Heritage And Honor

CHAPTER 1

The bright shafts of afternoon sun cut through the barred window and mingled with dust and cigar smoke, forming a billowy blanket. The pot-bellied stove popped and crackled, spitting its fervor into the small room.

Charley’s pulse throbbed and her muscles clenched. Sheriff Cutler barely looked at her. He sat behind his desk and examined his cigar, its end chewed and mangled. He ignored what she’d just told him. To Charley, that could mean one of two things—either the man didn’t like her, or he just didn’t like taking information from a woman. Either way, it made Charley wary of him.

She’d liked the former sheriff. It was too damn bad he’d passed away three months earlier from a heart attack. Sheriff Adams had been dignified. Brave. Caring, even. She’d never had a problem with him. He had always respected her.

But this one…well, Cutler wouldn’t even stand when she entered the room. And the way he’d ignored her complaint—it was plain unacceptable.

She slapped her hat across her left thigh. Sheriff, it’s the third time this week.

Sheriff Cutler blew smoke from his mustache-lined lips. Miss Mason, I done told ya, I have stage robbers to catch.

Her eyes burned and twitched from the smoke. What the hell kind of cigar was that? It certainly wasn’t the kind her father smoked. Her father’s cigars filled her nostrils with a soft, almost sweet aroma. This cheap cigar smoke, mixed with the smell of stale coffee, made her stomach lurch. And the sheriff continued to piss her off.

She cleared her throat. Well, Sheriff, that’s your job. And it’s also your job to find out who’s killing my cattle.

Cutler dropped the cigar to the floor and smashed it with his worn black boots. He stood, his chair rolling back with a squeak and hitting the wall behind him. He pulled at his belt, catapulting his belly over the pock-marked desk. Howz about you have yer brother come see me?

My brother... she wanted to smash his face with her fist. Charley knew most men weren’t keen on independent women, but her father had always told Charley she could do anything. Even what a man could do. And running their ranch along with her brother Andy was just what Charley did.

Cutler squared back his shoulders. Wearing pants don’t make you no man. Understand?

Charley squinted at him. You mean like how wearing that badge doesn’t make you a sheriff?

Cutler sucked in air and coughed. I don’t have time to play Pinkerton for your dead cattle.

Charley laughed. ‘Play Pinkerton.’ That’s funny, Sheriff. She pointed to his shirt. You wouldn’t know a clue if it jumped on that badge.

Cutler’s face turned red and his eyes closed to slits. Now listen—

Never mind. Charley held up her hand. My family and I will handle it. Thanks for nothing. She turned and walked out of the office. She stepped on the boardwalk and shut the door, the SHERIFF sign rattling against the worn wood. Son of a bitch.

She heard a gasp and looked to her left.

Mrs. Haines and her daughter Emily stood outside the newspaper office. Mrs. Haines clicked her tongue, grabbed Emily by the arm, and led her into the general store.

Charley rolled her eyes. Dammit. Nothing like the town busybody and head of the Women’s Church League hearing you cuss. Well, Mrs. Haines could wag her tongue about how unladylike Charley was. Wouldn’t be for the first time. And Charley was too pissed to send a cheeky retort their way.

To hell with Mrs. Haines and her prim, proper daughter. And to hell with the sheriff.

Charley looked across the street. The sign for the Broken Spur Saloon sang to her like a harmonica on a trail drive. A drink—or two—might just ease the fury burning in her gut.

She grabbed her long hair from off her neck and twirled it onto the back of her head, then forced her Stetson on top. With a jingle of spurs on wood, she stepped off the boardwalk and headed to the saloon.

Charley shoved open the batwing doors, making them bounce off the interior frame with a rickety bang. She looked around. Not too crowded here. A farmhand at the bar and two cowboys at a table in the corner.

Charley glanced at the one wearing the tan Stetson, sitting in a chair that he leaned back against the wall. His hat sat low on his forehead, but that didn't hide his chiseled features: thin nose, defined lips, square jaw. Strong, handsome features. She could tell he was watching her, but she was too far away to see the color of his eyes.

I’ll bet they’re beautiful.

Now why in the world would she even think that? Her go-round with Cutler must have messed with her head. She walked to the bar.

Hey, Fred, Charley called. She laid a silver coin on the dull surface, then tugged each finger of her gloved hand, removing the brown leather. She repeated the process with the other hand and arranged both gloves next to her coin. All the while, jumbled thoughts tumbled around in her head.

She and Andy had found butchered cattle on their range for almost a week, and the sheriff hadn’t lifted a finger to help. Which didn’t surprise Charley. The man wasn’t worth the contents of a spittoon. But he was the law, so she’d gone to him for help. All she’d gotten was a headache and the urge to drink herself into a stupor.

Fred came into the saloon from the back room and wiped his hands on the towel tucked into the waistband of his trousers. Howdy, Miss Charley. He set a glass on top of the bar, pulled out a bottle from underneath, and looked at her with raised eyebrows. Charley nodded and Fred poured the liquid. How's it goin'?

I’m horns and rattles. She downed the whiskey in one gulp and set the glass on the counter. Pour me another, please. Charley swallowed that one down lickety-split. She pressed her lips together, then said, You need better whiskey.

He chuckled. Miss Charley, ya say that every time ya come in here. That’s my best stuff.

Charley laughed. She always liked to tease Fred. I know, but you haven’t listened. And neither had the sheriff.

Something wrong?

She pounded a hand on the bar. Sheriff Cutler’s as useless as a saddle on a goat.

What’s he done now? Fred asked.

So you’re still dressin’ like a boy, a familiar voice suddenly said.

Charley turned around and came face-to-face with her ex, Jesse Gardner. Her stomach flipped, and she clenched her right hand near her Colt .44. She didn’t know if she wanted to punch him or shoot him.

What are you doing here? she asked.

Jesse shot her one of his infamous lopsided grins. Aw, come on, Charley. Don’t get your back up. Buy me a drink.

Her fingers itched to grab her gun, but she couldn’t kill a man just for being a scalawag. I wouldn’t buy you a sermon on Sunday, Gardner. Now go cuddle a cactus. Charley turned back toward the bar.

Morgan and Warren Ramsey sat at a corner table in the Broken Spur. Their beer mugs and a deck of cards spread out on the faded, scratched tabletop.

Morgan took a sip of his beer. Warren, I hope we didn’t waste a week riding out here.

We have to get hired at the ranch first. Leaning forward in his chair, Warren rested his elbows on the table and placed his chin on his folded hands. Then we’ll get part ownership. Just like we’d planned back in Helena before we left home.

Morgan raked a hand through his sandy-blond hair, grabbing his hat off the table and stuffing it on his head. Getting hired on at the Bar M is one thing. Getting part ownership is another.

Morg, I’ve never let ya down, so don’t lose faith in me now. Besides, we have a foolproof plan.

Morgan leaned forward. Let’s go over it again. We know the son Andy does the hiring. There are two daughters. Charlotte does some ranching, and the youngest, Katherine isn’t involved at all.

She’s real ladylike, that Katherine. So I heard.

Morgan nodded. I’ll go to the ranch first and see if this Andy will hire us. He took a sip of his beer. Since the ranch breaks and sells mustangs, you can get hired as a bronc buster. He shifted his weight and leaned back in his chair, balancing it on two legs.

Me, a bronc buster? Why?

Because you’re damn good at it, and a good bronc buster is hard to find.

I’d rather be a cowhand, Morgan. I don’t want too much attention and—

Morgan suddenly righted his chair and gazed at the door. Who’s that?

Warren looked toward the door and shrugged. How would I know? Just some whippersnapper, I reckon. He laughed. Someone should fatten him up a bit.

Even with the denim trousers and button-down shirt, Morgan could see she wasn’t a he. She had a long neck and her waist curved to small hips and thighs. Surely, Warren could see all that, too.

Morgan stared at the girl. She looked around the saloon, her gaze resting on him briefly, and then she walked to the bar. Her chin set, head high, and back as straight as a blade of grass reaching for the sun.

Soon, some cowboy came up to her, and after a few exchanged words, the girl turned her back on him. The cowboy grabbed her wrist and pulled. A Stetson flew in the air, and long blond hair tumbled out from underneath.

Warren, look again.

Warren looked up from his cards and opened his mouth, but Morgan held up a hand. He pushed away from their table, stood as he slid the edge of his long duster behind his gun, and then strode to the bar.

Jesse held Charley’s wrist. She tried to tug it away. He tightened his grip, sending stitches of pain up her arm. Let go of me.

You always were purdy when you were mad, Jesse said with a crooked grin. He bent his head closer. She twisted and pulled her wrist free.

Charley moved back a step, rubbing her throbbing right wrist. A man suddenly appeared beside her.

I don’t think the lady wants your attention. The stranger’s deep voice filled the saloon.

Charley looked at the stranger’s profile. It was the cowboy from the corner table. His hat still sat low on his head, and sandy-blond hair peeked out from beneath the back. He stood tall. Taller than her, and taller than Jesse.

This ain’t none of your business, mister. Jesse took a step forward.

Charley heard a click. The stranger held a gun. She hadn’t even seen his arm move.

I’m making it my business. Now leave. His tone unyielding as he aimed the revolver at Jesse’s chest.

Charley watched the play of emotion on Jesse’s face. He didn’t want to heed the stranger’s warning. He looked at her, his eyes sparking like flint on steel. He wanted to fight with her some more. She held her breath. Jesse had always taken too many chances. Didn’t seem like he’d changed one bit in five years.

Jesse pointed at her. This ain’t over, Charley. He turned and walked out of the saloon.

The stranger holstered his gun and bent down to retrieve her hat. He handed it to her and tipped the brim of his tan hat. Ma’am, I think this belongs to you.

Charley took her hat and looked up into his face. She felt the pulse of her heart in her veins. Oh, um. Yes. Thank you.

She could see the color of his eyes now. And truth be told, she’d never seen that shade of green before; lush as a morning’s meadow, yet as inflexible as a cold branding iron. His long, thin nose sat above defined lips set in a stern line.

None of that was necessary, she said.

Well, ma’am, from my perspective, it was. I always help a lady in need. His gaze took an unhurried stroll down her body, lingering on her legs, then back up to her face. Although with those trousers, I’m only assuming you’re a lady.

Charley’s stomach tightened. I didn’t ask for your assistance, mister. And I certainly didn’t ask for your opinion of my character.

He laughed, the sound coming from deep within his chest. Listen, I didn’t come here for trouble, although I ended up finding some. Why don’t you run along? Cuz like I said, I’m assuming you’re a lady, and ladies don’t belong in saloons unless they're working girls.

Did he just compare her to a saloon girl? The jackass. She whacked her hat against her thigh. You wouldn’t know a la—

Miss Charley? Fred scooted out from behind the bar and stood next to her.

Charley looked at the stranger, then to Fred and back again. She let out a loud sigh. Dammit. Fred hated fights in his place. Something always got broken and needed fixin’. She didn’t want to be the cause of any hardship for him. Even though she could pay for damages, she couldn’t pay for Fred’s mental comfort.

Charley grabbed her gloves and placed her Stetson on her head. This isn’t over. She waved her gloves at the stranger’s face. If I ever see you again, and you stick your nose in my business, you’ll be sorry. She patted Fred’s shoulder and marched out of the saloon.

Morgan stared at the swinging batwing doors. "What was that?"

"That was a woman you don’t wanna tangle with." Fred walked back behind the bar.

Morgan shook his head, then rejoined his brother at the table. Warren was laughing at the spectacle.

Have your laughs, big brother.

You were right. That was a woman. And what a woman. Warren laughed again.

What kinda woman walks around dressed like that? Morgan took a gulp of his now-warm beer. Those trousers showed...well, they showed she was a woman for Christ’s sake. Morgan couldn’t erase the image of her stomping out of the saloon.

The denim material had hugged every curve of her lower body. Her hips had swayed like a porch swing. He’d seen, and liked, the curve of her waist, hips, and backside. And they were all attached to long, long legs…and now everything was etched in his mind.

Damn, he didn’t need a woman messing with their plans. He took another swig of his beer.

She sure was a spitfire, Warren said. She didn’t swoon right into your arms, either.

Morgan grunted. I don’t know what territory you live in, but not all women swoon into my arms.

Morgan, you always have women swooning into your arms. And men who want to shoot you.

Are you talking about that little redhead back in Wolf Creek? She didn’t swoon at me.

Only because the dude she was with wanted to shoot ya. He found out who you were and pulled his gun. To his demise, the fool.

Morgan shook his head. He hadn’t wanted to kill the fellow, but the man wouldn’t back off. When the fellow had pulled his gun, Morgan didn’t have a choice but to defend himself. It’s not my fault fast guns want to make a name for themselves, Warren.

I know that. Your height sure as hell doesn’t help. You stand out like a saddle blister.

Hobble your lip.

Warren raised his hands. "Sorry. You may be my younger brother, but you certainly ain’t my little brother."

Morgan was two years Warren’s junior and four inches taller. He didn’t mind being tall. Hell, he didn’t mind being fast with his pistol, either. He just didn’t like being a target for every gunslinger looking to put a notch on his grip.

And he didn’t like women in saloons unless they were ladies of the night. That spitfire had class. Morgan had heard it in her voice and had seen it in the way she carried herself. And she was filled with fire. She'd tried to hold her emotions in check, but Morgan sensed her passion just beneath the surface. One day, it would burst out. Maybe he’d be around...damn it. He didn’t need this right now. Someone needs to turn her over his knee.

Oh, we’re back to her again?

No. Morgan shook his head. I mean, she shouldn’t be in here.

Why not?

She’s a lady, Warren. And she has class, despite those trousers.

So you want to bend a lady over your knee? Interesting.

Morgan narrowed his eyes at his brother. Okay, enough. Back to business.

Warren nodded and took a sip of his beer.

I’ll head out to the Bar M. You meet up with me, and we’ll talk to this Andy about getting hired on. The first part of our plan will be in motion. Morgan knew once they had set their plan into action, there was no turning back. He also knew he had no desire to stop. It was all or nothing.

CHAPTER 2

Outside the Broken Spur, Charley mounted Omega and kicked her into a full gallop. She wanted to get to the Bar M. Home. It would shield her from handsome strangers, who were a mixture of gallantry and boorishness. And it would protect her from Jesse, who was up to God knew what.

Charley took the main trail to the ranch. Trees lined both sides of the path, creating a canopy against the late afternoon sun. It didn’t take long for her house to come into view.

It was a large house. Two stories high and ornate in many ways, with its columns and numerous French doors. But it had always been home to Charley. A place she’d felt safe. She'd always felt loved growing up in the grand Bar M house.

Charley rode the short distance to the courtyard, thoughts still awhirl. Jesse was back. Her stomach tightened. Aunt Lydia would catch on that something had happened. Charley didn’t want to explain Jesse just yet. And she didn’t want to explain the stranger at all. He’d unnerved her.

He was a fine-looking man. Charley wouldn’t deny that: tall and bold, with green eyes that had stared straight into her soul. His clothing had stretched taut across muscle and sinew, touting power and virility. He emitted dominance. Damn him.

Charley dismounted in front of the veranda. I will not think of him. She tethered Omega to a post by the front steps. Cal, their most loyal ranch hand, would take care of her precious animal. Charley patted Omega’s rump, then made her way to the front door.

She closed the door with a soft click and looked around the grand foyer. No sign of her sister Katherine or Aunt Lydia. She crept across the marble floor to the parlor.

Once her boots hit the carpet, she walked to the liquor table near the French door. She poured herself a brandy and swirled the amber liquid in the glass.

Jesse Gardner was back.

She hadn’t seen him since he’d left five years earlier. She certainly hadn’t missed him. Leaving had been the best gift he’d ever given her, even if it hadn’t been of his own free will.

Charley didn’t blame him. Her father’s legal power and political