The Cowboy's Revenge (Ride Hard Series Book 1) Read online

~*~

  “Somebody shut that whore up!” shouted Jacob Waltze. “A man can’t think with all that caterwauling!”

  The saloon girl with garish red hair who had been belting out a tortured version of “Shenandoah” harrumphed and stormed off the stage. The only sound now was the murmuring of the crowd and the occasional clink of glasses. All eyes were on the back poker table.

  Mason watched in disgust as Waltze’s pale thin hand swiped at the sweat running down his brow. It was hard to stomach. This sallow, bony excuse for a man killed his brother. John was as tall as Mason and just as brawny with a quick eye and quicker hand with a gun. Of course, Waltze didn’t take John on man to man. No. He was a cold-booted, son of a bitch who shot John in the back. Mason didn’t need his six shooter stowed behind the bar. He could snap Waltze’s neck with one hand. Signaling to the saloon girl hovering nearby for another shot of whiskey, Mason tried to cool his heated thoughts. He had no intention of getting his neck stretched for this pathetic piece of crow bait. No, he was going to ruin the man’s life…bit by bit.

  Mason had already found the Dutchman’s secret gold mine. It had taken close to a year. Following the clues in John’s last letter, he searched under every boulder and around every cottonwood tree for the mine marker’s John left. He finally found it not far from the First Water trail head deep in the wilds of Superstition Mountain.

  It was obvious Waltze had mined the ore himself over the years to avoid detection. Mason found a large arrastre, used for solitary mining. Evidence the rough wooden beam and flat stones used for crushing the rocks to get to the gold ore had been replaced for wear more than once lied strewn about the makeshift camp.

  Mason wasted no time.

  Placing several sticks of dynamite in the already mined gaps of the rock face, he blew the whole fucking mine to kingdom come. Waltze’s fortune was turned to gold dust, swept away on the wind with the tumbleweeds.

  Now Mason sat across from Waltze, putting the second half of his plan into action. Although Waltze didn’t know it, his fortune was gone. Now Mason would take his reputation…and his precious daughter.

  ~*~

  Despite his elevated status in the town, Waltze was not well liked. He was mean and crude. Not to mention the long-standing rumor he had shot a man in cold blood to gain access to the secret gold mine that made him so rich. So you would think people of the town would be happy to see him upset and nervous as he faced off with the handsome stranger across the poker table. They weren’t. The stakes were too high. Waltze had crossed a line in their minds.

  An hour earlier, the tall stranger of few words had joined in on Waltze’s nightly game. Slowly and methodically, the stranger fleeced each man at the table of all their gold nuggets till it was just him and Mayor Waltze.

  “I think I’m finished for the night,” said Mason, as he pushed his chair back to rise. The click of a revolver stopped him. Waltze was pointing a six shooter at his chest.

  “You’re done when I say you’re done, stranger,” sneered Waltze. “No man takes a fortune off me and walks away. We are going to keep playing till I get all my gold back.”

  Mason hid a smile, that was precisely what he wanted to hear. He wanted the town to witness it was Waltze who pushed the stakes higher and higher. It lowered the chance Mason would have a posse on his heals when he left town with the man’s daughter slung over the back of his horse. People being people, they were more likely to blame and tarnish Waltze’s reputation for treating his daughter like a poker chip in the first place than the man who won her.

  Hand after hand, Waltze became more agitated and the more agitated he became the greater risk he took, which brought them to this moment.

  Mason placed all his chips in the center of the table. “I raise you the lot, Waltze. Call or fold.”

  Waltze took out a frilly lace-edged handkerchief and mopped his brow. His riches did not buy intelligence. He was a vain, arrogant man who never backed down from a fight.

  Looking down at his smaller pile, he prevaricated. “Look here, I don’t have enough to cover at this moment but any one of these people could vouch I’m good for the debt.”

  “Here and now or fold,” growled Mason.

  “Look here you bastard! I tell you I’m good for it.”

  Mason leaned in close. “Here and now or fold.”

  Waltze looked down at his hand, four kings. He could not lose. Wanting badly to teach this smug stranger not to try and best him in his own town, Waltze looked about the room. “Empty your pockets, I need some ready. Come on now…you know I’m good for it!”

  “Nothing doing, Mayor. He cleaned us out.” Spoke up one wiry fellow who had been knocked out of the game early.

  “I may be interested in something beyond gold,” observed Mason carefully. This was his only chance. If Waltze didn’t take the bait, he would simply kidnap the girl but it would be far sweeter if Waltze was the one responsible for her disgrace.

  “Well, what is it?” asked an impatient Waltze.

  “Your daughter.”

  The crowd gave out a collected gasp. The poker table now had everyone’s undivided attention. Even in a rowdy mining town like Vulture City, a man did not discuss the decent woman folk in a saloon and you certainly never dared mentioned Annabelle in the mayor’s presence.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me. I want your daughter for one full week,” smirked Mason, his shocking intent clear.

  “That’s scandalous!” shouted someone in the crowd.

  “Run the son of a bitch out of town!” shouted another.

  “String him up on ol’ Ironwood!” yelled a third.

  Waltze held up his hand for silence. He once more looked down at his hand. Four Kings. Four Kings! He could not lose. He would take all the stranger’s gold, which was considerable, and not risk a single nugget more of his own.

  “You’re on,” sneered Waltze. “I call.” The townspeople were stunned. Apparently, they had forgotten. The only thing Jacob Waltze coveted more than his step-daughter…was gold.

  Waltze triumphantly flipped over his four kings. He was so busy pulling all the chips into his greedy embrace, he did not see the stranger, slowly and methodically, flip over a queen, a jack, a ten, a nine and an eight…a straight flush, a winning hand.

  Someone whispered in awe, “He cleaned out the mayor…even got his damn daughter.”

  Another whistled low, “Didn’t leave him with so much as a tail-feather.”

  The scrape of Mason’s chair resonated across the dumbfounded saloon.

  “I will be by to collect my winnings…Dutchman,” Mason growled. Walking away from the table, he didn’t even bother to collect the small fortune in chips now trickling from Waltze’s limp hand. He retrieved his gun and stepped out into the cool early morning air.

  It was only after Mason left the saloon, Waltze reacted to his words. Dutchman! The mine!

  Chapter Three

  Something was wrong, thought Annabelle.

  She leaned her ear against the bedroom door and strained to hear. Sounds of scuffling boots and cabinets being opened and slammed shut permeated through. The muffled shouts of her step-father rose above the din. Annabelle glanced across the room to her windows beyond. Streaks of rose and golden light peaked through the heavy velvet curtains. It was dawn. Usually her step-father collapsed into his bed until at least noon after a night of gambling.

  Something was wrong.

  She could hear him shout for his palomino to be saddled. He only wanted that horse when he headed out to his gold mine. He thought the soft tan coat and blond mane helped hide the horse when he crossed open land. Her step-father was extremely reticent about the location of his mine. Not even her mother knew. He would also refuse to even discuss it for fear the servants would overhear. Every few weeks he would saddle his horse and head out. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for over a week. Always alone.

  Annabelle strained to hear more.

  ~*~

&nb
sp; “Sam and Buck, rig up the buckboard. Jeb, load up the guns,” yelled her step-father.

  Waltze was desperate to depart. That god damn stranger had called him Dutchman. His past was supposed to be dead and buried, literally. He can’t believe he did not recognize the family resemblance. He was getting soft after years of wealth and position. The stranger must be his former partner’s soldier brother. The one he wouldn’t shut up about. Somehow he had tracked John’s murder back to him. He needed to get to his mine to see if it was secure. Over the years, he refused to bring any help so he was limited in how much gold ore he could extract. Now he was bringing some of his men. He would mine as much ore as possible and then skip town.

  And his men? Well, he would dispose of them like he did his first partner. He would grab the gold and return for Annabelle. Till then, he would lock her up in her room till his return. If all went well, he would be back before nightfall. His servants would keep the stranger at bay till then. The last thing Waltze would do before skipping town was shoot that god damn stranger in the head.

  It would be easy to find another boomtown. The west was crawling with them. Perhaps he would head north?

  This would be better. No one would know Annabelle was his step-daughter. He would force her to marry him on the trail. Then they would enter the new town as husband and wife. Yes, this was a good plan.

  ~*~

  Annabelle shivered. His henchmen. They were a nasty lot. She avoided being alone with them at all costs. Something was definitely wrong if he was taking those men with him. Annabelle heard the hard footfall of boots heading down the hallway toward her bedroom. She quickly scrambled back into bed, pulling the covers up high and turning her head away from the door. She could hear it slowly creak open. Then nothing. Annabelle opened her eyes ever so slightly and tried to peak out through her lashes. All she could see was the thin shadowed outline of her step-father framed in the doorway. After what felt like an hour but was only a few seconds, the door closed.

  Then the unmistakable sound of metal scraping against metal. He had locked her in.

  Annabelle threw back the heavy quilted covers with a huff. How dare he? Storming across the room, she grasped the brass door knob and gave it a twist. Definitely locked. Shaking her head, Annabelle crossed to her vanity. Opening a small lower drawer, she pushed aside piles of ribbons and hair combs. Swishing the tips of her fingers to the absolute back of the drawer till they bumped against something hard and metal. Grasping it, she pulled her hand free. Silly man, she thought with a smirk. She had had a key to her bedroom door since she was thirteen!

  Whatever was happening below with her step-father was not her concern. In fact, it fit in perfectly with her plans. Tossing aside her white lace nightgown, Annabelle prepared to dress. It would be difficult getting her hair just right in the dark but sacrifices must be made for secrecy!

  ~*~

  Mason leaned against a cottonwood tree as he reached into his pocket for some squares of corn shucks. Leisurely rolling a cigarette with them, he observed the chaos of Waltze’s household from a distance. Taking out a matchbook, he shook it. One left. Scraping the Lucifer stick on the bottom of his boot, he grimaced from the sudden burst of sulfur before lighting his cigarette. Pulling a long drag, he clenched his teeth and blew a blue cloud through them. Soon, he thought with a smile as he watched Waltze and his posse of henchmen head out of town hell over leather for the Dutchman’s mine. The coward was more concerned with checking on his gold than securing the safety of his daughter. Good luck with that laughed Mason as he snubbed out his cigarette careful to avoid the brittle brush at his feet. Unhitching the reins of his chestnut, Cupid, from around the tree trunk, Mason carefully made his way around to the stable yard behind Waltze’s house.

  ~*~

  Annabelle crept down the back stairs. The house was eerily quiet, as if the servants had left as well. Thankfully, she had bribed the stable boy to sneak her trunks down yesterday. They were hidden on the back porch under a tarp.

  Eloping was easy, she thought with a smile.

  They were going to have to travel light so Annabelle only packed the absolute essentials. Ten day dresses, three evening gowns, her opera cloak and the ermine. She was forced to only bring four parasols but she refused to leave for a trip with less than fifteen pairs of gloves. Anything less wouldn’t be decent. What if one of them got dirty and she didn’t have a clean pair to change into? The bonnets were the hardest. She had one to match each dress so she had to choose carefully since she only had cases to fit eleven of them. Then of course there were her hair combs and ribbons, her silk unmentionables and her toilette. She felt positively naked if she left the house without a few drops of her sweetbriar perfume on her wrists. It was no matter. She would purchase a new wardrobe when they reached San Francisco.

  Annabelle stepped on to the porch, raising her parasol against the bright glow of the rising sun. Her fiancé should be here soon. They had planned to leave in early morning while her step-father was passed out from a night of gambling and drinking. It was going to be difficult not stirring him since his bedroom overlooked the stables, it was so much more convenient for her plans that he lit out on some wild errand.

  Annabelle heard a stir across the yard and looked up to see a rugged man leading a horse her way. Observing from the tops of his dusty black knee-high boots to his wide shoulders, Annabelle did not recognize him at first. He was too tall…too broad…to be her unassuming fiancé. As the man sauntered closer, Annabelle continued to stare. The brim of his Stetson blocked most of his face but she could see a strong jaw with just a hint of a beard. Full lips. Dark wavy hair the color of walnut curled around his collar. Her eyes wandered to the opening of his navy blue shirt. Deep tawny skin with whirls of dark hair gave a tantalizing glimpse of a sculpted chest.

  Annabelle licked her lips. Giving her head a shake, she was sure it was just the dust from the yard which made her mouth open and go dry.

  As the stranger neared, he raised his head. Slate gray eyes.

  “You!” she angrily charged.

  “Hello, Calico,” intoned Mason, knowing the name would annoy her.

  Annabelle bristled. Calico was a name cowboys had for women. Common frontier women who wore those cheap calico print dresses! She was dressed in a brilliant emerald green taffeta skirt over a caged crinoline with an impressive pagoda-sleeved ivory lace blouse. At her throat, was a heavy cameo broach the size of her palm. She knew the colors complimented her pale skin and bright blue eyes.

  “How dare you address me as such!” she hissed.

  “You’re about to find out. I’ll dare a lot more than that,” he quipped as he strode the few steps onto the back porch.

  Annabelle backed away. “Get off my porch,” she ordered with less force than intended. No longer shouting at him from afar, his brawn was…overwhelming. Her petite frame barely reached his shoulder. She had to tilt her head back to still meet him eye to eye.

  Ignoring her, Mason scanned his surroundings. Noticing the pile of trunks and hatboxes, his eyes swung back to hers. “Going somewhere, Calico?” he demanded, taking a step closer, crowding her.

  Annabelle raised her chin defiantly. It didn’t matter he was the handsomest man she had seen in three counties. He was a dirty cowboy and a brute and…and…she refused to be cowed!

  “For your information my fiancé is picking me up in his carriage,” she smirked, putting special emphasis on fiancé. “We’re leaving for Phoenix. You, mangy coyote!” She really shouldn’t be telling this stranger such details. It was almost as if she wanted to make him jealous! The very thought indeed!

  Mason tilted his head to the side and made a clucking noise with his mouth. “Afraid your fiancé is too late.”

  He watched as her bright eyes caught fire. As she leaned out her window yelling at him yesterday, he was able to appreciate her heart-shaped face and gorgeous mane of hair but the exact color of her eyes escaped him. She was too far away. Now she was close enough to touch…
to grab. Her eyes were the color of wild violets. Blue one moment. Almost purple the next. He could tell from her fast breathing, glistening lips and heated gaze she wasn’t only just mad at him. There was something else at play. Good, it would make his revenge that much easier. He would sink his cock deep into her body knowing he was really fucking over the man who killed his brother. This wasn’t about a pretty girl. This wasn’t about a nice fuck. This was about revenge, pure and simple.

  Annabelle gave an unladylike snort. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Mason’s eyes turned to flint. His jaw hardened as he leaned in close. “You’re already mine.”

  Annabelle discounted the flurry in her stomach his scandalously possessive words caused and took another step back.

  Mason let her. She wouldn’t get far.

  “If you don’t leave this property this instant, I’ll scream,” she warned, holding her now closed parasol in front of her like weapon.

  Mason grabbed the frilly edge of the flimsy stick and yanked hard. Annabelle flew forward to collide with his chest. The parasol snapped like a dried twig in his large powerful hand. Her hoop skirt swayed and lifted in the back, as her thighs were pressed tight to his. She pushed in vain to be released, not liking the warm feel of his hand as it pressed against the thin linen covering her back.

  Mason dropped the parasol and reached for his holster. “Scream all you want. The first man through that door to rescue you is a dead man,” he grit out.

  Annabelle froze as she heard the cock of a gun.

  “Besides, in case you haven’t noticed, all your servants ditched the grounds the moment the dust cleared on your Papa’s wagon. Don’t want to work for a broken man.”

  What this stranger was saying about her step-father was ridiculous. He had plenty of money. So did she. She had been squirreling away her pin money ever since her mother died just in case. It was safely tucked away in one of her hat boxes. “I have money,” she breathed. “It’s yours. All I have.”

  The corner of Mason’s mouth quirked up as he took in her full pink lips and soft skin. “I already plan to take all you have,” he growled, his emphasis unmistakable.