Finding Promise

“Are you sure you wouldn't be better off if I left? More of your men might get hurt.”

“You're not going anywhere,” he responded emphatically.

Pushing away from him, she looked up into his eyes. “What if they come back?”

“Then I'll deal with it,” he told her.

She couldn't believe he wasn't upset over the trouble she had brought to him. She thanked God for sending a man like Jake McBride to find her. Words couldn't accurately express how she felt.

“Thank you for everything, Mr. McBride. What would have happened to me if not for you?” She leaned up to kiss his cheek, but at the same moment he moved his head and their lips touched. It was accidental, but she didn't move away, and neither did he . . .

PROMISES KEPT

 

FINDING PROMISE

 

 

 

SCARLETT DUNN

ZEBRA BOOKS
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.

All copyrighted material within is Attributor Protected.

Table of Contents

A
CKNOWLEDGMENTS

I thank God for my moments of inspiration. When I listen, He has all of the answers to my many questions.

A big thank you to Tory Groshong for all your hard work. I like the way you think, and you are so thorough!

Prologue

Chapter One

W
ILLIAM
S
HAKESPEARE

 

 

The telegraph operator peered over his thick wire-rimmed spectacles at the tall, muscular man at the counter. “Is that all?”

“Yep,” Jake McBride replied, placing some coins on the counter.

Jake's best friend, Cole Becker, started laughing. “Your big brother is gonna kick your butt all over Wyoming for that last sentence.”

“It'll give him more incentive to take good care of that beautiful woman.” Jake wanted to needle his big brother for no other reason than he thought he was the luckiest son-of-a-buck alive. He wasn't jealous of Colt; he was the finest man he knew, and he deserved a woman like Victoria. Plain and simple, he was envious.

Cole slapped Jake on the shoulder. “I don't think Colt needs incentive. I've never seen a man more in love.”

That was the truth if Jake had ever heard it. Colt was crazy in love with his new bride. In Jake's estimation, Colt had found the perfect woman, not to mention the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. She was also the reason he needed to get out of Wyoming for a while. Even his brother could see Jake was half in love with Victoria from the moment he saw her. Being recently reunited with Colt, he couldn't allow his feelings to cause any ill will between them. It had taken him ten years to go home to Wyoming, but once he saw Colt, and the ranch where they grew up, he realized it was where he belonged.

Jake had resigned as a U.S. Marshal, as had his partner of ten years, Cole Becker. They'd just escorted the territorial judge to Dodge as a last favor for their boss, and now they were on their way to meet up with the cattle drive headed to Wyoming.

While Colt placed no conditions on his return to the ranch, Jake didn't think it was fair to come back after all this time as an equal partner with no investment of his own. Colt had single-handedly made the ranch more successful than it had been under their father's control, and Jake didn't take that lightly. He couldn't make up for the years Colt had invested in back-breaking ranch work, but he could use his savings to buy cattle to add to the ranch's herd. He also figured the months spent on the drive would give him the time he needed to get his head on straight where his sister-in-law was concerned. Logic told him his infatuation would fade with time, but as he'd learned through the years, logic and emotion didn't often ride double.

Once they exited the telegraph office, Jake looked up at the low-hanging gray clouds. “Storm's brewing, and from the looks of it, it's going to be a good one.” The weather hadn't posed a problem until now, but the angry-looking sky foretold that good fortune was coming to an end.

Cole glanced at the sky with a grim face. “Yeah, just as we're headed into Indian Territory.”

As they reached their horses, Jake felt the first drop of rain on his Stetson. “Let's ride.”

 

 

It rained for two solid weeks after Jake and Cole left Dodge, and today was more of the same. Jake was riding point in a torrential downpour well over a mile ahead of the cattle, trying to locate a defendable place to camp for the night. Hearing thunder ahead of him was a sure sign the storm wasn't easing. They were going to be in for a long night with twenty-five hundred head of restive cattle. He'd instructed Cole and the rest of the men to keep the cattle as close together as possible, hoping to forestall problems before nightfall.

An ear-splitting crack of lightning caused him and his horse both to jump. Jake stroked Preacher's neck. “That scared you as much as it did me, huh, boy?” More loud bursts of thunder ahead of him darkened his mood even more. “This storm is getting worse by the minute,” he muttered.
Hell's bells! I'm a dang fool for not stopping before now.

Another round of piercing pops rent the air, but within seconds he realized it wasn't thunder.
Gunfire
. Hearing gunshots out in the middle of nowhere was never a good sign. Nudging Preacher forward with the rain pelting them in the face, he was tempted to set a pace that matched his foreboding sense of urgency, but he wouldn't pose a danger to his horse. They hadn't ridden much farther when the rain started coming down so hard he couldn't see a foot in front of him. Pulling Preacher to a halt, he dismounted and pulled a bandanna from his back pocket to dry Preacher's face as best he could. “I don't think you can see any better than me.” It wasn't going to do a bit of good with the rain coming down like it was, but he knew it would soothe his horse all the same. Preacher had also been his partner for ten years, and he knew the horse hated to have water on his face more than anything. Preacher nudged his hand as a thank-you.

When the rain changed to a steady drizzle, he remounted. Pulling his Winchester from the boot, he told himself it might be nothing, but experience warned not to ignore that little voice in his head that told him something was amiss. And right now that little voice was beginning to sound like the seventh angel's trumpet.

He'd covered about a quarter of a mile when he noticed something on the horizon that looked oddly out of place on the usually barren landscape. “Whoa, boy,” he murmured, pulling Preacher to a halt again. He squinted, trying to make sense out of what he was seeing. Wiping away the water dripping from his eyelashes, he blinked, trying to focus. What was it? Crazy as it sounded, what he saw reminded him of large white flags whipping around in the storm. Searching the terrain, some movement caught his eye, and he saw riders hightailing it to the trees some distance away. He clicked Preacher forward.

As he drew closer, Preacher laid his ears back and started sidestepping. Jake's senses went on high alert. His horse was as good at detecting danger as any U.S. Marshal he'd ever seen. He stroked Preacher's neck as he assessed the situation. The riders were well out of sight, so he didn't know what had Preacher so worked up. “Settle down, boy. I don't see anyone moving about.” He focused again on what he thought were flags, and realization dawned. Covered wagons. They were turned over on their sides and the canvases had been ripped apart, leaving the tattered pieces to flap in the wind like sails on a ship.

“Come on, boy. Let's see what this is about.” Preacher snorted at him as though he disagreed with the command, but he moved ahead. Jake counted six wagons overturned as he reined in at the nearest one. Dismounting, he held on to Preacher's reins just in case he needed to make a fast getaway.
What happened here? Indians? Is that who was riding away?
They hadn't encountered any Indians so far, but that only meant one thing; they were due. One thing was certain, if Indians were around, he figured he'd see them soon enough. Not many places to hide out here in the open, but they sure had a way of appearing out of thin air.

The thunder and lightning had lessened considerably, so he figured he could hear trouble if it came calling. Scanning the area, he saw all manner of items from the wagons scattered about. Judging by the destruction, and some costly articles left behind, it occurred to him that whoever did this was looking for something in particular. Spotting a man on the ground near the first wagon, he released Preacher's reins and hurried to him. As he approached, he saw the blood covering the front of his rain-soaked shirt. He didn't need to touch him; his eyes had the vacant stare of a dead man. There was a rifle beside the man and Jake picked it up to see if it had been fired. It hadn't. The man's pistol was still in his holster. He walked to the overturned wagon and peeked inside. There was a woman lying half out of the front of the wagon, so he hustled around to check her. Shot dead. A few feet from her was another man lying dead on the ground.
What in heaven's name happened here?
He ran to the other wagons, praying to God he would find someone alive. He found six more bodies. Everyone shot—no arrows, but Indians had guns, he reminded himself. Questions circled his mind.
Why weren't they traveling with a larger group? Had they been ill and left behind? And why in heaven's name had they stopped out here in the open? Not the best place to stop for the night if they needed to defend themselves from an attack.

Reaching the last wagon, he saw a woman lying facedown near a large overturned trunk, and a man lying several feet from her. Again, he scanned the horizon to make sure no one was waiting to shoot him in the back. Approaching the woman first, he kneeled down and gently turned her over. Pushing aside her long, wet hair from her face, he saw that her eyes were closed and blood oozed from her temple. He placed his palm on her chest to see if she had a heartbeat.
Alive!
Her heartbeat was faint, but it was there.
Thank God
. Wiping at the blood on her temple, he tried to see how badly she was injured. It looked like a bullet had grazed her, but fortunately it wasn't lodged in her head. He searched her limp form for additional signs of injury, but finding none, he stood and pulled off his slicker to cover her. It didn't make a lick of sense since her clothing was drenched, yet it made him feel better. He walked to the man lying nearby to see if he was as lucky as the woman. He wasn't.

He whistled for Preacher, who came trotting up beside him. He pulled a clean shirt out of his saddlebag and quickly tore it into long strips. Gently, he propped the woman against his thigh and wound the cloth around her head. Two thoughts struck him at once: how fragile she was, and how good she smelled. Odd, under the circumstances, that he'd noticed her fragrance, but he figured it was because since he'd left Texas the only things he'd smelled were cattle and wet earth. While he worked on the bandage, it occurred to him that she was much younger than the other women he'd found. The man lying near her was also younger than the other men.
He must have been her husband. Why would anyone shoot all of these people? What were they searching for? If Indians had attacked, they would have taken some of the items littering the ground, like the tools or sacks of sugar and barrels of flour. They would have taken the young woman too.
He'd seen a lot of evil in his ten years as a U.S. Marshal, but nothing as senseless as this. He took hold of her hand, wishing he could will her to wake. Her hand was so delicate and soft against his calloused skin that he glanced down to look at her palm. This was not the hand of a woman who worked a farm, though he did feel some rough spots on her fingers, which he figured were from holding a horse's reins.

He glanced at the man again. No gun. Realizing that only one man had been armed offered up another set of questions. It was possible that the killers had taken their weapons. Did they also take the horses, or had the horses simply run off when the shooting started? He felt sure the killers didn't take the time to unhitch the teams, so these folks had stopped for some reason.

He could see hoofprints in every direction, but right now he didn't have time to study them other than to make a mental note that they were shod. He knew the rain would wash away the tracks of the men he saw riding away, but his first responsibility was to care for the woman. He'd take her back to meet up with the drive so his cook could tend her. He'd hired Shorty not only for his cooking skills but because he also possessed some doctoring knowledge. Shorty had been on six cattle drives and had tended various injuries, so Jake hoped he would know what to do for her. Once the woman was in Shorty's care, he'd bring some men back to bury the dead. Then he'd have time to try to make sense out of this massacre.

Preacher caught his attention when he snorted and sidestepped closer. “What is it, boy?” Jake looked around and immediately spotted Indians on a knoll less than two hundred yards away.
Damn, if they can't sneak up on a man!
He counted ten braves, and though he wasn't sure, he thought they were Comanche. “Okay, boy, we're leaving.” Just as he was about to lift the woman in his arms, he saw a leather-bound book underneath her skirt, and next to it was a Colt .45. He picked up the pistol and smelled the barrel before tucking it in his belt. He grabbed the book and stuffed it inside his shirt to keep it dry. Once he was settled in the saddle with the woman securely in his arms, he pulled his slicker over her head to keep her bandage dry. He turned his gaze on the Indians and breathed a sigh of relief when he saw they were not riding toward him. It was odd how they were just watching, almost like they were afraid to ride closer. He looked around to make sure no one else was lurking about. Before he rode away, he glanced once more at the destruction around him. He was certain of one thing: The Indians hadn't done this. Not one scalp was missing.