The Untamed Heart

“Where is she?” Sloan asked.

“You’re goin’ nowhere but out that door, mister. And you can take your fancy fightin’ with you. It won’t do you any good against a Smith and Wesson.”

“We’ve no quarrel between us. Where is she?”

“You leavin’ or do I get my rifle?”

“I want to talk to her.”

“I’m going to start counting, mister.”

“Sloan Devlin’s the name, late of—”

The man moved one step closer. “If you don’t leave my place, I’ll kill you.”

“Yes,” Sloan said, looking deep into the man’s eyes. “I believe you would.” Again his eyes shot to the stairs. “I’m leaving. Just tell me, is she up there alone?”

A growl came up from the man’s broad chest, bursting from his lips in a bellow of rage. And then Sloan knew beyond a doubt that this giant was deeply in love with the reckless Miss Gertie. A part of him must have understood that, must have forgiven him his vulnerability, because he didn’t strike out when the man clamped his fists onto Sloan’s shirtfront and shoved his face close.

“She’s never been up those stairs with a man, mister,” he snarled. “And she never will, least of all with another finelooking, smooth-talking gent who’ll give her nothing but empty promises and another broken heart.” The man released Sloan and rubbed an unsteady hand over his brow. The creases around his eyes seemed to deepen and the glitter of rage faded as he glanced around his saloon. “Now get the hell out of my place.”

With a curt incline of his head, Sloan tugged his topcoat smooth, turned on his heel and maneuvered his way to the saloon’s double-doored entrance, retrieving his valise along the way. As he stepped into the late-afternoon sunlight he passed the bandy-legged wagon driver who’d pressed his face up against the saloon’s front window and worked his jaw in a circular motion.

Sloan had just stepped onto the wooden boardwalk opposite the saloon when gunfire exploded through the Silver Spur. A moment later two cowboys crashed through the beveled glass front door, spraying the street with tiny shards.

An odd hush fell over the saloon and the street. Even the piano fell silent. One by one the cowboys crept out into the street, some rubbing bruised jaws, others limping, most with blood streaming from flesh newly laid open. Sloan leaned a shoulder against the corner of one building, drew his journal from his valise and flipped it open. He squinted out into the street as the saloon owner emerged from the Silver Spur with a long-barreled rifle.

Sloan’s gaze ventured up, drawn to the rooms above the saloon. At the windows, white lace curtains stirred in the soft breeze. The curtains hung motionless now, like the dust hanging heavy and still over the street. There was no breeze to be found. Lace at a window would stir if someone moved past them.

He glanced down at the journal and wrote, Women allow themselves the privilege of a broken heart only once. After that, they never fully part with it again.

Chapter Two

You from the Independent?”

Sloan snapped his journal closed and glanced over his spectacles at the man standing at his elbow. The fellow jerked his eyes from Sloan’s journal but there was no apology in his gaze, no chagrin in the set of his jaw beneath his sweeping black mustache. There was also no gun belt around his waist, just a black walking stick in one hand. He wore a starched white shirt and black trousers common to men of decidedly civilized occupations. Sloan found himself taking an immediate liking to him despite his palpable animosity.

“No news in Deadwood Run today, eh?” The fellow eyed Sloan with increasing suspicion, particularly the stickpin at his throat. “Or you fellas run out of all those epithets and insults you’ve been hurling at us? I’ve been called a loathsome creature one time too many by that louse you call an editor over there.” The man jerked his chin at Sloan’s journal. “I’ll tell you right now, mister, there’s room in this town for only one newspaper and that’s the Lucky Miner.”

“They’ve been lucky then,” Sloan said, folding his spectacles into his pocket and tucking his journal under his arm.

The man snorted and waved an arm at the motley collection of men lingering on the street. “Where’d you hear that? The miners of this town do nothing night and day except drink fiery liquids and indulge in profane language. Sure, the miner you see today loves whiskey, cards and women, just like the cowboys. But compared to the forty-niner of California, or the fifty-niner of Colorado, he’s a hollow mockery.” The man frowned at Sloan. “And you can quote me on that. It’d be the first time fancy didn’t get the upper hand of fact in the Independent.”

“A common malady when there’s a dearth of news.” Sloan watched the color creep from the man’s wing collar. “Truthfulness is not the hallmark of frontier journalism, no matter the paper.”

The newspaperman puffed up his chest. “You give folks what they want to read if you don’t intend to close up shop. Let’s just say most editors in these parts have become masters of the exaggerated news story. Based on the facts, of course.”

“Of course.”

“Hell, about a year ago some poor fella from back East came through town, muttering something about the Indians he’d seen east of here. By the time he’d driven to the other edge of town I’d put his wagon through an Indian fight that to this day has no parallel in history. Folks liked it well enough.”

“It’s a wonder they didn’t all flee town,” Sloan said.

The newspaperman looked squarely at Sloan. “Folks here aren’t afraid of Indians. They’re scared of one thing, and that’s being driven off their land by the railroad. They didn’t knuckle under ten years ago when the railroad said there’d be no town without a rail line through here, and they won’t now. Course, you know all about that, don’t you? The Union Pacific’s used the Independent for spreading its propaganda for years.”

“I’m not from any newspaper,” Sloan said, extending his hand to the newspaperman. “Sloan Devlin, late of Cornwall, England.”

“Lansky,” the man said after a moment’s hesitation, pumping Sloan’s hand. “Tom Lansky. Editor and proprietor of the Lucky Miner. That’s a damned fine set of Sunday bests you’ve got on there. You must be one of those orators who travels around spreading the word about politics and the finer things of life. Funny, but I took you for a writer. Only writers carry a pencil and a journal in their finest coat pocket.”

Sloan’s lips curved in a rare smile. “I’m no orator. And as far as I know carrying a pencil and journal never qualified a man to think he had something worth writing about. Or that anyone might care to read it. I’ve found it’s not the desire to put words on paper that makes a man a writer, but the difference he can make by doing it, the pleasure he brings to his readers.”

Lansky grunted. “Whenever people can learn to walk on their eyebrows, balance ladders on their chins and climb to the top of them will an editor be found who can give pleasure alike to rich and poor, honest and false, respectable and low. I’m just a poor fella who empties his brain to fill his stomach.”

“Don’t underestimate the power of the printed word,” Sloan said, flipping open his journal where he’d tucked a folded handbill. He snapped it open. “This is only one brochure that I encountered in New York. And all of it enticing people westward to make their fortune. They tell a man to come, rush, hurry, don’t wait for anything to buy lots, sight unseen. I visited one of these prophetic cities just outside of Omaha, fortunate as it was to have a depot. I found that this city of grand houses and shady trees contained not a single human habitation, and the only shade to be had was that thrown by the stakes pounded into the dry dirt. It was a paradise, lacking only water and a larger measure of good society. A fortune is being made, but not by the frontiersmen.”

“It’s a story, all right, but if you’re looking to make a big difference somewhere, you’d best go on back to England while there’s still no Union Pacific buying up all the land there.”

“There’s nothing for me in England at the moment.”

Lansky squinted up at him. “You looking to stay on?”

“If I find good enough reason.”

“Fine. You’ve got one. I’m offering you a job. Editorial column every couple of days. Anything you want to write about. Stir things up a bit. If there’s a town bleeding for a champion, it’s Prosperity Gulch.”

Sloan squinted out into the sun-bitten street where only a handful of people meandered past. Set against the majesty of the snowcapped mountains, the town huddled like a shriveled old man. Leave it alone…stay a few days…move on…. “How many people live here?”

“A hundred, give or take, though folks keep to their homes when the cowboys come through. Twice that number called the place home a year ago before the Lucky Cuss mine blew. The dirt was still fresh on the graves when the railroad men rode into town waving ready cash. Guess they thought fifty cents on the dollar for land would sound good to widows with children. Now we got the damned vigilantes trying to burn everybody out”

Sloan glanced sharply at Lansky. “The widows?”

“Everybody. They’ve come a good handful of times in the dead of night. Torched Widow Gray’s house and barn and shot all her cows and pigs. The only reason she was spared was because she had the good sense to hide in her hope chest. It helps that the Widow Gray’s a small woman. She sold out two days later. A good twenty more followed her the next day.”

“Do these vigilantes work for the railroad?”

Lansky shrugged. “You tell me.”

“It’s become a matter of pride,” Sloan muttered, half to himself, remembering the tinner’s immovable pride in the face of the powerful mine owners. “Pride more than the land.”

“Damned straight. Of course there’s some miners who still think they’re going to strike that big vein in the South Platte River. There’s a group of them determined to find it, no matter what the railroad does to try to run them out. Some folks think the railroad men know all about that big vein and are hoping to get the land cheap before the strike and lay their track right through town. Those folks are sitting tight, thinking their land values will triple then. Others still believe they can make their livelihood in Prosperity Gulch, strike or no strike. Some are afraid to sell now, thinking they’ll get ambushed by the miners before they can get out of town, if the vigilantes don’t get them first.”

“What about the mine that blew?”

“It’s common knowledge the owner was a fool. Had too much charge with him one day and she blew. Killed him, his four boys, handful of other men. There’s been nothing there for years. I’ll tell you, though, no matter who you talk to, tempers are running high. There’s a lawlessness in the air, Devlin. I can smell it. And the victims are the common folk, the folks who’ve sunk their lifeblood and their savings into land, homes and businesses.”

Proud, angry and desperately in need of rallying around a common cause if they were to stand a chance against a foe like the powerful Union Pacific and its rogue vigilantes. The town needed a heralding cry, and what better than the newspaper to corral tempers and focus energies?

“Where can I find a hotel?”

Lansky’s lips jerked into a smile. “You’ll find the softest bed and the best cooking at Willie Thorne’s boardinghouse. Second farm on the right about a mile west of town. I’ll tell you what. I’ll pay you fifty cents for every column—”

“I don’t want your money, Lansky.”

“Whatever you say, Devlin. You think about my offer.”

“I plan to.” Sloan picked up his valise and turned east along the boardwalk.

“Hey, Devlin, Willie’s place is due west. Where are you going?”

“To buy a horse.”

“Get yourself a breastplate while you’re at it. I ask only that my editors be responsible for defending themselves against folks who don’t like what you have to say in the paper. And there’s bound to be some. Last editor I had was horsewhipped and run out of town by a fella for something he wrote about the fella’s wife. Something about her dimensions giving her the appearance of an ambulatory cotton bale. Wouldn’t hurt to oil up your gun. You just might need it.”

“I’ll remember that,” Sloan said, turning on his heel and heading for the livery.

The ax blade whizzed through the air then cleaved into the log, cleanly splitting the wood into pieces that would fit neatly into the stove. Willie tossed the pieces onto a pile that reached to her knees then hoisted another log. Taking up her ax, she aimed, drew a breath, swung the ax and drove it into the log.

“Fancy man,” she hissed through her teeth, swiping a forearm over her brow then tossing the split wood onto the pile. “Gussied up and dandified. Damned shiny-toed shoes and pleated trousers. Too damned tall for decency—”

Again she bent, lifted a heavy log and braced it against her belly as she slid it atop the wide tree stump she used for wood chopping. Smacking her hands clean against her blue-denimed hips, she braced her boots wide, took up her ax and swung it in a powerful arc.

The last time she’d looked so far up into a man’s cleanshaven face had been seven months ago when she’d all but run over Brant Masters with her wagon. He’d been wearing the same sort of finely made coat and trousers, the same high linen collar. He’d even stuck one of those jewel-headed pins into his tie and his shoes were shiny and new. Now that she thought about it, Brant had smelled clean and spicy, a scent that had made her knees go wobbly and her belly flutter every time he passed within six inches of her. That scent had seemed to fill her nostrils for weeks after he went back East.

The fancy English gent had smelled like that. Refined. Educated. Thinking himself too good for the likes of Prosperity Gulch. But the English railroad gent’s eyes weren’t dark and sparkling like Brant’s. They were icy blue, shot through with silver, and seemed as deep as she imagined an ocean could be. Against the midnight blue-black of his hair they were startling.

Willie threw the wood aside. “Railroad weasel.”

“The man sure could fight.”

Willie glanced up, pushed her hat back on her head and met Gramps’s cockeyed grin with a puff that blew the stray wisps of hair off her forehead. “I don’t know who you’re talking about, Gramps.” She bent to retrieve another log.

“Same fella you’ve been grumblin’ about, Willie-girl. That English gent.”

Willie swatted at a mosquito and grimaced in reply.

“You’re cuttin’ enough wood for the whole damned town.”

“I’m mad.” She swung the ax high.

“Thought so.”

The log cracked into three pieces. “What’s he want?”

“Hard to tell.”

Willie flung the wood aside with a snort. “I’ll tell you what he wants. He wants to stir up trouble. Divide and conquer, like Pa used to say. He’s no better than the vigilantes. Just a fancy, dandified version. Instead of torches and threats, he uses that accent and his fine suit coat with the velvet cuffs and fancy fighting methods. He might not even be from England. He could be some out-of-work actor from New York sent by those men at the Union Pacific. If you ask me, I say he’s a fraud. At the very least he’s up to no good.”

“Could be.” Gramps tipped his broad-brimmed hat back on his head and leaned heavily on his cane. “Course, I never seen fightin’ like that. Reuben had to be carried out of the Silver Spur. I heard him mumblin’ somethin’ about forgettin’ about revenge for the time bein’.”

“See there?” Willie planted her hands on her hips, lips pursing with her mounting indignation. “His scheme is working already. Even Reuben’s ready to give up the fight. It didn’t take burning his house down. Just one kick to the side of his head.” She set her jaw and stared out into the woods that fringed her farm on three sides. The sun had just disappeared behind the mountains, throwing her land into sudden shadow. The air grew instantly cooler. “Maybe he’ll just move on.”

“Maybe he won’t.”

Willie glanced sharply at Gramps, recognizing the admonition in his weathered stare. At times he looked so much like her pa her heart squeezed in her chest. Like her pa, Gramps was fashioned of the long, rangy limbs, broad shoulders and proud carriage common to generations of Thornes. Her brothers had all inherited the same tall, wiry build, the dark, stern features, and all the blind determination and pride that went along with being a Thorne. And though Willie had been graced with an abundance of the Thorne arrogance and pride, only she bore the marks of a true McKenna: the heavy mass of copper gold hair and a body of such startling womanly proportions she could barely fit into the Levi’s and shirt she’d worn just a year before.

“Your mama ever say anythin’ to you about gettin’ more bees with honey than with vinegar?”

Willie gaped at Gramps. “You’re asking me to be friendly with that…that…”

“You sound like your pa, chock-full of damned fool’s pride.”

“Pa was no fool,” Willie retorted. “He stood up for what he believed in—his land, his family and his dream to make Prosperity Gulch a thriving town without the help of any double-crossing railroad that wanted him to pay for the privilege of the track coming through town. So they laid track through Deadwood Run and thought they’d kill off Prosperity Gulch by doing it. But they didn’t, not ten years ago, and not now.

“Pa had vision, Gramps. It was enough to rally several hundred people around his cause and keep Prosperity Gulch thriving. He never lost sight of that, no matter who tried to stop him. And he would never have turned coat and pasted on a smile for a man he didn’t trust just because doing so would have put money in his pocket or a meal on his table for a few more days. And neither will I, even if I have to dance every night with cowboys to do it.”

Gramps narrowed his eyes on the mountains to the west.

“If your pa had to do it over, he’d have kept his dreams to himself and your mama in her house in Illinois where she belonged. He wouldn’t have dragged her out into a wasteland a hundred miles from nowhere, and left her alone night and day while he worked in that mine. When the sickness came she didn’t have the spirit to fight it off. Not every dream should be chased.”

Willie’s gloved fingers tightened around the ax handle. Even now grief wrapped like invisible ropes around her and tightened, compressing her lungs in her chest. “I won’t give up on his dream, Gramps,” she said, her voice husky with emotion. “If I do, if Prosperity Gulch sells out to the railroad my pa fought for so long, he’ll have died for nothing, and my brothers with him.”

Gramps looked hard at her with the unwavering, grizzled stare that probed right to her soul. “You never were half as selfish as your pa. Are you plannin’ to waste your youth tendin’ to an old man and choppin’ wood and chasin’ vigilantes out of town? Or are you waitin’ for Brant Masters and all his promises to come ridin’ down the lane in that black buggy of his?”

Willie stiffened, knowing by the glint in Gramps’s eyes that her cheeks had turned a traitorous red. Still, admitting naiveté was not something even an unselfish Thorne would find easy to do. “I’ve completely forgotten about him,” she said, a little too breezily. “Too busy, I guess.”

“Yep. We’re damned busy out here on the farm.” Gramps rested one bony elbow on a fence post and squinted at the farmhouse in the distance over an unsown field swaying with tall grass. “Not a boarder to be had since Brant last propped his shiny boots on your kitchen table and watched you scrub your floors. Yep. You’re too damned busy to remember all that”

Willie felt her shoulders droop and the fight seep out of her. Gramps saw too blasted much. Just like her pa always had.

“Well, I’ll be damned.”

Willie glanced sharply at Gramps then turned, her gaze following Gramps’s. The weather-beaten house huddled among tall sycamores, all thrown into impenetrable shadow. Still, as her eyes strained into the darkness, Willie was almost certain a deeper shadow moved beside the house. Her fingers reached for her short-barreled Peacemaker stuffed into the back waistband of her Levi’s. “How many?”

“Just one. You won’t need your gun.”

Willie glanced at Gramps, even as she drew the Peacemaker into her hand and slipped her finger over the trigger. “You’d best go get the repeating rifle. We don’t know his business.”

“Put the gun away,” Gramps softly said.

“Put the gun away?”

“Yes.”

“Gramps—”

“Willie-girl, I think you got yourself a boarder.”

“A boarder—?” A sudden warmth spilled through her and brought a smile bursting from her lips. “How can you be sure?” She turned. The man had turned from the house and was leading his horse through the field of grass toward them. Her heart almost burst from her chest. “It’s Bran—” The name stuck in her throat and her heart plummeted. Chagrin flooded over her, followed by a deeply felt contempt for the part of her that still clung to feeble dreams spun by untrustworthy men.

As much as that part of her might wish otherwise, she didn’t recognize the stranger’s fluid gait, the breadth of his shoulders or the tall black hat he wore. His coat was long and tailored, with tails that flapped when he walked. He was so tall the grass that caught Willie thigh high reached only to his knees. His legs cleaved through the grass with an animalistic grace, so different from the rough-and-tumble pack of hard-fighting, hard-drinking brothers she’d shared her first eighteen years with.

Something began to stir in her the closer the stranger came, but it wasn’t fear. Though shadow hid his features, there was a disturbing familiarity about him. Something in the set of his shoulders, the way he moved.

“Oh, no,” she whispered, and lifted her gun.

The young man Sloan assumed was Willie looked up at him from under the shadow of his oversized hat and shoved his gun at him.

“Stop right there, fancy man.” A boy, not a man. The voice was pitched far too high and carried a huskiness common to pubescent youths. Sloan drew up short, realizing a youth’s inexperience and exuberance often got the better of good sense, particularly when that youth gripped a gun in his hand, a remarkably steady hand that bespoke of familiarity. Beside the boy, a rangy old man watched Sloan with an odd glint in his eye.

“Willie Thorne?” Sloan said.

“You got that right, fancy man.” A youth, certainly not a man, with hips and thighs still so rounded with baby fat his waist looked unusually narrow. Sloan deepened his gaze. Something wasn’t right. Youths were narrow chested, full stomached. This boy’s white shirt stretched taut where Sloan least expected it to, directly at midchest. Sloan stared at the fullness there and felt heavy heat fill his loins.

Beneath the shadow of the hat, full pink lips parted in a grim version of a smile. Sloan went instantly, uncomfortably rigid. No woman in his experience had ever looked so blatantly, arousingly female.

For an instant Sloan thought of his father’s Oriental manservant Azato, who had spent years developing mind-overbody principles in Sloan since the day he’d first come to Devlin Manor as part of the cargo his father had acquired on a voyage to the Orient when Sloan was only a boy. These principles demanded that Sloan resist all physical pain and all adversity in his effort to achieve the art of mystical self-defense. Without question, a master of these techniques should be able to resist a woman’s best efforts.

Still, looking at the amply proportioned Willie Thorne, Sloan couldn’t help but wonder if even Azato would have given as much thought to being mighty if women the world over began to pour themselves into men’s trousers and skimpy shirts.

The girl took several steps toward him, braced her boots wide and leveled the gun at his chest “Get the hell off my land, mister.”