Chapter 2
Stepping through knee-high sedge grass, First Texas U.S.
Cavalryman Lieutenant Devon Reynolds hooked his small shovel on his saddle horn and smacked his gloves together.
His shoulders and neck muscles ached as if he’d just finished digging a grave.
If they found his buried Federal uniform and his cache of weapons beneath the gnarled roots of the giant elm tree, it’d be his own final resting place.
He swiped his butternut-colored sleeve across his sweated brow.
Leave it to East Texas to be warm even in late November.
Tonight, he’d camp beneath the stars miles from here.
Somewhere by a creek so he could bathe and clean up.
Tomorrow, he’d find Robert LeBeau’s plantation near Columbus, and the act would begin.
He’d have to play up his position as a stepson of a planter-class gentleman, even if his slave-owning stepfather was the last man on earth he wanted to emulate.
He needed LeBeau to view him as an equal and introduce him as such to the other well-to-do men of Colorado County, not just as the scout he’d hired seventeen months ago to track down his niece and help kidnap her from the Comanche.
Morning Fawn. How had she fared since she’d been taken to her uncle’s? What would it be like to see her again? For all he knew, she’d managed to escape and return to her people.
Stubborn. Defiant. During the journey to Fort Belknap, she’d grabbed a gun from one of the younger hands, and Devon had to wrestle her to the ground to get it away from her. Mostly, he’d kept his distance.
Her eyes haunted him still.
Had he ruined her life or saved her? He prayed to God it was the latter.
He should have never taken the job. And he shouldn’t be here now, but a man with any conscience couldn’t stay out of the war forever.
He could have remained in Brownsville with the rest of the Federal invasion force, but Captain Jeremy Carson had convinced him that as a Texan, he could better serve as a spy and saboteur.
The Rebs would have to shift the cotton trade now that Brownsville had fallen. It was his job to discover the new routes and disrupt the flow to Mexico, and LeBeau’s plantation lay in the county that housed the most significant cotton warehouse west of the Mississippi.
A leather patch scraped against the thin pinkish scar that ran from his cheekbone just beneath his left eye to the bridge of his nose, the result of a knife fight with a disgruntled Reb.
The injury had missed his eye, but a stranger looking at the patch would assume differently.
Perfect excuse for being away from his supposed Reb regiment.
He exhaled and willed his hands to leave the stiff patch be.
Instead, he wedged a finger beneath his yellow-trimmed collar. A thin silver chain and locket which had once adorned his wife’s neck now lay cool against his skin. A heavy sigh rattled through him. He had failed her. He’d asked God for forgiveness. Forgiving himself was a different matter.
A far-off yell. Overhead, a handful of crows took flight.
A shiver ran down his backbone. Anyone within shouting distance was too close. Knife drawn, he whacked off a nearby juniper branch and swished it across the freshly covered spot beneath the elm.
Another shout, almost discernable.
He hurried to his horse. The last thing he wanted was to be seen near this location. Foot in the stirrup, he nudged his light bay mare forward before he’d settled in the saddle. Up the incline from the creek, he headed for the road, dropping the branch by a cluster of trees.
Hard, quick clomps, and a horse and rider galloped around the bend, a girl with honey-colored hair flowing in the wind.
“Stop her.” A fellow in a red shirt goaded his mount at full throttle, beating his way toward the girl’s dust. “Thief.”
Another rider followed close behind him.
A thief? Devon swung his mount toward her as the girl charged past on a Thoroughbred.
She couldn’t have picked a finer horse to steal.
With a snap of the reins and the pressure of his calves, he drove his horse to its limit to match her speed, squinting against the stirred-up sand whirling in the air.
Green plaid dress and no side saddle, she rode as if she were being chased by a herd of buffalo. The butt of a carbine bobbed along in a sling. What kind of girl was this?
“Wait.” He charged up alongside her.
Both horses snorted with the effort. Hooves tore through the withered grass.
His heart pounded.
The rider whipped the loose end of her reins against his hand like a matchstick striking kindling. “Get away from me!”
He would not be beaten and outrun by a girl, especially not a thieving one. Pressing the balls of his feet against the stirrups, he raised himself in the saddle and drove his horse onward.
Hair flying, she veered her animal toward the road. Devon kept pace.
Her stirrup dangled within inches of his. Wham. She rammed her foot into his.
Blasted left eye. He should have approached on the other side. Enough. He wrapped the end of the reins around his hand.
Her foot came again. His horse flinched.
Now was the moment. He leaned half out of the saddle, grabbed her, his left arm around her back, and pulled with all of his might.
Her upper body shifted to his lap.
She dug her nails into his thighs. Trying to hold her was worse than wrestling a wildcat. Did she want to get them both killed?
He pressed his weight against her and gave one final yank. Her foot slipped free of her stirrup.
Goggle-eyed, the Thoroughbred slacked its pace and veered away.
“Whoa.” Devon pulled back on his reins.
An elbow jammed into his gut as his mare slowed. “Unhh.”
His grip loosened, and the woman jumped.
He yanked his horse to a full stop and hopped off.
Scratched and dirty and dress torn, she rolled to her feet and jerked her head toward the sound of hooves.
She looked familiar. No. It couldn’t be—
“Keep her there,” the man in the red shirt yelled as he charged toward them.
She spun toward Devon with eyes blazing. Morning Fawn. With honey-blond hair, not dark brown.
His mouth dropped.
Recognition dawned across her face. “You’re one of them.” Her face contorted. “You. Ruined. Everything.” She screeched, hitched her skirts, and ran at him.
The impact almost knocked him off his feet. Her fists struck him in the chest, the shoulders. Devon gripped her wrists. Their gazes locked. Specks of gold in a sea of brown-green glared at him, as fiery as a branding iron. A spark sizzled through him and buried deep, awaiting ignition.
She shoved him. Both of them toppled to the ground. He fought to escape her fists and feet. Rolling on top of her, he pushed himself up on all fours and pinned her down.
“Get your hands off me.” She spit out the words, clear English, not the Spanish and Comanche she’d been confined to when they’d snatched her last year.
It’s good to see you. He pressed his lips shut against the idiotic pleasantry, but other words bubbled out. “What happened to your hair?”
She scowled at him. “What are you talking about?”
“It used to be dark—”
“You’re destroying my life”—Morning Fawn’s breaths came in short huffs like a steam engine—“and you’re worried about my hair?”
“I—”
A horse drew up to within a few feet of them, saving him from further stupidity.
Devon blinked at the spray of dust.
“Let me help.” The red-shirt man swung down off his mount and hitched his trousers. “Mighty obliged to you. We can take it from here.”
“I can handle her.” Devon moved off her legs and shifted his body weight to the ground without letting go of her hands. He scoured the man with his gaze. “Why are you chasing her? What’d she do?”
“I did nothing.” Morning Fawn squirmed beneath his hold. “You animals—”
“Ran away. Stole the finest horse in Colorado County.” The man bent down and aimed his thick hand at Morning Fawn’s arm.
“I said I’ve got her.” Horse thieving could be a hanging offense. Devon grabbed her and pulled her back against his chest, away from the hefty man’s reach. Her mussed hair brushed his chin.
She stiffened.
He’d best make sure she didn’t slam her head into his jaw.
The second rider, a tall black man wearing a patched jacket, frowned as he slid out of his saddle.
“What are you doing, George?” The red-shirt man jabbed his finger at the new arrival. “Get back on your horse and round up Mr. Franklin’s Thoroughbred.”
“Yes, sir.” George pivoted and mounted.
The boss narrowed his eyes at Devon and rested his hand on his holster. “And who might you be? Don’t let that pretty face fool you. She’s a real wildcat.”
Devon tightened his grip on Morning Fawn’s wrist and drew her to her feet as he stood. “I recognize her. I helped rescue her from the Comanches.”
“Rescue?” She lunged against his hold. “Kidnapped.”
The fellow blinked wide and nudged his battered brown hat up a notch off his forehead, revealing a receding hairline. “You’re Reynolds?”
Morning Fawn blew out a breath. “You two should have a lot to talk about.” Lace trim hung loose from one of her sleeves, probably torn in the scuffle. Dirt marred her green plaid dress. “Both of you are money-grubbers willing to do anything for a dollar.”
The man stuck out his chest, stretching his worn suspenders. “I heard tell you did fine work, but I also heard you got yourself in trouble at Fort Belknap. Escaped from the provost marshal and went on the run. What’d they do? Force you to enlist?” He nodded toward Devon’s uniform.
“You heard wrong about the provost marshal. Just a bunch of trumped-up charges from a colonel who had a personal grudge. And no one forced me. I volunteered. Mister?”
“Owens.” He swiped his neckerchief over his brow. “Mr. LeBeau’s overseer. It’s my duty to get this girl back to her uncle.” That explained the whip on the pommel of his saddle.
“I was on my way to visit Mr. LeBeau when I saw this girl galloping by and you behind her yelling ‘thief.’ I’d be pleased to—”