Prairie Fire

CHAPTER 1

March 7, 1893

FIRE rode the prairie in the form of a spectral horse.

Tongues of orange, gold, and crimson licked up from dry grass and leaped toward the brilliant dawn sky. The horse galloped westward, leaving miles and miles of scorched ground in its fevered wake. Flaming hooves churned up smoke and ash. An orange tail flicked sparks at scrub brush. Speckled hindquarters shimmered like embers in the seat of a hearth. A great head of swirling fire reared up, red flames shooting from golden nostrils. Then a powerful voice cracked like lightning, branding the morning with two simple words: Fire Horse.

Chloe Talley-Marsh closed her eyes and shook her head. Had she just seen a ghost? After a silent count of three, she glanced again through the thin glass window of the train’s swaying dining car. All she saw this time was mile after mile of flat prairie flowing by in featureless silence. The only tangible fire remained in the belly of the westbound train.

Surely, it had been her imagination playing an odd trick with the iron horse nickname some applied to trains. Or perhaps some kind of prairie mirage created by the sunrise. Yes, that must have been it, she concluded, because it couldn’t be a ghost. Could it?

Dinnerware and glasses rattled on nearby tables, bringing her attention back inside the dining car. As usual, she was the first passenger served breakfast and the first to receive their wonderful cinnamon-laced coffee.

Chloe’s destination was the Lightning Ranch in the newly formed county of Lincoln, south of a river called Deep Fork deep inside wild Oklahoma Territory. The ranch belonged to her brother, Joe Talley. Although she would be glad to see Joe and his family again, she did not intend to stay long.

At summer’s end, Chloe planned to ride the train toward the eastern foothills of the Rocky Mountains, skirting south across portions of New Mexico, steaming west through Arizona, and eventually angling northward to San Francisco. For years, Chloe had longed to see that intriguing city nestled on the edge of the Pacific Ocean. Finally, she had both the freedom and the money to make her wish come true.

She envisioned San Francisco as a mysterious, exotic place, where no one would question her light-gold skin and soft black hair. No one would notice the smoky-gray eyes that punctuated a finely sculpted face. No one would care about her half-Irish, half-Cherokee blood. In San Francisco, no one would say she should marry and stay at home. In San Francisco, life for a woman would be better. At least, that was how things would be in the San Francisco she envisioned.

However, first she must spend a few months at the Lightning Ranch and attempt to make peace with her meddlesome older brother.

Pushing back the cuff of her best blue calico dress, Chloe sipped coffee as though it was nectar from the gods. Her gaze drifted down the long, narrow dining car. One by one, hungry passengers stumbled through the swaying car and found now familiar seats.

Would that gossipy matron seated across the aisle notice the absence of Chloe’s bustle and stiff corset this morning? Would the small stays built into her dress bodice be enough to fool that old busybody? Chloe took a deep, free breath, feeling only lace and cotton and the hint of whalebone against her ribs. Corsets were such ridiculous trappings. They served no purpose but to take a woman’s breath. Then again, perhaps that was the purpose.

And what about the shortened collar of her dress that left so much of her long neck exposed? High collars with lace lapping up around the ears were the fashion of the day. But Chloe couldn’t stand being choked by so much fabric. She had made the collar of this dress scandalously short and without lace trim.

Would anyone notice if the top two buttons were undone? Probably.

The long tail of her heavy skirt, plus three layers of petticoats, bunched at her feet beneath the table and crept treacherously around the heels of her high-button shoes. She would have to be careful not to trip when she got to her feet. No use in providing more gossip fodder. Chloe visualized her body sprawled on the carpet runner, her skirt and petticoats tangled over her head, showing off the fine lace trim of her thin pantaloons, and every man in the dining car ogling the shape of her cotton-covered derriere. As a precaution, she shuffled her feet under the table, thereby disentangling her shoes from folds of lazy fabric.

The only person on the train of Chloe’s marginal acquaintance walked into the dining car and made his way to her table. His western attire never failed to draw looks of disdain from the more expensively dressed gentlemen passengers. Canvas trousers, a flannel shirt, worn boots, and a heavy leather vest made him look every bit the rangy, silver-haired, forty-something horseman that he was.

Billy Compton took the seat across from Chloe and dropped his elbows on the table. His easy western twang bounced off the nearby window. How’s the coffee this morning?

A smile tickled at one corner of Chloe’s sleepy mouth. Terrible. You won’t like it.

Heard that before. Just means you want it all for yourself. I don’t know how you sleep at night as much coffee as you drink.

I manage.

Like royalty prompting servants into alertness, Chloe snapped her fingers to get Billy his coffee and meal. It didn’t matter whether or not the others approved of his appearance. Billy had a first-class ticket, and Chloe made sure he was treated in a first-class way.

How are the horses? she asked.

That old stallion gets a bit cranky. Billy’s callused hand picked up a small China cup, and his cracked lips parted enough to suck in smooth coffee. He don’t cotton to having them two mules in there with him, but we’ll be in Edmond Station tomorrow. They’ll be fine ‘til then.

A stiffly dressed server delivered coffee and plates heaped with hot biscuits, sausages, and scrambled eggs. He gave a snooty grunt and rolled his cart down the narrow aisle.

Billy sat across the small table, his bright blue eyes fixed hard on Chloe. I don’t mean to pry, but I was just wondering. Has Joe picked out a new husband for you? Is that why you left Springfield?

The directness of his question caused Chloe to choke on her coffee. She smoothed back a tendril of black hair, coaxing it back into the pinned upswept bundle of long tresses. It was a feeble attempt to appear composed, and probably didn’t fool anyone. Joe mentioned a couple of gentlemen in the area, but I’m not ready for another marriage. It’s just too soon.

A strange expression settled into Billy’s unusually vivid blue eyes. His voice turned distant and lacked its customary friendliness. An older brother looking out for his little sister. There are worse things, you know.

I understand that, Chloe retorted in a crisp voice.

Uneasy with the shift in Billy’s mood, Chloe let her gaze slide out the window and fix on the liquid prairie. Soon the train would veer south, leaving behind the monotonous miles of Kansas prairie and heading toward wild Oklahoma Territory.

Since the death of Chloe’s husband almost one year ago, Joe had written several letters describing two wealthy bachelors within, as Joe had put it, spitting distance of the Lightning. It was obvious that Joe intended for Chloe to remarry and soon.

But that was Joe’s plan, not hers. For once in her life she was in charge of her destiny and her own money. Chloe had no intention of relinquishing this newfound freedom to a husband who would take control of her assets in exchange for saddling her with half a dozen children to raise.

Thanks, but no thanks.

A trail of smoke on the southern horizon caught her eye. She leaned close to the sun-warmed glass and strained to make out the details. A grass fire, a real one this time, consumed a thin patch of prairie.

Then Chloe saw him again, a horse of fire galloping through multi-colored flames. At that moment, she knew it was more than a vision. It was a ghost.

Go away, she whispered against the glass. You’ll only get me in trouble.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 2

Lightning Ranch

Oklahoma Territory

AT that magic moment between dusk and nightfall, Joe Talley hopped over to the parlor window. Through frosty glass he saw a horse and rider ambling down the narrow path between the south barn and the main house of the Lightning Ranch.

His wife, Opal, wedged her head between Joe’s face and the burgundy velvet curtains. Her springy voice bounced off the glass. Is he coming?

Joe stumbled backward, holding a bandaged foot off the ground while trying to keep his balance with one slick boot. Get back. He’ll see you.

So what if he does? Opal marched away from the window and straightened the voluminous skirt of her lavender calico dress. Big brown eyes narrowed with a stare that only mothers can produce. Joe, this isn’t nice.

It’s necessary, he defended, hopping toward the settee. It took him a few seconds to get situated on the velveteen seat. The top of a tapestry-covered footstool deflated as he dropped his bandaged foot in the middle of it. He squirmed, arranging and rearranging tasseled pillows behind him. Finally, he summoned a terrible grimace. Here. How’s this? Do I look like a warrior braving the pain?

You look like a ‘possum caught in the hen house. Opal offered an expression as sour as the tone of her voice. Joe, this isn’t nice. As a matter of fact, it just plain stinks. And I don’t mean the salve under that fake bandage.

Joe winced from a twinge of guilt. That beautiful, brown-eyed, auburn-haired woman with the soul of honesty he had married so many years ago was absolutely right. It wasn’t nice, but he didn’t know how else he was going to get his cantankerous neighbor off the Key Ranch long enough to meet his equally cantankerous sister.

I tell you, Opal. It’s the only way, Joe defended, his bass voice filling the high-ceilinged parlor. They’ll either kill each other or come to an understanding. I know Max. He’s lonesome out there in that big house.

Maxwell McKee don’t need your help finding a wife. He’s rich as a king and handsome as the Devil himself.

So you’d rather Frank Hilden caught my sister’s favor? Joe countered and waited for the expected explosion.

Opal did not disappoint him. That pompous cotton-headed rooster? Frank Hilden couldn’t catch a cold in the rain!

The argument was cut short by the sound of boots shuffling onto the porch. Then the glass in the front door rattled, as three hard knocks connected with the walnut frame.

From his perch in the parlor, Joe could see most of the hallway and part of the front door. It was one of the finest residences in the county, a stately Victorian Queen Anne design, second in grandeur only to Max McKee’s enormous abode only a little over a mile to the east. The oil lamp chandelier cast fuzzy amber light through the parlor, while flames danced in the large fireplace. It was a cozy, comfortable setting. The perfect place to spring a very carefully constructed trap.

Joe opened his hands in pleading. Come on, Opal. Trust me on this.

If you’re wrong, Joseph Bird Talley, you’ll face your sister’s wrath without my help. Understand?

A big lump lodged in Joe’s throat. Just open the door.

With a derisive snort, Opal wheeled around on low-heeled shoes and stomped toward the imposing front door. Her small hand easily turned the big brass knob.

The door swung inward, revealing a tall dusty rancher with dove-gray eyes and long dark brown hair tied back in a simple horse’s tail. A smile eased across a tanned handsome face, showing off teeth a little too perfect for life in the West. A sweat-stained hat dangled from a twist of long fingers.

Are we eating on the porch, Opal, or can I come inside? The visitor’s deep voice tumbled down the hallway.

Joe watched Opal’s profile change into a smile, and he fell in love all over again with the sweet dimple that appeared in the center of her rosy left cheek.

Get in here, you old scoundrel. Opal ushered her guest into the hallway. You’re wasting all the heat in the house.

Max McKee stepped inside and closed the door behind him. He raised his straight nose to the air and took a deep sniff. I believe your bread’s done, Opal.

A gasp erupted from Opal’s throat. She scurried toward the kitchen, looking like a plump hen on the run with her little feet pumping beneath fat skirts.

In here, Max! Joe called, mustering every ounce of bravery buried in his half-Cherokee bones. If this scheme backfired, he would have to deal with both Chloe and Max. A shudder washed through him, but it wasn’t enough to change his plans. He truly believed he was doing the right thing and sensed that Opal believed it, too, in her own fussy way.

Max stepped into the parlor and eyed Joe’s propped up, bandaged foot. What kind of pity party is this?

It was all Joe could do not to smile. He masked the urge with a deep-shouldered shrug.

Making himself at home, Max dropped his hat on the top shelf of the brass coat stand in the corner. Then he sloughed off his canvas duster and hung it on a hook below the hat. His gaze focused again on Joe’s bandaged foot, while one long finger tapped the handle of the .45-caliber Peacemaker strapped to his left hip.

Is it broken? Max asked, one eyebrow pulling into a tight arch.

Brief, accurate, and to the point, just as Joe had expected. Naw, just twisted up a bit. Stepped off my horse and right into a gopher hole.

Scowling, Max unbuttoned his vest. If that train’s running on schedule, it should be in Edmond Station by mid-afternoon tomorrow. From the smell of that foot, I’d say you ain’t going nowhere for several days. Do you trust Billy Compton to bring in those horses by himself?

Joe forced himself to swallow a telltale grin. This was going better than he had imagined. It isn’t a matter of trust, Max. There are over forty high-dollar horses, including three stallions. Billy’s supposed to have a couple of hands with him, but they won’t be enough. Somebody’s gotta meet that train.

Half those horses are mine when they get here. Max’s voice turned gruff and a frown furrowed his forehead. One big boot pawed the fringe of the oval area rug.

For a moment Joe wondered if he had missed his calling. Maybe he should have been an actor. If they get here.

Max’s eyes took on a greener hue. They’ll get here, ‘cause I’m gonna get them myself. It’s not what I had planned for the next two days, but it can’t be helped. His gaze shifted to Joe’s propped-up foot. I hope that hurts as much as it stinks. What kind of salve have you got on that thing, anyway?

Oh, just an old family recipe. Joe could not contain a smile. Opal fixed a good supper. Let’s hobble on in to the dining room and stake out a plate.

* * *

MAX shifted in the saddle and adjusted his hat. The horse’s foggy breath puffed around him. The lonesome call of a whippoorwill rose like a soprano’s aria, while crickets trilled in uninterrupted accompaniment.

It was a fine, cool evening on the prairie, a fitting complement for the good company and home-cooked meal the Talleys had provided earlier.

The wind swung around, bringing wet air from the north. Above him, a thin haze dimmed the plentiful stars splattered across the velvet night sky. That haze meant there was rain coming. Maybe a late snow, too.

Dry prairie grass and hard red clay crunched beneath the horse’s hooves, as they topped the last hill. North across a high meadow, amber light from strategically placed oil lamps outlined the buildings of the Key Ranch. A shadowy figure leaned against a column on the front porch of a big house that faced squarely south.

Max pondered Joe’s sore foot and moaned in anticipation of those incoming horses. Something didn’t feel right, but he couldn’t put his finger on the problem. He had never known Joe to be dishonest, but this trip to Edmond Station made the back of his neck crawl. His grandmother had called it the prickles. Old-fashioned, bone-chilling premonition was what it was. Sometimes Max just knew things. Knew them in a way he didn’t dare explain to others.

In a deep, almost spiritual sense Max loved the land. With the buffalo gone now, the prairie cried out for company. Whether they called it Oklahoma Territory or Lincoln County, this was the place he called home. It was a place he understood. A place he belonged.

Max clucked his tongue at Strawberry and kicked the stirrups. The big gelding broke into a rhythmic lope.

A moment later, he reined to a stop near the porch steps of the main house and dismounted. His boots hit the ground, churning up a cloud of dust that smelled of good old red prairie dirt. Rich and heady and stubborn, just like Max.

The figure on the porch pushed away from his column leaning-post and offered a lazy stretch. Evening, Boss. Everything okay at the Lightning?

Stepping up on the porch, Max handed Strawberry’s reins to his grizzled foreman. Hank, tell the boys I need about five volunteers ready to head for Edmond Station before dawn.

Trouble?

Naw, just inconvenience. Max’s deep voice caressed the cold night air. Talley found himself a gopher hole and twisted up his foot. So I’m going after those horses myself. Tell the boys to rustle up what grub they can and have them pack for cold weather. Hold down the fort while I’m gone.

Sure thing, Hank replied with a sharp nod.

Max pulled off his hat and smoothed back long hair that again had wriggled out of its leather tie. In the space of sky between the porch eaves and the railing hung a thin crescent moon, its ashen form shining against a star-speckled, hazy blue-black sky. A powder-horn moon. Not a good sign, Hank. That kind of moon always brings trouble.

Without further conversation, Max opened the front door and headed inside the cavernous house.

Night, Boss, echoed just as the door shut behind him.

* * *

THE shingle-style country house had three stories, taking the two large attic rooms into consideration. Four stories if the basement counted. It wasn’t quite the biggest residence in young Lincoln County, but it was one of the nicest, by far.

Max hesitated at the foot of the front stairs and glanced around semi-darkened rooms. Near the center landing, where the steps turned for their final ascent, one brass wall lamp offered an oily yellow glow that was just bright enough for Max to admire his home.

It was a grand, solid structure built to defy capricious Oklahoma storms. Although it might manage to snub a small tornado, nothing could withstand a raging prairie fire.

Three weeks ago fire had consumed the Coreys’ house, barns, and several cows. The week before that both the Wilsons and the Farleys had been burned out. No human life had been lost yet, but prairie fire wasn’t a picky predator. It would consume anything or anyone in its voracious path. That included Max McKee’s house.

Shaking off such a grim thought, Max made his way up the stairs and blew out the wall lamp as he passed it. Dusty boots shuffled across the fringed maroon and cream carpet that ran the length of the upstairs hallway. At the southwest end Max strode into an enormous master bedroom and kicked the door shut behind him.

He always shut that door, although he was the only person who lived in the house. The problem was he never knew when his part-time housekeeper, Alice, would be roaming up and down the stairs looking for dirty clothes to gather or cobwebs to clear. Although hardworking and a damned good cook, Alice kept strange hours, coming and going from the Lightning Ranch as she pleased. Max didn’t want her to catch him standing naked in his own bedroom, so he never failed to close that door.

A thump echoed through the shadowy room.

Max wheeled around, his left hand poised near the handle of his holstered Peacemaker.

With gold eyes glowing in the darkness, a gray-striped, bobtailed cat butted his head against the outside of the frosty glass of the single-paned window and let out a deep-throated complaint.

Sentry, you scared the hell out of me.

Max dragged tired feet across the room. The window opened with a good tug, letting in a blast of cold air and one fussy barn cat.

Without so much as a meow in thanks, Sentry scurried across the floor and jumped in the middle of the canopied bed. The huge half-bobcat rolled onto his back and twitched his button tail. The chew-marks on his long tufted ears and several freshly broken whiskers explained the cat’s giddy contentment. Sentry must have been lucky with the lady barn cats, again.

Max unbuckled his holster and wrapped it around one of the walnut bedposts. If you’re gonna gloat, you can just get off my bed.

The cat flopped over and laid his head on a cotton pillowcase. Gold eyes narrowed to contented slits and thunderous purring echoed through the room.

Not looking forward to a trip to Edmond Station, Max pulled a long Lucifer match out of the painted tin box nailed to the wall. He lit the oil lamp on the desk. An amber glow radiated from the fat frosted chimney, giving the room a cozy feel.

Still holding the burning match, he moved to the cold pot-bellied, flat-topped stove in the corner. The hinges on the black iron door creaked as it opened. Max dropped the dwindling match in the nest of kindling Alice always left for him. When the fire began to blaze, he closed the stove door and secured the latch. It took only a moment for dry heat to permeate the musty bedroom. Sentry’s feral purrs rumbled in concert with the roar of the pot-bellied stove.

Layer by dusty layer, Max undressed. Standing naked to the night, he stepped up to the window and peered through foggy glass. The darkened landscape of the Key Ranch, that little piece of heaven he called home, was spread out before him. Horses and cattle. Pecan and peach trees. A little southern cotton and a little Indian corn. All spread across his original 160-acre homestead plus the three others he had acquired over the last few months. It was a great personal accomplishment, yet Max McKee had no one with which to share it.

His gaze drifted to the desk in the corner. Inside a small cedar box hidden in the locked top left drawer were reminders of a life he had left behind in San Francisco. Responsibilities which could no longer be ignored.

Turning back, he gazed out of the single-paned window. This wind-sculpted, briar-covered, tick-infested, poison-ivy-plagued prairie called Lincoln County was the only place where Max McKee felt truly alive. And he had no intention of leaving the ranch, at least not for long.

What he needed was someone to love him with the same fire and passion with which he loved this land. But love always came with a price, and Max McKee had obligations.

Realizing the hour was late and dawn would come much too soon, Max shuffled into one of the few bathrooms in the county offering the luxury of running water. He ran a callused finger over the ceramic black-haired mermaid who adorned the edge of a huge claw-footed bathtub. A smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. If only the mermaid were real. Now that would make for an interesting bath.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 3

March 8th, 1893

Edmond Station

THREE short calls of the engine whistle echoed across the prairie. The train decelerated in yawning jerks. Charcoal smoke belched from the stack, and brakes screamed in protest before the train came to a stop.

Chloe leaned out the window of her private compartment and found the small frontier settlement even more primitive than she had expected.

A dingy collection of board-and-batt structures, surrounded by clumps of swaying white tents. Handmade signs advertised for business, and lumber lay stacked everywhere. A few men stood rigid in tailored dark suits with dust-coated fedoras, and several weathered ranch hands watched the train from horseback. And to make matters worse, there wasn’t a woman in sight beyond those few who had been aboard the train.

The conductor climbed down metal steps and waved to a man standing on a long plank platform in front of a bright red, square clapboard building that obviously served as a depot. Near the single ticket window was a crude wooden sign that read Edmond Station, O.T.

God help me, Chloe murmured, fighting back waves and waves of trepidation.

With pliant leather gloves pulled snugly over her hands, she lowered the window glass to keep out billowing smoke. One glance down at her clothing made her reconsider the choice. Joe’s last letter said it was a hard day’s ride from the train station to the ranch. If logic served in this frontier atmosphere, no one would expect her to wear a corset or a bustle or ankle-length skirts on a long horseback ride. Then again, maybe logic hadn’t traveled that far west yet.

Chloe looked at what intuition had told her to wear: a red and black plaid flannel shirt with bright red long underwear beneath, a leather vest, snug leather trousers tucked inside high-topped fringed boots, and a floor-length cream canvas riding duster. Except for the gloves and a wide-brimmed leather hat with a lavender velvet band, they were old clothes Joe had left at her house when he had attended Philip’s funeral last year. After a hem and a tuck, it all fit pretty well. Perhaps too well.

The porter’s booming voice filled the train car’s narrow corridor, announcing the stop.

It was too late for Chloe to change clothing now. Even if her dresses weren’t packed and ready for the wagon, she would need at least thirty minutes to shuck out of these clothes and put on all the layers of feminine trappings that went with a dress. She was stuck with what she wore and that was that. Besides, she kind of liked these frontier clothes. Not since Aunt Sophie strapped her into a corset at thirteen had Chloe felt this comfortable. She told herself everything would be all right, because Joe would be waiting on the platform and he always took care of his little sister.

* * *

THE clock hanging outside the red depot read five-after-three. For nearly an hour, Chloe had sat alone on a plank bench in front of that little red depot.

How long does it to hitch two mules to a wagon and secure a few horses? And where the devil is Joe?

The train had moved south about thirty minutes before, and the other passengers had dispersed, some climbing into waiting buggies, others walking a short distance to nearby makeshift businesses and horse corrals. All had stared and whispered as they passed her, apparently questioning her choice of attire. At first she had found it humorous. What did they think she was, anyway, a reject from the James Gang? The daughter of Belle Starr? Then, after the dust of their individual departures had settled, Chloe had felt abandoned and positively, absolutely out of place. It just wasn’t funny anymore.

The approach of half a dozen riders from the east caught her attention. One quick glance proved that Joe wasn’t among them. Chloe would have known him, even from a distance.

After urging their horses slowly over the railroad tracks, the riders headed for the corrals about one-hundred yards south of the depot. All but one rider dismounted.

The one who remained seated on a big strawberry roan appeared to argue with Billy Compton. As the owner of the horses in that particular corral, Chloe knew she should