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1
Texas Hill Country, 1860
Nick Ross had survived the fetid slums of Whitechapel and the cutthroat labyrinths of St. Giles, but August in Texas was going to kill him. He guided his quarter horse down a path beside the Guadalupe River and wiped sweat from his face with the bandanna tied around his neck. Even under the shelter of towering cypress, oak, and hackberry the air was thick and steamy. The heat combined with the moisture to make him feel as if he were riding through boiling soup.
Overhead a red hawk circled, its wings dark against the turquoise sky. He’d been in Texas a little over a year. Arriving at the invitation of his closest friend, Jocelin Marshal, he’d learned to survive on the frontier, to ride on a Texas saddle with a high pommel and wide fenders, to use a lariat and to rope cattle without getting himself yanked off his mount or his fingers tangled and cut off by the weight of the cow.
Ranching was desperate hard work—the hours long, the work hot, dirty, and smelly. But none of it was degrading the way growing up in the festering sore of east London had been. There he’d dodged his father’s fists, learned to scavenge in refuse bins for food, and later to pick pockets and rob houses to buy the moldy bread and rancid meat that kept him, his sister, and his mother alive. His mother and sister were dead, but he’d lived to escape St. Giles with Jocelin’s help. Still, if he’d known about rattlesnakes and scorpions, he’d never have left England. There he had a comfortable town house near Grosvenor Square in London, country houses in several counties, and dozens of servants to kill any insects that crossed his path.
Nick removed his hat, an expensive purchase with a low crown and wide brim that had saved him from heat sickness many a time. He rubbed his shirtsleeve over his forehead and addressed his horse.
“Bloody hell, Pounder, it’s not even seven o’clock. We’ll be steamed to death before we reach the line camp.”
As he finished speaking, a loud report bounced off the limestone hills to either side of the river. Nick hauled on Pounder’s reins. The animal wheeled in a tight circle in the swift, agile manner of a horse trained to ranch work and plunged back down the path the way they’d come. Nick slapped the reins and bent over the horse’s neck as they reached a full gallop. The shots had come from the direction of the ranch house he’d just left. From the pattern of gunfire he knew there was a fight.
Nick broke through the trees and galloped up a hill dotted with mesquite and cedar. Plunging down the other side, he came within sight of the house, a graceful three-story limestone building with four columns supporting a wide front porch. Between the house and the barn lay the bunkhouse. It consisted of quarters for the ranch hands and a kitchen. Between the bunkhouse and the kitchen stretched a dog trot, a cool, open hallway.
He could see several men lying behind the water trough in the corral. A fourth man staggered to the shelter of the dog trot and collapsed there, holding his arm. Two more cowboys crouched in a wagon drawn up before the barn and fired at someone high up on the windmill ladder. Pounder churned up dirt as he raced toward the ranch house.
Nick slowed the animal as they neared the porch, swung his leg over the saddle, and leaped to the ground running. Pounder swerved, skirting the corral fence, and slowed as he reached the shelter of the barn. The horse calmly walked into the dark interior while Nick jumped onto the porch. A bullet smacked into a white wooden column as he passed it. The front door opened, and Nick dived inside.
Rolling to his feet, he grabbed a rifle that was thrust at him by Liza Marshal, Jocelin’s wife. Her ash-blond hair was tousled, her hazel eyes glittering with anger and fear. She rested a hand on her protruding stomach and lifted a pale oval face to him.
“It’s Little Billy. He’s drunk again.”
“What are you doing here?” Nick shouted as he thrust her away from the windows. “You’ll get yourself and the baby killed.”
“Don’t bellow at me, Nick Ross. Jocelin’s been shot.”
“Bloody hell, where is he?”
Liza lifted a shaking hand to her lips. “He’s out in the open. When Little Billy started shooting, Jocelin went out to talk to him.”
Before he could stop her, she raced to the window and pulled the curtain aside. A bullet shattered the glass as Nick threw himself at Liza and pressed her against the wall.
“You stay here.”
He dropped to the floor and peered over the sill. From his superior position Little Billy was keeping everyone pinned down in the barn, the bunkhouse, the kitchen, the corral. And in the open yard in front of the barn, at least twenty yards from the wagon, lay the man who was more brother than friend, Jocelin Marshal, Viscount Radcliffe. He wasn’t moving, and the ground was soaked with blood from a wound in his leg. His jet-black hair ruffled in the hot breeze that swirled dust across the corral.
Nick uttered a string of Cockney curses as he watched for signs of movement from his friend. It was just like Jocelin to try to talk. Jos never had entirely learned ruthlessness—not in the Crimea, not even in his crusade against debauchers of children. Little Billy was a trouble-loving young cowhand who picked fights and took offense if someone breathed in a way he didn’t like. Only last week Jocelin had stopped Nick from drawing on the bastard for beating up the son of Jocelin’s Mexican cook. Talk indeed.
“Dallas tried to reach Jos, but Little Billy got him in the arm,” Liza said. “Oh, Nick, do something quickly.”
Without a word Nick turned and ran for the stairs. Taking them three at a time, he climbed to the top floor, burst through a narrow door at the end of the landing, and raced up another flight to the sweltering attic. Once in the dark closeness of the attic, Nick paused to catch his breath. He couldn’t afford an unsteady hand. Walking to the window on the side of the house opposite the yard and the windmill, he unlatched the portal and climbed onto the roof. With the rifle in one hand he crawled up the steep slope and poked his head cautiously over the summit.
He could see Jocelin lying on his stomach, arms and legs spread. He hadn’t moved. Dallas Meredith was firing left-handed at Little Billy from the dog trot. The hands behind the water trough were reloading. Poison, the cook, was yelling insults at Little Billy between rounds from his shotgun. A renewed burst from the men at the water trough was his signal. Nick slid down the roof to the limestone chimney, got to his feet, and cocked the rifle.
Little Billy was still firing and reloading from saddlebags slung over his shoulder. Like most cowboys, he was young, reckless, and barely literate. Also like most, he went by his nickname and never mentioned his real one. But unlike the rest of the hands, Little Billy couldn’t leave the whiskey bottle alone. What was worse, Little Billy was over six feet tall and fond of his rifle. Nick would have shot him long ago if it hadn’t been for Jocelin. He used to see the same mad-mean look in his father’s eyes just before the bastard beat him with a coachman’s whip.
Nick rested his rifle against the chimney and sighted down the barrel. Talk. You couldn’t talk to drunks. He waited for Little Billy to turn his way. A wide chest came into view as the drunk fired at Dallas, then pointed his rifle down at Jocelin’s prone figure. Nick felt a stab of panic in his chest as he saw the direction of Little Billy’s aim. Then a familiar chilly calm descended. He tilted the rifle, aiming it at Little Billy’s heart, and squeezed the trigger.
The explosion of his shot hardly caused him to blink. He kept his gaze fixed on Little Billy’s red long-john-covered bulk. He saw the cowboy jerk, then clutch at the windmill ladder. Little Billy dropped his rifle, then lost his grip and plummeted to the ground. His big body sent up a cloud of dust as it hit. As Nick left the roof, Dallas and the others sprang out of hiding and ran toward Jocelin. Without a twinge of conscience or a thought for the dead man, he climbed in a window and went downstairs to help carry Jocelin into the house.
