Cherished

  CHERISHED

  By Jill Gregory

  Smashwords Edition, August 2011

  Copyright 2011 © Jill Gregory

  Formatted by A Thirsty Mind

  Cover Design by Marsha Canham

  First published by Dell Publishing, 1991 All rights reserved. No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from Jill Gregory.

  To Rachel, who dares to dream and to dance—with all my love forever

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Excerpt from Daisies in the Wind

  Excerpt from When the Heart Beckons

  About the Author

  Prologue

  New Mexico Territory,

  March 1873

  Reese Kincaid was a liar, a coward, and a murdering thief who had never earned an honest dollar in his life, but there was one thing he was damned good at, and that was laying an ambush. And as he laid out the ambush for Cole Rawdon, the bounty hunter who had been making his life a living hell for the past weeks, a demon light of joy sprang into his coal-black eyes. Kincaid gazed around at the hard, grizzled faces of his gang in triumph.

  “There ain’t no way in hell Rawdon’s going to ride out of this place alive,” he crowed.

  His four companions and the redheaded whore, Garnet, squirming on his lap, all chuckled happily.

  The hideout cabin where they waited was a squalid pesthole of a place, square-walled and dank. Filthy with spittle and discarded coffee grounds and dead flies, it was furnished with little more than a half-dozen roughly carved chairs circling a scarred pine table. It reeked of sweat and tobacco and whiskey—but no more so than did its six inhabitants. Everything in the cabin, from the torn and grimy bedding scattered about the dirt floor to the piles of unwashed dishes heaped on the table, all encrusted with remnants of food and crawling with ants, looked as foul and disreputable as the five men and one woman who waited with such malicious glee for Cole Rawdon. Reese Kincaid felt even more feverish anticipation than the others. He wanted Rawdon bad.

  Rawdon had been pursuing Kincaid for weeks now with the cold-blooded relentlessness and uncanny tracking skills that had earned him a reputation among the bandits and desperadoes of New Mexico, Texas, and Arizona. Kincaid was desperate and wily, a man much experienced at evading the law, but even he recognized it was only sheer luck that had kept him one step ahead of Cole Rawdon for this long. Now, though, things were going to be different. The hunter was about to become the prey. Kincaid had Rawdon right where he wanted him—or he would, soon as the bounty hunter rode that paint horse of his into the canyon. Rawdon knew about this cabin at the bottom of Stone Canyon—Garnet had seen to that. Her girl friends in the saloon in Black Creek by now had told him all about the snug little hideout seventy miles from the town, and he was so eager for that reward money waiting back in Tucson, and so damned sure of himself, that he’d be after Kincaid like a thunderbolt.

  Cole Rawdon was as fearless as he was determined, and Kincaid knew it. That was the most frightening thing about him. That and the fact that he was good with his gun. Too damn good. Even though he was barely twenty-eight years old, his reputation throughout the southwest territories was practically a legend already. The hombre never missed. It was enough to make anyone sweat bullets just to hear about it. But, Kincaid reflected as he stroked Garnet’s lithe body with a filthy, callused hand and ordered Ed to bring him more whiskey, he had the advantage now. Brains and cunning would win out over guts and skill. There was no way he could lose. Rawdon didn’t know that the rest of the gang was here in the canyon, too, that they’d slipped in one by one over the past few nights, after splitting up following the Tucson stagecoach job last month. Now they were all back together again, just in time to prepare a neat little welcome for Cole Rawdon. Hell, Kincaid thought, his florid, heavy face flushed with pleasure as he nuzzled the whore’s neck and then paused to inhale a deep swig of whiskey, I think I’ll kill him slow, one bullet at a time, each fired about an hour apart and in a different place. And the last one, he decided with a grin, will go right between his eyes.

  The sun was just coming up outside the cabin window, touching the sage-colored hills with a faint yellow-gray light. Kincaid shoved Garnet away and pushed back his chair. Time to get ready. He didn’t want any mistakes or any surprises. He stood up, his blood heating with anticipation of the ambush ahead. Barking out his orders, he sent each member of his gang stomping off to take his assigned place.

  Kincaid peered past the grime-streaked curtain at the distant empty mesa overlooking the canyon. In stark contrast to the squalid cabin, the mesa was quiet. Peaceful. Almost eerily calm in the growing light of the new dawn. Up above, the sky was turning blue as a mountain lake. Not a cloud to be seen. Birds sang in the juniper tree outside the window. Yep, Reese Kincaid thought, grinning out from beneath the dingy mane of brown hair that hung over his face. It was going to be a real fine day for a killing.

  * * *

  Cole Rawdon worked his way to the lip of Stone Canyon with the stealth of an Indian. He had learned much from Sun Eagle during the time he had spent with the Cheyenne, and it had served him well in his present occupation. Though he was a tall young man, with broad shoulders, and a well-muscled, powerful frame, he had the ability to step as lightly as a feather when he wished to remain undetected. He wished that now.

  Cole spotted the lookout man first, crouched in a high crevice of rock north of the canyon’s entrance, a rifle in his hands. The rough, handsome planes of the bounty hunter’s face showed no emotion, but a grim smile just touched the edges of his lips. It never reached his eyes. Since he could move about more silently on foot, he had left his horse, Arrow, tied in a grassy dell well out of sight and hearing. Now he slowly crept upward and across the ledge of rock, toward the lookout. His movements were lithe and graceful; he was more like a shadow slipping among the rocks than a man. His hard young features were set with single-minded purpose, and his remarkable vivid eyes shone with cold blue fire as he made his way toward the man watching the canyon entrance from high above.

  Cole came upon him from behind, and quick as a flash had one powerful arm around the man’s neck. The lookout never stood a chance against his larger, stronger unseen foe. When his victim had slumped into unconsciousness, Cole trussed him efficiently and then moved on, with no wasted time or movement. Always he was listening, watching. It was these incredible abilities at keen perception combined with razor-sharp reaction that had kept him alive all these years in the wildest, most savage regions of the frontier. Only once had he been caught
unawares, a long time ago. But he’d been little more than a kid then, seventeen years old, green and foolish. He’d been lonely and stupid enough to trust another human being—a mistake he would never make again. That one time had taught him well—never to trust any man, or any woman. Ever.

  Of course, Jess Burrows and Liza White were both dead now. But the lessons of greed and betrayal they had taught Cole would be with him forever. He’d never forget the way a beautiful woman could lie and deceive, smiling all the while, or the way a man who said he was a friend could shoot you in the back and leave you for dead in the scorched heart of the desert, without blinking an eye. He ought to thank them. They had tried to kill him, but they had only made him stronger. They had taught him to stand alone, to steer clear of all entanglements with others of his species. They had taught him what it took to survive.

  And now they were the ones dead and buried, Cole reflected, scanning the desolate cliffs and boulders with a practiced eye. And he was still here, too ornery to bid the world adiós until he’d sent a few more no-good hombres to hell first.

  By the time the sun had come full up in the sapphire sky, he had found and knocked cold two more of Kincaid’s men.

  There were no more to be found, none that he could see anywhere around the steep walls of the canyon. That meant the fourth member of the gang, Ed Weeks, was holed up in the cabin with Kincaid, probably posted near a window. Rawdon got his horse, and headed for the entrance without wasting further time. Two against one, considering the circumstances, were fair odds.

  Ed Weeks grinned when he saw the lean, sun-bronzed bounty hunter ride toward the clearing. Murphy, Burr, and Slade would be right behind him, hemming Rawdon in. He cocked his Remington revolver and stuck it out the window. Ed had an impulsive, fun-loving nature. He always liked to be the one to get things rolling, but he knew Kincaid would be mad as fire if he jumped the gun. Squinting against the glare of the rising sun, he waited and watched as the bounty hunter took cover behind a boulder. Won’t do you no good, Rawdon, Ed chuckled to himself. Then he waited for the fun to start.

  Crouched behind the boulder, with just the tip of his Stetson showing, Cole scanned the cabin and its surroundings with a keen, sweeping glance. When he was satisfied with his assessment of the layout, he moved on to the next step of the hunt. It was a well-worn, all too familiar process. He’d give Kincaid a chance to turn himself in alive. He doubted if the outlaw would take advantage of it. It didn’t matter to Cole, though, either way. The reward would be turned over to him whether the fugitive was brought back dead or alive.

  “Kincaid!” he roared.

  An instant later the cabin door opened and Reese Kincaid stepped outside into the light.

  “Howdy, Rawdon.”

  The outlaw was one of those big, clumsy men who swagger when they walk, and he swaggered now across the patchy grass of the clearing. His gut stuck out beneath his plaid shirt, and his gunbelt, slung tight across heavy hips, emphasized his huge girth. Even from this distance, Cole could smell the foul stench of his greasy, sweat-soaked clothes, though the girl who slithered out of the cabin after him, clad only in a dirty chemise, appeared not to notice or care. She was watching Kincaid with proud, possessive eyes, and she giggled when he yelled for the bounty hunter to show himself.

  But when Cole stood up and strode forward, Garnet gasped. She hadn’t expected anyone as handsome, nonchalant, and yet deadly-looking as the black-haired bounty hunter who came forward with easy strides and perfect composure. His thick midnight hair just reached his shirt collar, glinting like coal in the bright light of midday. Beneath his hat, she saw eyes the color of sapphires, but so cold, so merciless, they filled her with sudden terror. He had wide shoulders and a broad, muscular chest beneath his shirt and leather vest. His stomach was flat and lean. Tight-fitting trousers encased powerful thighs and legs, and were tucked into calf-leather boots. A gunbelt with a polished silver and turquoise buckle that was the only adornment he wore completed his attire—except for the big pair of silver-handled .44 Colts he wore with the ease of a man wholly comfortable with killing. Garnet had seen a great many rough men in her day—gamblers, outlaws, drifters, and cowhands—but there was something about this one that made her shiver and hug her bare arms about herself. Handsome devil, that’s what he was. And both words equally fit: Cole Rawdon was undeniably, stunningly, irresistibly handsome. And yet there was a look about him, something in the hard, cold planes of his bronzed face, that told her he was as tough and mean as the devil himself. Handsome devil, Garnet whispered to herself, and fought the urge to dart back into the cabin and run for cover.

  What had Kincaid been thinking of, letting this man catch up with him at all? There was something so implacable and dangerous about the bounty hunter that it made her forget all about the brilliance of the ambush Kincaid had devised. Cole Rawdon wouldn’t be a man to go down easy. For the first time since she’d met and fallen in love with Reese Kincaid, she began to fear and doubt.

  “Took you long enough to track me, Rawdon,” Kincaid taunted as the other man came slowly forward, pausing at a distance of ten feet away. Kincaid was intimidated by no man, though he felt a surge of annoyance at Rawdon’s coolness. Kincaid couldn’t wait for him to realize he was trapped. He wanted to wipe that damned self-confidence right off the son of a bitch bounty hunter’s face. “You must be losing your touch,” he added. “Right, Garnet?”

  The girl made no answer. She was uneasily studying the canyon entrance, looking for some sign of the other three men. It seemed to Garnet that they should have been here by now.

  But Kincaid was too preoccupied with baiting the bounty hunter to notice the delay. “You started out real good from Tucson, but you kept lagging behind, boy. I tried to let you catch up a couple of times, just to get killing you over with, but you were too pokey for me. Garnet was waiting for me, and I was real eager to get here. You don’t blame me, do you, Rawdon? I bet you’d ride like hell for a woman like Garnet, too, if one would be dumb enough to have you.”

  “I wonder if the lady would let you touch her if she knew what you did to those women on the stagecoach before you killed them,” Cole commented in his quiet voice, dagger-edged with ice. “You’re real good with a knife on innocent women, but how are you with a gun against a man?” He heard the redhead’s sharp intake of breath that told him she didn’t know anything about the passengers’ murders, but he didn’t take his eyes off Kincaid long enough to spare her a glance. “Guess you didn’t tell your ladyfriend about that.”

  “Those folks got what was coming to ‘em. They tried to get away. And you’re going to get what’s coming to you, Rawdon. Real soon.”

  Rawdon’s eyes narrowed. “The only thing I’m going to get is the reward for your worthless hide, Kincaid.”

  “Hey, Weeks—ya hear that?” The outlaw raised his voice to a shout. “This here boy thinks he’s going to get a reward! Haw! Haw!”

  “Throw down your guns, Rawdon—we got you covered!” Weeks called from inside the cabin.

  “I’m giving you a chance to throw down your gun, Kincaid. You, too, Weeks. It’s the only chance either of you will get.”

  From the cabin came the hearty cackle of Ed Weeks’s laughter. It was echoed by the jeering chuckles of Kincaid. Through it all, Cole stood perfectly still, at ease yet prepared. His muscles were ready, his brain was prepared for what would happen soon. Very soon. Deep within his heart was an iciness more solid and cold than the snow that never melts at the very peaks of the Rockies.

  “You’re downright stupid, boy!” Kincaid was shouting at him now, his face flushed and sweating with excitement, split by a huge, evil grin. “You’re about to meet your Maker, and you don’t even know it. You’ve been out-thunk, outsmarted, and out-tricked, plain and simple. You’ll never see the sun set on this day.”

  “Sounds to me like you’re stalling, Kincaid. You expecting someone?”

  The bounty hunter’s unperturbed countenance made Kincaid’s face darke
n to purple rage. Where the hell were Slade and Burr and Murphy? They should’ve been here by now. He wanted to see the bounty hunter sweat, gawddammit. Hell, he wanted to see him bleed. He’d make him beg for death before he was done with him. What were those idiots waiting for?

  “Slade! Come on down! Burr! Murphy! Get your butts down here. We got ‘em!” he called. There was no answer. Only the cry of an eagle circling far, far above. “Murphy! Slade!”

  Rawdon watched as Kincaid’s face underwent a dramatic transformation. Red-hot fury and smug triumph faded away and with them went all the color in the fleshy cheeks. Kincaid was left staring at the empty walls of the canyon towering above them, peering in disbelief at the canyon entrance where nothing moved, no one came. He was ash-gray now, and shaking. But not only with fear. A new, animalistic rage swept over him, a rage born of the urge to survive, to kill, to conquer and smash to bits any enemy.

  “Murphy! Slade! Burr!” he called once more, desperately. Then he brought his gaze swiveling to Cole Rawdon. The black depths of his eyes shone with virulent hatred. “You gawddamned son of a bitch,” he rasped. “What the hell did you do to them?”

  “Nothing near as bad as what I’m going to do to you, Kincaid.” The cool glint of the bounty hunter’s eyes filled the outlaw with stark terror.

  “Weeks! Now!” Kincaid bellowed, and went for his gun.

  Cole Rawdon moved faster. Like lightning he had a Colt in each hand, and like lightning he fired them each in a different direction. One bullet ripped through Kincaid’s heart; the other slammed through the cabin window and plunged into Ed Weeks’s brain. The roar of the two guns thundered through the sunlit canyon, echoing from rock to rock. Then came silence, but for the high, keening screams of the woman.

  Garnet, filthy and half naked, threw herself down beside Kincaid’s body, shrieking at the top of her lungs. When Rawdon approached, her grief turned to terror for herself, and she gasped and stared up at the man looming over her, consumed by hysterical, helpless fright. But he only walked past her into the cabin. It took less than a second to see that Weeks was as dead as a man could get. By the time Rawdon came out again into the light, the woman was quieter, huddling over Kincaid’s bloodied body, sobbing on her knees in the dust.