Beyond the Silver Moon (Elkhorn, Colorado: Caleb Marlowe Novels #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

The scent of fresh-cut pine hung in the night air, sharp and clean, mingling with woodsmoke and the cool mountain breeze slipping through the unfinished cabin doorway. Caleb Marlowe stretched his shoulders and watched the embers of the fire throw flickering shadows on the new cabin walls.

Outside, a muffled sound drew his attention, and Caleb focused on the door at the same time Bear lifted his great head. The thick, golden fur on the neck of the dog rose, and the low growl told Caleb that his own instincts were not wrong.

In an instant, both man and dog were on their feet.

Caleb signaled for the big, yellow animal to stay and reached for his Winchester ’73.

The .44-caliber rifle was leaning against the new pine boards he’d nailed up not two hours before.

He glanced once around the rough cabin—the first real place that had belonged to him in longer than he cared to remember.

If he’d had time to hang the door, whoever was out there might have gotten the drop on him.

The broad fields gleamed like undulating waves of silver under the May moon between the wooded ridges that formed the east and west boundaries of his property.

Down the slope from the cabin, by a bend in the shallow river, he could see the newly purchased cattle settled for the night. His cattle. His land. His future.

Caleb slipped outside into the cool mountain air and moved silently along the wall of the nearly finished cabin.

Bear moved ahead of him and disappeared into the shadow cast by the building.

The crisp breeze was light and coming out of the north, from the direction of Elkhorn, three miles away as the crow flies.

Most men would’ve built closer to town. Closer to help. Closer to people. But Caleb had spent too much of his life around violence and hard men. Out here, with the mountains and the river and the silence, a man could almost believe he might leave the past behind.

Bear growled low again. Six riders came out of the tall pines, moving slowly along the eastern edge of the meadow.

He had no doubt as to their intentions. They were rustlers, and they were after his cattle. But this was his property—his and Henry’s—and that included those steers.

He’d fought too long and wandered too far to lose this place now.

He needed to get a little closer to these snakes.

Standing a couple inches over six feet with broad shoulders and solid muscles, he was hardly an insignificant target, even at night.

His wagon was fifty yards nearer to them, but with this moon they’d spot him and come at him before he got halfway there.

Beyond the wagon, there were half a dozen stone outcroppings, but nothing else to stop a bullet.

Just then, the cattle must have smelled them too, because they started grunting and moving restlessly. That was all the distraction he needed.

Staying low, Caleb ran hard, angling his path to get the wagon between him and the rustlers as quickly as he could.

He nearly made it.

The flash from the lead rider’s rifle was accompanied by the crack of wood and an explosion of splinters above the sideboard of the wagon. A second shot struck the ground a few yards to Caleb’s right. Immediately, with shouts and guns blazing, they came charging hard.

Caleb raised his Winchester and fired, quickly levering and firing again. The second shot caught the lead rider, knocking him backward from the saddle.

The others kept coming.

A hot line ripped across Caleb’s stomach just above his belt, spinning him half around. Pain flared, sharp and sudden.

Too close, he thought, levering in another cartridge.

What followed was brief and brutal. When the shooting was done, four rustlers lay in the grass. The remaining pair had made a run for the pines above the meadow.

Caleb turned toward the forest, where the two men were boxed in by the ridge there. They were cornered, and cornered men were dangerous.

With Bear moving like a ghost beside him, Caleb tracked them through the dark timber.

When it was over, they were dead, and Caleb rested a hand briefly against Bear’s neck. “You done good, boy.”

This dog had been beside him through lonely camps, hard winters, and too many dangerous trails to count. Truth be told, Bear was the closest thing he had to family.

Only then did Caleb feel the sting from the bullet crease along his stomach. Pulling aside his torn shirt, he checked the wound. It bled some, but not badly.

For a moment he stood there in the cold mountain silence, breathing hard. He thought about what he’d nearly lost.

A cabin. A herd. A stretch of river valley. Maybe even peace someday. Strange how fast a man could lose everything he’d barely started building.

A few minutes later, with the rustlers tethered across their saddles, Caleb led the horses back down through the pine forest.

As he neared the meadow, Bear stopped abruptly and lifted his nose into the wind.

Caleb immediately froze.

In the darkness at the edge of the forest, another rider—wearing a bowler and a canvas duster—was peering out at the unfinished cabin and the saddled horses grazing in the silvery field.

Caleb silently looped the reins over a low branch and raised his Winchester.

“All right,” he called coldly. “Raise your hands where I can see them.”

Slowly, the rider obeyed. Bear trotted forward and sniffed curiously at the stranger’s boot.

“Start talking,” Caleb demanded.

The rider turned slightly in the saddle, and a shaft of moonlight illuminated her face.

A woman’s face.

And a beautiful one at that.

For the first time all night, Caleb found himself caught completely off guard.

“I was coming after you, Mr. Marlowe,” she said, gesturing toward the grazing animals. “But the men who were riding those horses got here first.”