize something was wrong. His grin vanished.

She hadn’t returned from the water.

Ethan shouted, the sound of it echoing as he rose. The boys dropped their bottle. The harangue from old man Johnson directed at the good Reverend Jenkins stopped midsentence. The entire assembly watched in confusion as Ethan started screaming. Until now, no one had noticed the towheaded boy who came running fast down the hill, stumbling, and caterwauling as he came. His foot caught a rut and he tumbled end over end, rolling to his feet and losing not a whit of his momentum.

The hysterical child had everyone frozen, the entire town a silent tableau right up until the boy dove off the bridge. Only then did a chorus of other cries break out, the shriek of several women followed by the baritone exclamations of a handful of men.

Of course, the stream was too shallow for such nonsense. The boy was going to break his neck, he was going to dash himself on the shallow bottom of the stream. He heard their warnings dimly as the men folk ran with all the vigor of their youth to do… something.

They stopped as one when the boy vanished. Right at the piling of the bridge, he disappeared in a splash-less dive.

The boy’s head emerged again as they stirred themselves again to frantic action. The butcher grabbed the neck of his shirt and, with powerful arms, lifted him clear of the water. To the gathered inhalation of the others, the boy had a death grip on a girl, a pretty thing with a dress so sodden it had to have weighed more than she did.

Reverend Jenkins ripped the girl from the boy’s arms and raced off to find Doc Williams, while the butcher lay the boy out on the grass. Hands came from the crowd, clawing at him, imploring him to breathe.

Ethan rolled over and threw up what seemed to be half the water from the stream. Unsteadily, he tried to stand. Voices from the town lectured him, telling him that was no place to play and that he’d just as likely drowned that poor girl.

“Her death is on your head,” one quavering elderly voice spat the accusation. “Of all the impudent, ill-thought places to play. You’re supposed to protect the people you’re with, fool boy!”

Ethan found himself exposed, visible for the first time in too long. They were talking now about his father, voices nowhere near hushed enough as they examined the tragedy that had left him to become a hellion. The phrase “that mother of his” figured strongly in the criticism.

The words stung, but none of it truly mattered. Not when the girl he’d laughed at when she went under the water was dead. If he’d run faster, hadn’t tripped, hadn’t wasted time laughing, he might have gotten there sooner.

Ethan ran.

The roasting pig no longer held any interest.

The town could go to perdition for all he cared.

I’m not going back.

The resolve was not so hard to make. His mother would likely never even notice if he didn’t come home. She’d stopped noticing anything about him when his father died.

Instead, he only saw one thing: the pale face of the girl who’d drowned.

It would keep him awake for years to come.

Chapter One

1884

Elvira sat up straight in her bed. She’d heard her father’s voice; he sounded aggrieved as if the mare he was trying to halt was refusing to listen just to vex him. She twisted, ignoring the way the sheets clung to her legs and looked out of her window to the open little square of dirt between the house and barn.

Harrison Wamsley stood tall in the saddle, his feet in the stirrups. He still cut a proud figure, a tall man, with broad shoulders and a squared jaw that held a great deal of its former glory. In the pale, reluctant light of the half-moon, the ravages of time and sorrow and alcohol were hidden in shadow. For a moment he seemed strong, even brave the way he had been back when she was a child. Her heart soared. Maybe he was his old self. Maybe tonight was different.

Then he lifted his right leg to dismount, and the horse, feeling the pull of the saddle, side-stepped to the right. Her father did not move with the horse. His leg, already clearing the withers, continued its journey until he fell in a deafening thud, dropping like a bag of potatoes.

He lay in a heap at the bottom of his horse. Elvira tore the bedding from her legs and ran to her door, throwing it open and taking the steps faster than she should. Using the landing at the bottom as a back post, she allowed herself to slam her shoulder into the wall and deflect to the sitting room and the front door, so not to lose momentum.

She burst out through the door, letting it slam against the house, recoil, and slam back again, as she ran barefoot across the rough patch and to her father’s side. From the smell, it appeared as though he’d had one too many.

One? More like twelve.

“Oh, Daddy.” She knelt beside him and gently touched his cheek. He was conscious, but confused. The horse, free from instruction from rider or lead, stood passively, absorbing the half-whispered harangue of her father as she helped him to stand.

“Stupid horse,” he mumbled under his breath, casting a white eye toward the animal as though everything were somehow its fault. Elvira took his arm and reached out for the reins. Steering both the drunkard and his mount toward the house, Elvira let go of him long enough to tie the horse to the rail and then quickly caught her father before he fell again. She wrapped one large arm around her shoulders and held him upright as he struggled to lift his foot high enough to clear the porch. Getting through the front door was a negotiation, but she was able to drop him into a chair in the parlor where he sprawled, his head down in defeat.

“Ah, Vi. With your brown hair all a-tumble like that around your shoulders, you look just like your mother.”

She didn’t want to hear it. She had no interest in his excuses, the platitudes and promises that had made up too many of these late-night dialogues. In the meantime, her father’s poor horse stood waiting patiently when it was more deserving of a measure of grain and a good armful of hay for having to carry home someone who couldn’t have found the way without him.

“You wait there,” she told her father crossly, ignoring the soft snore that told her the command was unnecessary. The man would likely spend the night just so, without moving unless he rolled out of the chair onto the floor.

It wouldn’t be the first time.

Back in her room, she dressed, muttering a few choice words under her own breath, things that would have made her dead mother cringe had she still been with them.

Of course, that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? Had her mother not died, none of this would be happening now, would it?

“It’s not her fault,” Elvira reminded herself, not liking how the bitterness had recently begun seeping into her thoughts. She twisted her hair back into a rough braid to get it out of her face and grabbed her father’s coat from the peg near the door and bustled outside, stopping only long enough to ensure that her father was still snoring peaceably in his chair.

A blanket. I shoulda put a blanket over him.

Elvira shook her head, a shade of stubbornness creeping into the set of her jaw as she tossed her head, feeling the thud of her braid against her back. Let him be cold. Let him feel the discomfort of sleeping in the chair. She had chores in a matter of hours and, right now, if she’d had her druthers, she would much prefer to be in her own bed, catching what sleep she could before the start of the day.

It wasn’t the horse’s fault, though. He’d spent most of the night tethered to the hitching post outside of the saloon and even now stood in the chill, patiently waiting for someone to give him notice. With that in mind she hurried, her boots making sharp rapping noises against the porch which seemed overloud in the small hours of the night, when everything was so still. The horse whickered when he saw her, lifting his tired head to eye her, something long-suffering in his gaze.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said as she grabbed the reins and led him toward the barn, not giving voice to the thought she carried in the back of her head all too frequently now. Neither of them did.

Once there, it seemed foolish to not make a start on the morning chores after all. She threw feed to the animals and checked water. A quick mucking of stalls left the barn ready to face the day, even if she wasn’t. Tiredness dragged at her limbs as she returned to the house, pausing only to note the lightening of the sky. Behind her, the mountains still slumbered. Across the plains came the distant low of cattle.

“I ought to go back to bed…” she muttered, but knew she wouldn’t. There was bread to start and breakfast to put together. Not for the first time, she wondered at how her mother had made this part of the ranch work seem so easy. Elvira struggled with the dough, and even if it rose, her attempts weren’t always the most palatable. In the last two years she’d become an expert at beans, though. She set out a pot on the back on the stove, adding seasoning and chunks of ham almost without thinking. This would be lunch. They’d be hungry when they came in from the range.

She wiped her hands on her pants, leaving a smear through the flour that already dusted the denim. She’d forgotten the apron again—not that it mattered, when she was already wearing clothes more suited to ranching then tending the house. At least breakfast was nearly ready. With last night’s dishes washed and drip drying on the drainboard, she felt like she was caught up for once. With a satisfied look around the kitchen she bent to grab a mug of hot coffee from the table and returned to the parlor.

Her father slumbered on, the blanket she’d cast over his shoulders after all having fallen halfway to the floor.

“Hey, Pa.” She delivered a solid kick to the bottom of his foot, jarring his leg hard. “Wake up. The men’ll be up here for breakfast.”

‘Men’ was kind of a loose term. In truth, her father had let most of the ranch hands go. All that remained was old Gunther, who lived alone now out in the bunkhouse. The man was deaf as a post, meaning he’d likely slept through last night’s fracas. He didn’t do much work anymore, spending most of the day dozing in the sun. Elvira hadn’t had the heart to fire him when they’d let the other men go, finding Gunther’s meager wages out of the household budget. He’d putter about the place, doing little tasks that needed doing, having become too old to haul himself into the saddle anymore.

“Whazzat?” Her father opened one eye, to look at her and groaned deeply. He tipped his head back and pulled the blanket over his face. “Daughter, it would be a blessing if you would have just let me die.”

“To whom, you or me?” she muttered and kicked him again, this time bending to flick the blanket off onto the floor. “Up!”

“You be a cruel child,” Harrison muttered, sitting up and running a hand roughly over his face. “Tell me if that might be coffee in your hand? I take back every word I said. I am a blessed man to have you.”

Elvira rolled her eyes and handed him the mug. There had been a time when she’d lived for such praise. Her father’s opinion had been her world. It was fast becoming less so.

“Breakfast,” she reminded him and turned to go, only he caught at her arm and held her back.

“Vi, I’ve done something…”

She sighed. This conversation, too, had been more and more common of late. “How much, Pa? And who do you owe it to?” Mentally, she started tallying the numbers of cattle still on the ranch, multiplying that number out by about how much they expected to get for each at market. Another head more or less wouldn’t hurt them… too bad.

He stared at her, bleary eyed, sober now, with the mug of coffee still untouched between his work worn hands. “All of it,” he replied, his voice hoarse. “I lost all of it.”

Chapter 2

There’d been a time when she would have consoled him. Probably even helped him up so that he could go to his bed for a few more hours of much-needed sleep. She’d always loved her father, had been particularly close to him in her growing-up years. And didn’t she understand what it had been like, to lose the love of his life? Her Pa had been a different man after Ma died. The illness had been so sudden. It had seemed that one day she was there and the next, gone… that kind of thing had a way of cutting a man down to the quick. That he had taken to hiding from his grief in drink and nights spent playing cards down at the saloon was even reasonable to a degree. So long as the winning and losing balanced out somewhat and he didn’t get so soused that he couldn’t find his way home, what business was it of hers?

But, lately, those losses hadn’t been balancing out too well. And this? This was more than the loss of a few dollars. Still, it might be that “everything” didn’t literally mean everything. She held on tight to the idea that he meant he’d lost quite a bit, that it wasn’t as complete as he’d made it seem. Still, her heart knew better, and she found it hard to swallow around that lump.

Elvira sat heavily on the horsehair couch, one hand going to her breast. She could feel her heart beating hard through the soft chambray, proof that she was still living though she’d swear it had stopped with those few words.

“Everything?”

His somber nod told her all she needed to know.

Everything. The last bit of hope crumbled.

She’d had a bad feeling about this for a while. Had dreaded this day coming. “I’ll go to work, then,” she said suddenly. “I’ll take in sewing. Or laundry. I can do laundry.” The words tumbled from her lips, half hysterical. But then, work had a way of solving things. Did it matter that she couldn’t sew a straight seam to save her life and that she hated laundry with a passion? Something, anything to put a few more coins into the coffers would surely help, would keep whatever person they owed the money to at bay. This was her home. To be forced to leave would be inconceivable.

For a moment, she thought her father might say something. There was something in his expression, a terror he was trying hard to hide. She looked away, thinking she knew what he wasn’t saying.

Taking in a few boarders or selling baked goods at the general store wasn’t going to solve this. She knew it in her heart before he even opened his mouth.

“You need to go.”

“What?”

She jumped to her feet. Of all the things her father could have said, this wasn’t anywhere near what her imagination had been putting together. She stared at him, honestly confused as if he’d suddenly begun preaching in Latin. She tried to make sense of the words, but they couldn’t connect in her mind.

“They want… more… than I can give. There might be trouble.”

“Then I need to stay here!” She grabbed the gun from over the fireplace and cracked it open, loading it expertly from the shells kept on the mantle. “I’m not leaving you!”

He stared at her for a long moment and began to laugh. In fact, he laughed so hard that he bent over, hands pressed over his eyes as he positively howled. Elvira lowered the gun, angry and confused.

“I fail to see what’s so funny. You taught me to shoot. You know I’m every bit as capable… well, as anyone,” she snapped at him and flipped the gun closed with an angry snap. She was lacking in comparisons for her abilities, as there were no more workers on the ranch to set the standard.

When her father looked up, she noted in shock the way his grizzled face was wet with tears. His eyes… his eyes were tragic to see. “I’m not laughing at you, daughter. Truth be told… mebbe I’m overreacting some. Your grandfather wrote, he wanted you to come visit… never mind. It’s fairly obvious that I ain’t woken up yet. You said something about breakfast?”

As in answer to her Pa’s question, there came a shout of “Halloooo!” from the doorway. Old Gunther had arrived, obviously with the same thought in mind. Father and daughter looked at each other and laughed. This time, the laughter was genuine, and the tinge of mania that had colored the last one was gone, but there was still a darkness in her father’s eyes. The laughter was a tension release and much needed.

Her father stood up, rubbing his hand over his face a second time, not bothering to stifle his yawn. “Why don’t you go dish up? I’d like to splash some water on my face.” He glanced dubiously down at his attire, rumpled and smelling sour of old sweat and a night in the saloon. “Mebbe put on a fresh shirt.”

“You do that,” Elvira said, smiling, though inwardly she hadn’t forgiven him. All of it? She glanced around the parlor, maybe a touch shabby now, but still dearly loved. This was her mother’s favorite room. She’d been so delighted when they’d gotten the small organ in the corner, dusty now from disuse. Her picture on the mantle showed a smiling woman with dark hair, looking so much like she did before she’d died that Elvira found herself sniffling a little as she turned away. She paused, unwilling to complete the turn, unable to set her back on her mother.

Two years. You’d think in two years the grief would pass, would grow less. So far, it hadn’t. For any of them. To be honest, if her father had found a way to numb the sort of pain that cut through Elvira’s midsection at that moment, she could scarcely blame him for it.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” she said softly, touching her fingertips to the silver frame before turning away to let Gunther in.

He wasn’t alone.

Chapter 3

Gunther stood on the front porch, his face freshly scrubbed so hard that the skin had taken on that red, raw look only emphasized by a lifetime of being scorched by the sun and windburned on the plains. His white hair stood out in tufts around his ears, his head gleaming in the morning sun as he’d whipped off his hat to greet Elvira. Had it not been for his uneasy stance, the way he shifted from foot to foot all the while casting sidelong glances at the man next to him, Elvira might not have thought anything at all of their visitor. He could have been any cowboy, someone stopping by looking for work, maybe.

“Mistress…” Gunther started, his raspy voice seeming more so, as though this introduction cost him something, “This gentleman here says he has business with… you.”

“Me?” Elvira’s eyebrows shot up. She looked the stranger up and down, searching for some sign of recognition, but the dark hair and glittering eyes called to mind no recollection in which to place him. “Thank you, Gunther. You may as well start in on breakfast. I know you’ve got work to do. Pa ought to be down shortly. Mr.… I’m sorry, you have me at a disadvantage… if you could perhaps state your business? I’m afraid I don’t recall our having been introduced, and as you can see, we’re rather busy.”

The man smiled, the lifting corners of his mouth somehow coming off more feral than friendly. She’d seen a wild dog curl the corner of its lip like that as it hovered over a fresh kill—as though to say this was his.

A cold knot settled in Elvira’s stomach. She could hear Gunther in the kitchen, humming something as he rattled cutlery against his plate while he dished up his breakfast. The old man couldn’t hear a word they said from there, but she found herself stepping out onto the porch all the same, and drawing the door shut behind her, closing herself and the stranger away from the rest of the household.

“I wouldn’t know your name, would I, sir?” she asked, staying near the door, one hand on the knob to allow for quick retreat. “And your business is not with me so much as my father.”

The man snickered. “Ye’re a right quick one. Though on the contrary, I’d say my ‘bizness’ as you put it, is more accurately with you. Me and the boys had a hankerin’ to see what was rightfully ours.”

He nodded toward the yard and for the first time she noticed the riders, three of them, gathered near the watering trough. These were rough-looking men who stared at her with such familiarity that for a moment, Elvira felt stripped under their gaze, as though they could see past such petty things as porch railings or even clothing. She fought the urge to fold her arms across her chest, to hide herself from their view. She would not give them the satisfaction of seeing her rattled, even as the leader dismounted and started toward her.

“Without having seen any documentation to prove otherwise, I fail to see a thing here that is ‘rightfully’ anything but ours. I’d thank you to leave us alone.”

With that she turned back toward the house, intent on getting inside and locking the door before he got any fine ideas about coming in, now that he was halfway up the porch steps.

A low whistle stopped her. “Well, landsakes, but I don’t see why more women don’t wear pants. To my way of thinking, they’re a mighty fine concept. I expect once things are settled properly, I could see fit to allow you to continue wearing them. Not around the boys, though. They might git ideas.”

Elvira froze, cheeks blazing. Briefly, she wished she had taken the gun outside with her, and shown him that pants also came in handy when hunting varmints. “Ideas…” she muttered, half turning to give him a piece of her mind.

But he was there, too close for comfort, moving quicker than lightning. One hand shot out, catching her hand even as the other arm encircled her waist to bring her up tight against him. “I think you know the kinds of ideas I’m talking about,” he said, bending his head toward her.

His breath was foul, his beard rank. She stomped on his foot hard enough to make him fumble his hold on her, using the confusion of the moment to twist free. “How dare you! As though you think I’d ever let you near me! For your information, I wouldn’t work for you even if you had the whole of the ranch. And I certainly have no interest in your ‘ideas!’ And for your information, I’ve a right to wear whatever I’ve a mind to.”

With that, she flung open the door and stepped inside, slamming it hard behind her and throwing the lock home in the same swift movement.

She could hear him laughing on the other side. She was afraid he’d press the matter and insist on invading even this space, but eventually the heavy thud of his boots, the jangle of his spurs told her that he’d left the porch. She only dared risk a glance out the nearest window once she’d heard him shout to the others, watching in relief as he rode away.

Her heart was still shaking, positive she could still feel the man’s vile hands upon her when her father came quietly to stand beside her. “Father, who was that?” she asked, struggling to breathe normally, to not let him see how rattled she was. He hadn’t seen what had happened, he couldn’t have. She wasn’t about to tell him the whole of it, not when she felt so… unclean.

Together, they stared at the cloud of dust as the horses became specks on the horizon. They were riding hard and fast, not toward town but somewhere else entirely. The mountains, maybe? She knew there were places there where such men could hide, for surely someone such as he was an outlaw.

“I’m sorry, daughter. I’m sorry you had to meet him like that. Did he harm you any?”

There was no way to answer that without admitting she’d been in his arms. Elvira gritted her teeth, finding comfort in her anger. “Only my temper,” she muttered, stepping back now that the outlaws were clearly out of sight and not doubling back. She wouldn’t put it past them. Sidewinders, the lot of them.

Her father drew her aside into the parlor. “Vi, honey, I’ve been thinking on what I said before. Mebbe you heading out to visit your grandfather might be a good idea. Men like these… they aren’t the sort to listen to reason. I was thinking if I sold the cattle, that they’d…well… they might be willing to give up the agreement. I could sign an IOU for the rest, work it off somehow. But I… well, they might insist on making good on that note. Things could… get kind of ugly. If you weren’t here—”

“You haven’t even told me who they are!” Elvira shot back, throwing up her hands in frustration. “You think I can’t hold my own if someone gets a little squirrely? It takes a lot more than some”—she paused to think of what to say—“thinly veiled insult to get under my skin—”

“Elvira, you’re not listening. Those men… That’s Jefferson Sims and his brothers. The third man, that tall brute that rode out of here on that roan is Fast Gun Brody himself.”

Elvira sank down on the couch, her legs giving out all of a sudden.

“The Sims gang? You were playing cards with the Sims gang? Father, whatever possessed you…”

“I didn’t know it was them. I was playing with Doc and old Tom Walker, when they came in. Next thing I know, Doc and Tom were heading for the door and I was left alone at the table. Before I could get my wits about me, they sat right down. ‘Deal me in,’ says that black-haired devil, and what could I do but to deal the cards. One thing led to another…”

“One thing led to another!” Elvira exploded, burying her face in her hands. “You were so deep in your cups you didn’t have the sense God gave you. Doc and Tom had the right of it, to get out when they saw trouble coming. What do you do, but deal them into the game? I swear, father, you’d play the devil himself if you thought you were feeling lucky!” She got up and paced around the room. “So, we’ll get the sheriff—”

“The sheriff ain’t going to do nothing, don’t you understand?” Harrison pounded his fist against the wall, hard enough that the plaster broke, leaving a gaping hole. He didn’t even seem to notice. “I SIGNED A NOTE. They’re going to expect me to honor it and there’s nothing I can do about it. So, you’re going to GIT TO YOUR GRANDFATHER’S LIKE I’M A-TELLING YOU!”

Elvira stared at him. This wild, frothing man couldn’t be her father. She felt the tremble deep in her limbs as for the first time in her life she stepped backwards, away from him. “I understand,” she said softly, so cold inside she might have been formed from ice. “I will do as you say.”

With that, she fled the room.

She never once looked back. Not even when he called her name.

---

“Enchanted by Her Rebellious Spirit” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

Ever since her mother’s sudden death, Elvira Wamsley has been through a very difficult and hurtful relationship with her father. One eventful night will determine her whole life when her father will make a disastrous mistake driven by his sorrow. Thrust into a marriage of convenience, Elvira finds herself saying yes before the groom is even properly introduced. Will she manage to escape her unfair fate? Escaping the trap her closest people have set for her may prove to be much more challenging than she expected…

Ethan Riken is a lonely but hard-working rancher, hiding a dark secret that has stigmatized him deeply. Adamant about his privacy and not eager to open his heart to anyone, the last thing he wants is some damsel in distress. Now he is tangled in a bizarre story, with no way out. How will his emotions for Elvira affect his life, when his only chance to open his heart and overcome his past stands right in front of him?

Elvira and Ethan have failed to communicate their needs and backgrounds and their distance seems unbridgeable. Both of them have created a distorted image of one another that can only lead to disappointment. Caught in a web of secrets and lies, can they come to terms with their unlikely wedding? Hostile forces scheme against their happiness… but will they eventually make it?

“Enchanted by Her Rebellious Spirit” is a historical western romance novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cheating, no cliffhangers, and a guaranteed happily ever after.

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