The Lady Takes A Gunslinger (Wild Western Rogues Series, Book 1)

The Lady Takes A Gunslinger

Wild Western Rogues Series

Book Number One

by

Barbara Ankrum

Bestselling Author

THE LADY TAKES A GUNSLINGER

Reviews & Accolades

A vividly written and colorful adventure... everything a romance should be—funny, tender and charming.

~Jill Barnett, NYT Bestselling Author

I really loved this book!

~Kat Martin, NYT Bestselling Author

Previously published as: ALMOST PARADISE

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ISBN: 978-1-61417-777-7

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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

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Dedication

To my sweet daughter, Challee, who, like Grace, inspires all those around her to be better and can always make me laugh. And to my dear son, Brian, who, like Reese, is a man of few words, but whose waters run deep. Thanks for a very special year. I adore you both. And as always, to David, whose optimism, love and support are always cherished.

With special thanks to Bob Vezzetti, of the Brownsville Historical Association, who gave so generously of his time and knowledge of post-Civil War Texas and the gulf area, who knew that Bagdad wasn't just a city in Iraq.

Action from principle, the performance of right changes things and relations. It is essentially revolutionary and does not consist wholly of anything which was.

—Henry David Thoreau

Chapter 1

Pair-a-Dice, Texas April 1867

They'd warned her that Reese Donovan was a drunkard. An indolent shadow of the man who'd once made a name for himself on the Texas prairie with a fast gun and a fearless heart. Some had advised her not to waste her time with him, for he would only turn her down. A man like that wasn't likely to risk his life on any venture more perilous than a slow hand of poker or an easy woman. Those who knew him avoided him. Those who didn't, preferred to keep it that way.

Yet one man—a grizzled old fellow named Houston who claimed to be his friend—had said that drunk or sober, Reese Donovan could still outdraw any leather-slapper north or south of the Pecos and could outwit the rest.

Now, searching for him through the dusty louvers that bisected the doorway of the ramshackle cantina, Grace Turner wondered if all the things she'd heard about him were true. Her heart tripped faster at the prospect of finding out. Brewster would have a conniption if he knew she'd come here alone, but she'd left him resting at the hotel. He was in no condition to stop her. And she was of no mind to be stopped. They'd run up against too many dead ends in the last three weeks to lose nerve now.

A bead of perspiration trickled down beneath the buttoned bodice of her best blue-sprigged calico gown in the sultry Texas heat. With a flick of her wrist, Grace snapped open her fan. The iridescent butterflies painted on the Chinese silk flitted back and forth as she enticed a breath of air toward her face.

From within, came the plinking, off-key sounds of a guitar and laughter, along with the odious smell of cheap whiskey and men who had been too long on the run. After a scorchingly hot day, the cool interior of the adobe cantina had drawn customers to the little border town watering hole like snakes from their hiding places. Pair-a-Dice, Texas, she'd discovered, was a haven for society's dispossessed: desperados, lowlifes, men with nowhere to go and no one waiting for them when they got there. Mexicans and Anglo tejanos, or Texans, these were the type of men who would make an old peahen like Miss Eustasia Beauregard, of Beauregard's Finishing Acadamie for Young Ladies, curl up in horror and, conversely, set Grace's vivid imagination soaring.

A large, rather meek-looking pet bear was tied to the brass footrail of the bar with a questionable length of chain. The huge animal stood on its hind legs and begged for peanuts.

Occasionally, a patron would fling one at it and the bear would grunt in appreciation as it gulped the legume, shell and all.

Grace wrinkled her nose and frowned, wondering if it was the bear or the men that gave the place its distinctive odor.

The whole cantina lived up to the gritty reputation it had earned in the dime novels she'd read and reread, though, except for the bear, it seemed sadly lacking in the romance with which auteurs such as Jack Leland and the vivid Ned Buntline typically infused it.

Squinting, she pressed her lace hanky to her nose as she scanned the smoke-filled room in search of the man she'd come to see. At last, she located the only one who fit Donovan's description at the far end of the cantina, just beyond a table full of drunken gamblers.

She could just make him out, sitting alone in the shadows with his back to the corner. On the table before him sat a near-empty bottle of whiskey. Seemingly oblivious to the noise around him, his head lolled against the wall. In the half-light of the kerosene lamps, she could see his face was in dire need of a razor's attention. He wasn't what one would call handsome. Chiseled, perhaps. Hacked out of granite; features too rough for kindness; too hardened by life for gentleness.

Lamplight carved arrogance into the hollows beneath his cheeks and gave the strong angle of his jaw a stubborn sensuality. Thick, dark brows slashed above his eyes, sheltering the crescent of lash that cast a dark shadow along the bones of his face. And his mouth—

Grace's hand crept reflexively to her throat, tamping down the unexpected heat that spread from that spot. His mouth was at once unforgiving and indecently beautiful. If he owned the capacity to smile, she had no doubt that smile would be as dangerous as the rest of him.

Black suited him the way it suited a starless night. He wore it from head to toe. From one hand dangled an empty shot glass. From the other came the red glow of a cigarette as he took a languid drag and sent smoke rings drifting to the ceiling. With his boots propped atop the table in front of him, his long legs crossed at the ankle, the man epitomized indolence. Yet there was something about him, a careless, predatory awareness; a feeling that he could spring to his feet with the vaguest encouragement or threat.

That he fit so easily into a roomful of mercenaries and men of the lawless persuasion was no coincidence. This dark archangel of a man wasn't hero material, Grace decided. More likely Lucifer's assistant.

If she had her druthers she would have chosen someone—anyone—else. But she'd already used up all her other choices; men clearly more respectable than Donovan to take on the task she required. They'd all turned her down flat. In fact, when she'd asked them, they'd looked at her as if she'd just swallowed a frog, whole.

No, Reese Donovan was not just her last choice, he was her only hope. And Luke's, as well.

Grace bent lower and pushed open the louvered door a fraction for a clearer view. A black-haired floozy wearing shockingly little but a loosely strung corset and camisole, a knee-length green satin skirt and rolled-down stockings, sidled into Grace's view and stopped in front of Donovan. She must have spoken to him, because he roused out of his stupor long enough to slide one hand around her shapely bottom to pull her close.

The woman let out a squeal of laughter as Donovan tossed her across his lap and kissed her as thoroughly as Grace had ever seen a woman kissed. His opened mouth ground against hers hungrily and the woman molded her voluptuous body to his, drawing him more fully up against her.

Grace felt an emotion somewhere between fascination and outrage at the raw sexuality that leaped between Donovan and the woman like a wind-fed flame. The prim Miss Beauregard had never hinted at sexuality in her genteel admonitions against public—or for that matter, private—displays of affection, where passion had no place in the duties a woman was expected to perform as a wife.

Grace's eyes widened at the sight, and her cheeks went hot. But then, she thought, swallowing hard, the woman in Reese Donovan's arms was no wife and was governed by no such rules of propriety. And unless she was mistaken, the woman seemed to be enjoying the kiss as much as Donovan. That observation gave her pause.

Of course, she mused with a frown, she'd been kissed. Edgar had kissed her when they'd found themselves alone in the garden that day. A discreet—even pleasant—joining of lips, which she only now realized had inspired none of the electricity of Donovan's unbridled assault. Did soiled doves feel things other women could not? Or did such women simply have other, perhaps darker, motives? Grace leaned a little closer, unable to stop her novelist's imagination from running amuck....

* * *

Lorna Lee Goodnight spied on the outlaw from behind her China-silk fan. Dressed in the nefarious color of his profession, the unsuspecting gunslinger dragged the painted woman closer, whispering something illicit in her ear. The trollop performed her role to the hilt, throwing her head back with a throaty laugh and kissing him hard before she poured him another shot glass full of the demon liquor till the potent brew overspilled its bounds.

Dead-Eye Donovan slugged down the fiery drink with a grimace, unaware of what Lorna Lee already knew: Tonight, he'd run afoul of more than just the law. He'd unwittingly crossed paths with the Black Widow Murderess!

* * *

A pair of hands cinched around Grace's waist from behind, startling her out of her daydream.

"Hey, bon-eeta," a voice whispered in her ear, you lookin' fer somebody?

Grace gasped, lost her balance and fell right through the doors, stumbling into the crowded cantina with all the aplomb of a singed-tail cat. An unnatural hush fell over the room as she regained her balance. Each head turned questioningly her way. All save one. Donovan was too occupied with the black-haired hussy to notice that a decent woman had just stumbled into his den of iniquity.

The young, brown-haired American who'd spoken to her hooked one hand over the louvered door. He grinned at her, revealing a slash of even, white teeth, a matchstick clenched between them. His cocky expression offended her, but it was his slow, insolent perusal of her body that made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. She guessed he couldn't be much more than a year or two older than her own twenty, but he had the look of trouble about him, like a potful of sorghum about to boil over.

You lookin' fer me, I hope? Hooking his thumbs into the waistband of his trousers, he tilted his narrow hips suggestively toward her.

Grace gulped. I most certainly am not.

Aw, now that ain't real friendly. He spread his hands wide, taking a step closer. I saw that purty little bottom o' yours waggin' in the air, I says to myself, now there's a backside I'd like to get better acquainted with.

Her mouth fell open in outrage. You, sir, are no gentleman.

Aw, don't be that way. I just want to get to know you.

Her backside collided, then, with a table filled with men. She felt herself blush right up to her roots at their laughter and at the insulting proposal in the young cowboy's eyes.

Pushing away, she yanked the cuffs of her sleeves with a self-righteous tug and, with a snap of her fan, she sent the leering idiot her most condescending look. Well, I can assure you that if I picked someone to get to know, it wouldn't be a scallawag who's... who's ugly as... homemade sin!

Hoots of raucous laughter followed her as she smoothed her damp palms down the sides of her dress and moved purposefully away from the red-faced cowboy toward the back of the room, toward the man she'd come to see.

He didn't even notice when she stopped beside his table, nor did he budge when she cleared her throat. He was too busy tasting the questionable fruits of the woman in his lap.

Grace coughed.

It took him a moment, but Donovan lifted his mouth lazily from the harlot's and looked around for the source of the intrusion.

Mr. Donovan, I presume? She tried for the gracious smile Miss Eustasia Beauregard had drilled into each and every one of her young charges, but her lips quivered in rebellion.

For a few moments, his bloodshot, sea green eyes seemed unable to focus on her. When at last they did, a frown pulled at his brow.

Who the devil are you? A hint of a brogue colored his words, an effect heightened, no doubt, by the whiskey he was guzzling.

My name is Grace Turner, Mr. Donovan. I've come to ask your assistance.

My what?

Assistance, she repeated more slowly, wondering just how drunk he was. Your help?

Now the harlot looked up at Grace with annoyance. She'd been beautiful once, Grace mused, with a fine olive complexion and thick black hair that reached to her waist. Her features, hardened by time and her profession, Grace supposed, were strong and well-formed—like a Michelangelo portrait she'd once glimpsed of a woman from Verona, Italy. But this woman was glaring at her and her full lips, bruised from Donovan's kiss, were rounded in an unattractive pout.

Reaching one hand up, the trollop traced her forefinger with playful suggestion down Donovan's profile. Querido, she whispered.

He grinned down at her, and made to drop his mouth on hers once again.

Grace rolled her eyes heavenward. "Mister Donovan, if I could have only a moment of your time?"

Irritation bunched between his dark eyebrows. Look, whatever you're sellin', I'm not buyin'.

I'm not selling anything. Please, just hear me out. It'll only take a minute to listen.

Donovan's gaze traveled ever so deliberately down the length of her, pausing on her breasts, waist, and hips, ending at the tips of her sensible, black, buttonhook boots. Heat seared each spot his gaze hesitated on, an effect she was quite sure was intentional.

A half smile tipped the corner of his mouth. He glanced down at the woman in his lap, then eased her up and off. "Momento, Maria. He pulled a gold eagle from the pocket of his vest and flipped it to her. Go buy me another bottle, querida."

"Pero—" Maria started to protest.

Ahora. Then he added more softly, Por favor.

Maria flashed an accusing look at Grace before doing as he asked, her hips sashaying to and fro in seductive retreat.

Donovan dragged his gaze back to Grace, fitted a cigarette between his lips, and lit it. Smoke circled incongruously around his head, an ill-begotten halo.

You got one minute, he told her, blowing a cloud of smoke in her direction.

Grace pressed her lilac-scented hanky to her nose to hold at bay the sneeze she felt coming on. Smoke always had that effect on her.

As I said, I'm in need of your assistance.

I make it a hard rule never to assist anyone but myself, Miss—?

She sniffed. Turner.

Donovan threw back another shot of whiskey. He grimaced and exhaled sharply as the liquor burned its way down. Miss Turner. I pick and choose the jobs I want. If you know who I am, then I imagine you'd know that about me by now.

I did hear rumors, she admitted, plucking at the edge of her hanky, but from what I hear, you're more than capable of accomplishing what I have in mind.

He ran the tip of his index finger absently around the edge of his shot glass. She followed the movement with her eyes, thinking how strange it was to find a man's hands graceful.

Capable and willing are miles apart, Donovan replied curtly. And they haven't a damn thing t' do with one another.

She pursed her lips. I'll thank you not to swear at me, Mr. Donovan.

"I'll say whatever I damn well please, Miss Turner. And I say you'd better get the hell out of this place if you know what's good for you. A woman like you is about as safe as a quail in a fox den in this place."

Or near you, she added silently. She gritted her teeth, refusing to allow herself to be baited. Perhaps, but I'm willing to risk considerably to get what I want. The smoke tickled her nose. She pressed a knuckle there, but even that couldn't stop it from coming.

Ah-ah-choo-oo!

One of his dark eyebrows arched in amusement and it occurred to her he hadn't even the couth to say God bless you.

So, what exactly is it you want so badly, Miss Turner?

You, she replied without hesitation. I want you.

A slow, masculine grin spread across that sensual face of his. Well, why didn't you just say so? He held one hand out in invitation, more than willing to comply.

Shocked, she backed up two steps, staying just out of his reach. No... no, what I meant... what I intended to say was I want you to help me get my brother out of Mexico.

His smile vanished with the speed of heat lightning. He took a drag on his cigarette and regarded her for a long minute before he spoke. Mexico?

She nodded silently.

It's a big country. Exactly where in Mexico?

A place called Querétaro.

He snubbed his smoke out viciously against the sand-filled tin ashtray sitting on the table. You're outta your bloody mind.

They say you have connections with Juarez's rebel forces.... She paused deliberately. As well as Maximilian's—

With an agility she'd never have thought him capable of in his inebriated condition, Donovan shot out of his chair, grabbed her arm and pulled her far out of earshot of the table full of men playing faro nearby. Her fan slapped shut and she let out a cry of surprise as his fingers dug painfully into her flesh. Her back collided with a wall.

Who told ya that? he demanded with a low growl.

Ow!

Answer me.

Up close, he smelled of whiskey and leather and Maria's strong ambergris perfume—and some scent that was his alone. He towered over her with a furious look on his face. She shrank against the wall and took a deep breath to calm the pounding of her heart, despite the unexpected thrill that chased through her at his sudden closeness. The utter absurdity of that reaction stunned her even more than what he'd done.

You're hurting me.

Tell me!

An odd old man named Houston.

He cursed again before slowly releasing her arm. Houston doesn't know what he's muttering about half the time, and that kind of rumor could get me killed around here. So keep your voice down.

Grace rubbed her tingling arm and glanced at the men at the nearby faro table who were too busy bucking the tiger to notice them.

You do know them, then, she replied in a half whisper.

Donovan's eyes took on an animal-like glint. No. I just don't want any fool thinkin' otherwise.

Any particular fool? she asked tartly, or are you strictly referring to me?

Standing a mere ten inches from her, his ungentlemanly gaze slid for a second time down the front of her, searing a slow path back up to her eyes. For the briefest of moments, she thought he was going to kiss her, drop his mouth on hers, the way he had that harlot's. Grace's eyes widened with fear—or expectation, she didn't know which. Had the wall not been firmly at her back, she would have retreated a safe step or two. Yet, as he seemed to sense her impulse, the predatory look transformed into a roguish grin.

I'm not in the habit of callin' women as pretty as yourself names, unless, o' course, I know them a bit better than I do you. That fiasco in Mexico is none of my concern and I've no ties with it. On either side.

She wasn't sure what made her so certain he was lying. Perhaps it was the flicker of unease that darkened his sea green eyes, or the way his jaw tightened with the jump of a muscle. She only knew there was much more to what he was telling her than he was admitting.

Why don't I believe you?

Staring at her, he wavered a little off-balance. Despite the obvious effects a full bottle of whiskey could have on a man, Donovan suddenly looked very sober.

Frankly, I don't care what you believe, Miss, as long as you don't go around spreadin' dangerous rumors about things you know nothin' about.

I know my brother is falsely imprisoned. I know he doesn't deserve to die. I only want justice for Luke, Mr. Donovan. Something not even the U.S. government seems to care about.

Donovan let out a snort of disgust, turned his back on her, and walked back to the chair he'd occupied earlier. Slumping back down in it, he poured himself the last shot of whiskey from his bottle.

Did you hear what I said? she asked, following on his heels.

He turned bloodshot eyes on her and lifted his glass, examining the amber-colored liquid. Justice. It's a fallacy, Miss Turner. A lie perpetrated by men who think they're above the law. American, Mexican, Irish—same thing. He slugged the drink down and set the glass back precisely on the table. Lemme tell you something. If your brother's in Querétaro, he's a dead man already.

She felt the color drain from her face. I don't believe that.

Donovan shook his head. I've known a hundred fools like your brother, all full o' patriotic fervor, the call t' adventure. All of 'em now wearin' lead, courtesy of Maximilian's thugs. His troops have slaughtered thousands of Juarez's men on their way north and more than a few who'd nothing to do with either side. From what I hear, he's holed up in a fortress. You haven't a prayer, lass. Now, if there's nothin' else, I'd like to get back t' my drink.

She stared at him, speechless. Maria appeared beside him, bottle in hand. Grace turned back to Donovan, her voice tight and more high-pitched than she would have liked. You mean you won't help me?

That's right. He pulled Maria back into his lap and spread his fingers across her hip.

But I— Grace bit her lip, fighting back tears of desperation. You must! I'll pay you well, she lied. I can pay whatever you ask.

I value my neck a bit more than money.

She couldn't fail Luke—not now. Not when she'd come so far!

Please. You have to. You're the only one left. Everyone else has turned me down, she blurted. Almost immediately, she regretted saying it.

A humorless grin lifted one corner of his mouth. Bad luck, that. At least I wasn't your first choice. Forget about your brother. Go on home, where you belong. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get back to my bottle and Maria. Your minute's up.

An impotent, reckless outrage surged through her. Oohh, forget my brother, indeed! Well, that's just about as low-down as you can get. Oh, you're a sad excuse for a man, Mr. Reese Donovan. She yanked the edges of her black crocheted gloves up furiously and narrowed her eyes in disdain. Well, Miss Beauregard always did say you can't make bricks without straw—

Miss Beauregard? Donovan repeated with amusement.

—and you, sir, are sadly lacking in straw!

Am I, now?

"Indeed. However, you are right about one thing. You were my last choice. They all warned me. But I was a fool to hope even a drunken cynic like you could have any dignity, or courage, or—she looked him up and down—or human compassion left in him."

Donovan's hand stilled on Maria's curved bottom and Grace saw every muscle in his body tense. But that didn't stop her. She was too angry and had nothing left to lose. She plunged ahead, throwing caution to the wind.

"A real man wouldn't have to abandon himself to a bottle of rotgut, or use a woman like... like that to hide behind. To see you now, what you've come to, it's... why, it's unthinkable that the noble Texas Rangers could have ever numbered you as one of their own."

Slowly his gaze lifted to meet hers. As it did, just for a moment, she glimpsed something in his eyes—a flash of pain that made the breath hitch in her throat and stripped the accusation from her voice. That brief flare of humanity made her almost sorry she'd lit into him. Sorry, in fact, for the briefest of moments, for him. But the look was gone as soon as it appeared and he erased every trace of emotion from his face. Except for his eyes. They'd gone icy cold.

That it? Or is there more?

She bowed her head, unable to look at him. No.

Well, then, he said, his hand perfectly poised on Maria's rounded bottom, since you've summed up my shortcomings in a such tidy little package, you'll forgive me if I don't get up to see you out. But drunkards are notoriously uncouth, so I'd advise you to get out of my little piece o' paradise while the gettin' is still good.

Grace opened her mouth to retort, but found there was, in fact, nothing left to say. She had given it her best—and, she feared, her worst. She had done everything she could think of, short of throwing herself at his feet, and botched the whole thing in the process.

Maria scowled up at her, a censuring fire in her midnight eyes as she wrapped her arms around Donovan's shoulders. She said something to him in Spanish that Grace didn't understand.

Perhaps, she thought belatedly, she should have tried a few of Maria's tactics. Used honey instead of vinegar, as Miss Beauregard had always advised. But it was too late for that—as usual. She'd let her mouth run on ahead of her brain. She'd burned that bridge to ashes with her last cutting remarks.

If she'd been a swearing woman, she would have done so then. Since she wasn't, and she didn't want to make a fool of herself by bursting into tears, she turned on her heel and headed toward the louvered cantina doors, past the noise and the stench and the idiotic bear standing on his hind legs begging for a treat. Leaving her last hope far behind her.

Before she made it halfway there, a man stepped in front of her, blocking her way. Grace skidded to a halt. It was the same young tough who'd pushed her through the doorway earlier. Only now it wasn't mischief she saw in his eyes, but malevolence. A prickle of fear raced through her and she wished she could call back her earlier jibe.

"Where you goin', bon-eeta?" he asked, still chewing on his matchstick. He reeked of liquor and held a shot glass full of whiskey in his hand. Reaching up, he touched a strand of her hair that had fallen from its mooring. She jerked back, out of his reach.

He laughed. Don't see hair the color o' gold round these parts much. It's real purty.

Don't, she warned, knocking his hand away with a slap of her fan.

He narrowed his eyes. Still got yer nose up in the air, huh? I jes' wanted a touch.

Grace resisted the temptation to toss a desperate look for help to Reese Donovan. Not that he'd help her.

She lifted her chin, trying to make herself appear taller. Let me pass, if you please.

His eyebrows went up in amusement. Let her pass. D'you hear that, Shelby? he asked the slightly older man sitting at the table beside him. She wants to pass.

Shelby, an overweight saddle tramp in real need of a haircut and a shave, grinned, enjoying her predicament. Ask her the password, Deke. She cain't go without the password.

A few men at a table nearby turned in their chairs to watch. Deke took a step toward her, and Grace took an equal step back. What's the password, honey?

Deke's whiskey breath assaulted her nose. He was snookered. For the first time, Grace realized what a truly precarious position she'd placed herself in. Perhaps, she admitted, she'd been a bit naive in her wish to confront Donovan on his own ground. Not only had she failed miserably at that, she saw now she should never have come. There was nothing left but to bluff.

I insist you let me by.

Deke grinned around the matchstick in his mouth. Did that sound like the password to you, Shelby?

The fat man shook his head.

Nope, that ain't it, Deke agreed. Try again.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the bear rearing up on its hind legs five feet to her left, its beady black eyes pinned on her. Deftly, she scooted around a table to her right and put it between her and the drunken Deke. Don't touch me, she warned him. Let me go and we'll forget all about this. I... I promise I won't even bring charges against you.

His brows fell in mock relief and he turned to his friend. You hear that? She won't bring me up on charges.

His friend grinned and got to his feet, coming at her from the other side. "Hey, Deke, considerin' yer brother's the only law around these here parts, I'd say