Runaway Passion

By Vivian Vaughan

A Texas Rancher’s daughter is on the run and the man sent to bring her home may be her ticket to freedom in this historical western romance.

Texas, 1879. Emilie Hahn has tried to escape her father’s Texas ranch before. But this time she has a plan. And not even the handsome rancher sent to pursue her will drag her back without a fight. Even as she resists his attempts to return her to her father, her heart can’t deny the intense desire that draws them together.

Creed McCaslin has been hired to rescue Emilie, and he’s not one to leave a job undone. Even when he learns that she’s a runaway—and not the damsel in distress her father has made her out to be—he still pursues the brave and beautiful young woman. But his mission never included falling in love with his quarry. Once Creed catches up to Emilie, will he return her to the ranch, or will they ride off together?

“A wonderful adventure and a sensitive romance.” —RT Book Reviews

• Language: English
• Publisher: Open Road Integrated Media
• Release date: Feb 22, 2015
• ISBN: 9781626816695

Book preview

Chapter One

Llano County, Texas

March 1, 1879

Glancing furtively at the sinking sun, Emilie Hahn rubbed warm rattlesnake oil vigorously into the calfskin stretched on a wooden frame between two Spanish oaks. If she could apply one coat of this honey-colored dubbin and slick the hide before supper, tomorrow she could begin cutting out the pieces for Mr. Jackson’s saddle.

Then when Mr. Jackson paid her the fifty dollars he’d promised for the saddle, she could finally leave this ranch forever. The thought of escape sped her hands and her heart, flushing her skin with anticipation—and anxiety.

This time it had to work. And it would, she assured herself, because this time she had a plan. Taking her three finished deerskin hides and the money from Mr. Jackson’s saddle, she would travel north to Fort McKavett. The hides would make enough fancy gauntlets for the soldiers to provide her with money to buy more hides from trappers in the area. She would set up a saddle shop, making gauntlets, chaps, pants, saddlebags, and saddles. She could support herself in this manner; she knew she could. Papa wouldn’t pursue her that far…surely not that far. Fort McKavett was a good three days’ journey from the ranch.

The pounding of horses’ hooves alerted her, and Emilie looked quickly in the direction of the north pasture. Her father and three ranchhands galloped into the corral yard.

She swallowed her rising panic. She’d tarried too long over this hide, and now she was late with supper. Papa was sure to be angry. Hastily pouring the last of the rattlesnake dubbin down the length of the hide, she savagely attacked the leather while her gaze lingered on the last of the riders to dismount—Davy Sparks.

Not over seventeen years old, Davy Sparks had had a tremendous impact on her life. Until he came to the ranch a couple of months ago as a horse breaker, Emilie had despaired of ever escaping the abuse she suffered at the hands of her father, Emil Hahn.

Then Davy arrived with his far-fetched tale of two million dollars’ worth of loot the outlaw Sam Bass had stashed on the Hahn ranch before his death a year back at the hands of Texas Rangers. Not that she believed for a minute the tale of buried loot. But Davy’s enthusiasm, his unbridled determination to find that money aroused her own half-dormant dreams—her fantasy of escaping her father’s vicious attacks—and she began to plan her escape in earnest once more.

Once more, she thought, losing for a moment her zest at the recollection of other times she had sought refuge away from the ranch since Mama died ten years ago.

Urgently drawing her attention back to the calfskin stretched before her, she pushed a straggling length of blond hair away from her face with her forearm, not letting her hands stop their work.

Supper wouldn’t take long, she reasoned. Not the kind of meal Papa expected: fried beef and potatoes with pan gravy. Other than the various kinds of sausages, he wouldn’t eat any of the canned and preserved foods Mama had painstakingly taught her to prepare in order to become a good German hausfrau. Of course, he insisted on healthy portions of creamed cheese, schmierkäs’ he called it, always demanding she use proper German terms, and buttern to accompany the bread she baked earlier this morning.

After one last swath with the dubbin, Emilie set aside her empty gourd container. Adjusting her kerchief as she went, she stopped by the springhouse for the schmierkäs’ and a crock of buttermilk. Depositing these in the kitchen, she then returned to the well for a bucket of water, which she poured into shallow wooden basins on the back porch so Papa and the hands could wash up for supper. She glanced through the wire screen porch to the straggly trumpet vines where she insisted the men dump their wash water. Watered thus, she had envisioned the vines growing up the wall along the sunny side of the porch, casting the kitchen in some sort of shade on hot summer afternoons.

She sighed. Nothing had much chance around here.

The sound of his boots on the porch and the fact that he didn’t stop to wash up should have forewarned her. Later, she thought bitterly that might have been the pivotal act, instead of the beating which followed.

The constant threat, the pressure to hold herself readily on guard against his attacks had worn her down, she now found, to a point where her only thought was to live through this encounter and those that would surely follow, in order to finally escape.

With her back turned to the outside door, she stooped to add another stick of firewood to the stove. Hot grease bubbled in the skillet, ready for the steak that lay on the chopping block where she had cut it down to pan-size with the butcher’s cleaver. At his touch terror raced instantly through her veins, freezing her in a hunchedover position. She felt him jerk the kerchief from her head and grab her shoulder, swinging her around to face him. He swiped at her cheek with his hamlike fist.

Stumbling backward, she fell against the sharp edge of the kitchen safe and slid slowly to the floor. Her heart beat wildly. Her tongue tasted the flow of salty blood at the corner of her mouth. She drew it in, closing her lips quickly. Her only movement—the edges of her teeth clamping together inside her closed mouth, the muscles inside her stomach clenching in agony. She struggled to maintain the outwardly docile, deathlike calm she had perfected during her twenty-two years in this household.

Emil Hahn’s fist struck her face again, this time at the point of her cheekbone, hobbling her bowed head sideways. I told you to stay away from the hired hands, he stormed. ’Specially that Sparks feller.

Emilie strained to keep her eyes fixed on the wearfaded fabric of her skirt. She knew if she happened to catch his eye, his fury would only intensify.

Her already taut muscles stiffened in the effort to remain still. She felt her hair, loosened as it was now from the twisted bun she pinned up this morning, fall in a soft curtain across her throbbing face. Her hands lay in her lap where she consciously rubbed the thin calico between a thumb and forefinger in a desperate attempt to keep them from shielding her face from her father. Years ago she learned that any sign of pain or any challenge from her merely prolonged his attacks.

I saw the way you eyed him when we rode into the corral! he raged. Closing his powerful fingers around her long strands of blond hair, he yanked her upward until her eyes were level with his.

Her hair felt like it was being torn out by the roots, and she was unable to keep her hands away from her head any longer. Once or twice he had pulled out handsful of her hair, but her actions this time were more reflex than anything else. As was her plea.

Papa, he’s only a boy…only seventeen years old.

Emil Hahn glared at her. He forced her chin up so she looked momentarily into his raging gray eyes. Standing eye to eye like this, Emilie winced, mindful of one of the many reasons he hated her. Emil Hahn was stout, stocky, shorter than most of the men around these parts, standing five foot eight in his boots. And Emilie, his daughter, could stand toe to toe with him in her bare feet and look him straight in the eye.

Seventeen’s old enough, he hissed. I won’t have no whore’n woman livin’ in my house. He spat into her captured face.

Shuddering uncontrollably, Emilie gritted her teeth even more tightly. She jerked her face from his hands, flinging herself into the corner between a wall and the other side of the safe. She grasped the only thing that came readily to hand, the plunger from the churn, and held it protectively in front of her. She wanted to lash out at him to defend herself. There was only one thing in this whole world she wanted more—she wanted to live.

She started to tell him to leave her alone so she could get his supper, but when she caught sight of the sizzling grease on the cookstove, she tensed, Papa, I won’t talk to him…

"I told you not to call me that! I’m no mädchenvater!"

She swallowed, keeping as still as she could, looking down at the immaculate wooden floor. He always said that, she thought: "I’m no mädchenvater." No father of girls. Well, he was the father of one girl, at least. And she could do nothing to change things. That very fact had killed her mother; she was sure of it. She’d heard them quarrel over her time and again. And she was equally sure her mother’s cries from behind the closed door of the bedroom she shared with Papa would haunt her the rest of her life. Now her concern was to escape before he killed her, too.

Emilie knew she could not protect herself against her father. If he wanted to kill her, he would. She could not prevent it. There had been times when she wished he would have. But things were different now. Now she had planned her escape. Now she desperately wanted to live.

She thought of the saddle. How long would it take to complete it? Would she live that long?

The jingle of spurs on the porch alerted them to the ranchhands’ arrival for supper. Emil Hahn lowered his raised fists and relaxed his stance from one of attack to merely threatening.

He lowered his voice, too, looking around at the preparations Emilie had made for their meal. "Judge Murzbach is coming for supper next week. I expect you to fix a proper German meal: sausage, ham, beef, pannas, sauerkraut, pickled beets, sweet potatoes, and some of that wassermelonenschmier your mama taught you to make."

Surprise replaced some of Emilie’s fear. But… she began. She hadn’t even tasted watermelon spread since Mama died. Papa didn’t like it. Besides that, watermelon season was a long time off. They certainly didn’t have any wassermelonenschmier in the cellar; nor much of anything else for that matter.

No back talk, he said furiously. You do as I say. His eyes traveled her body and he sneered. Fix yourself up, too. Wear something to make you look…pleasing to a man. The judge is comin’ calling, and I expect you to do your part.

Panic of a far different sort stirred inside Emilie’s stomach now. Oh, no, I…

You’ll do as I say. He raised his fist threateningly. Why do you think I kept you around all these years if not to make this marriage. I need Murzbach’s land, an’ you’re gonna get it for me.

She held her breath.

His glare intensified; his voice came out of his throat as no more than a snarl. Let me down, girl, and it’ll be the last time.

She heard splashes as the hands threw wash water through the screen. Remotely she thought that none of it likely hit the trumpet vines.

Deeper, way down inside her, terror flared and swirled. She routinely went about frying the steak and potatoes, serving the supper, and even washing up afterward, but she scarcely knew what she was doing.

Papa intended to marry her off to the judge. Marry! The thought filled her throat with the taste of bitters. After what she’d seen of marriage, she’d be as well off here with Papa.

There were actually some advantages to staying here over marrying a proper German husband. For one thing, Papa didn’t care for any of the time-consuming meals most men expected; and he wouldn’t tolerate her fixing up the house or the yard or any of the things she’d seen in other households—things she knew a good hausfrau was required to spend all her time on.

Her heart beat so wildly she felt light-headed. Aside from the constant threat of being physically maimed or killed, she’d be better off here than someplace else—with someone new to fear.

Hadn’t the time she ran away to Aunt Zofie’s house in Fredericksburg proved that? And more? She tensed, recalling the way Uncle Will treated her. His looks and sneers had been enough to curdle her blood. The subtle excuses he found to touch her body while making it seem like an accident in front of Aunt Zofie brought a flush to her cheeks even now, five years later. But the night he came to her cot behind the cookstove and tried to force his body on her…

No, she vowed again, as she had dozens of times before her mother died and since, marriage was not for Emilie Hahn. Death would be better.

But she wasn’t ready for death either, she insisted vehemently to herself.

Her mind swirled with the blinding heat of panic and indecision as she finished cleaning the kitchen and brought in firewood for breakfast. Then taking up a lantern, she headed for the barn to separate the milk cow from its calf. Stopping by the stretched hide she intended to use for Mr. Jackson’s saddle, she stroked it pensively. Would she live to finish it? The thought stirred her mind into a further dither, and she proceeded to the barn where the cow and calf were penned. Half aware she studied a light shining through the window of the bunkhouse. Then she returned to the house and went to her room, careful to avoid her father, who sat in the parlor smoking and discussing the next day’s work with the hands.

Not until she reached her room did she realize that Davy Sparks had not been in the parlor with the other hands. The light in the bunkhouse…

At that moment determination jelled into a solid, recognizable plan in her brain. Quietly closing her bedroom door and barring it from the inside with a trunk, she prepared to slip out the window. Papa wouldn’t come to her room or check on her tonight. He never did. But just in case…

Her plan took shape. Although she hadn’t revealed it to Davy, she was sure she knew where to locate the hideout he hunted. All this time she had denied to herself and to Davy that any loot could be found. But what if she were wrong?

What if two million dollars lay stashed in the cave on top of Enchanted Rock? She’d be a lunatic not to find out. Especially as things stood now with Papa planning to marry her off to Judge Murzbach.

But what if there is no money? her cautious side implored. In which case, she retorted, she’d be that much further away from here come morning. Davy would go. He’d go tonight, she knew. All she had to do was wait until Papa was fast asleep.

But she must let Davy know her plan before the other hands returned to the bunkhouse. She had to see him now, while he was alone. Then she could return to her room, prepare for the journey, and wait until everyone else was asleep.

She studied her shapeless gray dress with despair. It certainly wasn’t suitable for mountain climbing. Then she thought of the deerskin breeches she made for that Lazy M cowhand who never returned for them. They might be a trifle too big, but she could belt them on tight and stuff the legs into the pair of boots that same cowhand left to have repaired. She smiled thinking that for once in her life her gawky size would come in handy.

Enchanted Rock. Indian legends claimed it to be a sacred, enchanted place. Pray it would hold some enchantment for her.

Colorado River, Llano County, Texas

March 2, 1879

Reveille sounded through the camp of Company D of the Texas Ranger Frontier Battalion, bringing men to various stages of activity within and outside their separate dabs. Creed McCaslin heard the resonance of the trumpet, sounding in his dream like the angel Gabriel blowing his horn. A second later the heavenly choir commenced to singing, There’s one wide river, and that wide river is Jordan, followed immediately by his own baptism with frigid water.

Creed bolted up, drenched through his longjohns, cursing his compadres who stood outside the tent still caroling off-key, as well as himself for oversleeping this his last morning in the service of Company D.

He’d known full well to expect some sort of mischief to mark his final day with the Rangers. Hadn’t he been partner to more than a few such pranks himself?

Staggering to the door of his tent, he threw back the flap and leaned his six-foot-two solid frame against the pole in his sopping-wet underclothes, which on this early March morning were already beginning to chill necessary parts of his anatomy.

Boots in hand, he turned first one then the other upside down, shaking each in turn to rid the insides of any critters that might have taken up residence in their gamy insides during the evening—things like granddaddies or scorpions or rattlesnakes.

Serve you fellers right if a rattler crawled out of here and latched onto your tail feathers.

Guffaws and heehaws greeted him and he replied, I’m glad to be rid of you ruffians, too.

Can’t figure why you’re turnin’ tail an’ running’ jest when we’re fixin’ to see action, Jacob Schmidt taunted.

Creed stepped into his boots. I ain’t turnin’ tail, he said amicably. Rather ride herd on a bunch of rangy longhorns than those robbers you’re fixin’ to tangle with along the Pecos.

Lieutenant Sieker joined the group, poured himself a measure of coffee from the pot on the fire. Squatting on his heels, he listened to the banter a moment, then looked up at the still gray sky. No matter who’s headed where, we’d best get started before this weather wets more things than McCaslin’s underpants. You fellers get on back to your own dabs and pack your gear.

After a few more words about spring showers and wet longjohns, some back-slapping, and a few you’ll-be-sorry-you-ain’t-alongs, the men returned to their own bailiwicks to begin packing. Creed dropped the tent flap. He turned inside, stuffed his shirttail into pants he had struggled to put on over wet longjohns, and began getting his gear together, too.

He was going home. Home.

Not to what a man generally called home, he thought. A few thousand acres he’d never even seen, bought out of his Ranger pay these last four years, and enough longhorn cattle to put together a respectable drive to Kansas.

But a man had to start somewhere. Slowed by memories he’d tried unsuccessfully to put aside by this stint with the Texas Rangers, Creed stood thoughtful until a loud clamoring brought his attention back to the camp. Lieutenant Sieker rushed into his dab once more.

Capt’n wants to see you, McCaslin. On the double.

Following the lieutenant, Creed flung his full cup of coffee into the campfire and headed for Captain Roberts’s tent. What’s up? he asked Sieker on the way.

Don’t know, the lieutenant replied. Some wild man rode into camp just now hollerin’ something ’bout his daughter being carried off by a desperado.

Creed raised his eyebrows and lengthened his stride. Approaching the captain’s fire, he studied the stocky, red-faced man who paraded in front of a patient Captain Roberts, while three riders sat their mounts at the edge of the clearing. When the agitated man shook his finger in Captain Roberts’s face a third time, Creed eliminated him as one deserving much sympathy. He’d seen his kind all too often—thinks he owns the world, and everybody in it has to dance to his tune.

McCaslin, the captain addressed him, meet Emil Hahn. Ranches fifty or so miles north of here.

Creed offered his hand in a well-mannered handshake, and as he expected, Hahn’s hand, though rough from obvious work, was also puffy and damp. Howdy, he spoke with a brief nod. He and Hahn squatted on their heels around the campfire, following the captain’s order to set yourselves.

Fishing a clasp knife out of his wet pants’ pocket, Creed picked up a stick at random and started to whittle. Emil Hahn’s agitation quietened down somewhat, which Creed suspected was the captain’s objective in settin’ with the man. Captain Roberts was a hand at putting a man at ease.

Hahn here’s after a ranchhand who’s made off with his daughter. Says the feller’s armed and dangerous.

That’s right, Emil Hahn cut in. Mighty dangerous. Won’t give you a gnat’s chance in hell if he sees you before you get a bead on him. He’ll kill you for sure.

Creed frowned, wondering how Emil Hahn’s problem concerned him. He was a free man today. Today he was headed home.

With a slight detour, he discovered, when the captain spoke again. Hahn says this feller, Sparks, left out sometime during the night, dragging his daughter along. He’s afraid what might happen to her if we delay. Since they appear to be headed straight across your trail to Silver Creek, I’m hopin’ you’ll see fit to handle this little difficulty on your way home.

Creed chewed the end of the twig he had whittled to a sharp point. He looked directly into the flinty gray eyes of the older man. They reminded him of the deadly edge on an Indian’s arrowhead. I’ll need more to go on than that, he said at last.

Emil Hahn scowled at him a moment, then looked at the captain across the fire. We pay you fellers, you know. I expect you to send enough Rangers to find my Em before that madman has his way with her.

Creed flinched. The thought of a girl alone with some madman unsettled him—brought back sour memories, like a mouthful of green mustang grapes. And this Emil Hahn’s manner didn’t set much better. One’s enough, mister, he said, spitting pieces of wood to the side. You only got one daughter, ain’t you?

Hahn’s temper flared. Captain, I’m calling on you to send someone capable of bringin’ my Em back alive and un…untouched. Why, this feller’s no…

The captain obviously had heard enough bickering. Rising, he addressed Creed. McCaslin, I can’t order you to take on this assignment, but with us headed for the Pecos country today, I’d count it a favor—a personal favor—if you’d take care of Mr. Hahn’s problem. See his daughter returned safely and escort this Sparks feller to jail.

Creed sighed and straightened his shoulders. Tell me more about your daughter, Hahn.

Well, she’s tall…taller’n a girl ought to be, and she’s mighty thin, too. She ain’t very bright, ya see, nor one to fight back, so I’m worried about her chances with a feller like Sparks. He’s a real bad ’un. No tellin’ what he might do to her.

Creed watched Emil Hahn as he spoke, trying to figure out why the man riled him so. He didn’t speak in glowing terms of his daughter, but on the other hand, he was concerned. Likely he was expressing the facts about her looks and nature. Certainly his unpleasantness could stem from fear for her safety. Folks acted funny when loved ones were in danger.

How old is your daughter? Creed asked, and when Hahn answered, he frowned. Twenty-two and abducted by a ranchhand? He shrugged. Could be. Then again…

They headed out sometime between midnight and daybreak, Hahn offered. Tracks lead toward Fredericksburg, but I figure they’re holed up in those granite hills between my place and town.

Enchanted Rock? Creed asked, wondering why, if Hahn knew where to look, he hadn’t gone directly there. The three men with him appeared to be fair hands with firearms, and they were certainly packing them— repeating saddle rifles and a pair of handguns each.

Did you take a look-see on your way over here?

Hahn fidgeted, then answered in a fume. Damned right I looked. I looked everywhere along the way. You don’t figure they’re about to let me get a whiff of their trail do you?

They? Creed questioned.

Sparks is sly as a coyote. He won’t let Em get by with leavin’ us a trail.

Creed chewed the stick and thought about that. What’s her name?

Em, Hahn barked at him.

Emilie? Creed inquired, thinking it odd how folks in these parts named daughters after their fathers instead of their mothers.

Hahn nodded. She don’t know nothing ’cept Em.

Well, McCaslin? What’d you say? Captain Roberts asked.

Creed nodded to the captain. Sure thing, capt’n. I’ll see to it.

After Captain Roberts convinced Emil Hahn that Creed McCaslin was indeed one of his best Rangers, that he was going to find himself shorthanded for sure to be losing him, and that Creed could find and capture a half-dozen Davy Sparkses in time to save his daughter Em, Emil Hahn mounted his large dun horse and rode away from the camp, his men following in his dust. Turning one last time, however, Hahn reissued a previous warning, He’ll kill you for sure if you don’t get him first. If you know your business, you’ll shoot on sight and for keeps.

Captain Roberts motioned Creed to walk with him beneath the pecan trees by the river. I appreciate you taking this on, McCaslin. You didn’t have to. But since you’re game, I’m going to saddle you with another little chore along the way.

Creed grinned. That’s fine by me, capt’n. Long’s I get home in time to make a gather for the last trail herd leaving Texas this season.

The captain slapped his shoulder. You’ll have enough time for that. Although they were out of earshot of the camp, he lowered his voice. I want you to keep your eyes peeled for someone, McCaslin. Be on the lookout for Frank Jackson.

Creed’s boot heels ground into the soft leaf mold beneath his feet. He turned quizzical eyes on the captain. Frank Jackson? Sam Bass’s old sidekick?

Captain Roberts nodded. One and the same. We’ve had reports he’s been seen around this neck of the woods. He was the only one of Bass’s gang to get away, you’ll recall.

Creed recalled well enough. A mortally wounded Sam Bass lent Jackson his horse and bid him ride to safety, leaving Bass under a tree to die outside Round Rock. Captain Roberts had been out of pocket when the call came in. He didn’t have a chance to get to Round Rock in time to pick up Jackson’s trail. Captain Roberts wanted Frank Jackson.

Word has it, the captain continued, he was wounded in their skirmish with the law in Cross Timbers up in Denton County. Way the story goes, he got an ear shot off.

Creed grinned. Shouldn’t be too hard to spot, then, he said. A missing ear would be hard to hide underneath a Stetson…or any kind of men’s headgear for that matter, unless he’s grown hair down over it.

Captain Roberts turned and shook Creed’s hand. You’ve been a good one, McCaslin. I was telling the truth about that. I hate to go on without you, but you’ve got your own business to tend to. And as I’ve always said, a Ranger who would rather be someplace else is better off there. When you find the girl, and after you’ve given the area a look-see, send your report to Major Jones down in Austin. I’ll get him word what you’re up to.

You can depend on me, capt’n, Creed assured him. If Jackson’s around I’ll nose him out…and the girl, too.

The noonday sun had broken through the clouds enough to warm the morning chill by the time the Rangers packed up and headed west. Creed hung around a while to do his bit in packing the gear, then they parted ways, and Creed debated which path to follow. The Ranger camp was due north of the Blanco County line. He contemplated riding southwest to Fredericksburg, since that’s where Hahn seemed to think Sparks was headed. Then making his decision, he turned his sorrel horse northwest instead, toward Enchanted Rock where storm clouds turned the sky a deep dusty gray. Hahn had indicated more than once this morning that he thought Sparks was headed in that direction, and although the man wouldn’t admit it, Creed figured Emil Hahn knew something he wasn’t telling.

Creed rode easy in the saddle. The letdown he’d expected on leaving the Ranger service after four years did not come. He decided the welcome detour to tend to Hahn’s difficulty had something to do with that. He was in no particular hurry to reach his destination.

He was headed home; that’s what he told everybody. Actually, he had no home, and he wasn’t all that anxious to find himself alone with only several thousand longhorn critters to take his mind off his troubles. The ranch to the west of Silver Creek was new—this would be his first time on the land. And that was not what he called going home.

For the past four years, he’d put most of his forty dollars a month Ranger pay into land he bought without really seeing. They’d ridden over the country, even camped on parts of it chasing Indians. But he hadn’t actually inspected the ten thousand acres he’d filed on and paid for. It had a creek running through it, some hills, more good pasture land than not, he’d been told. Charley Meuser ranched next door. He’d been Creed’s dab partner for three of these last four years, and Creed knew he could trust the man to know good rangeland. So he left the purchase of the land and the running of it up to now in Charley’s hands.

Until this morning, although jittery as a horsethief at a necktie social, he’d believed himself ready to resume life in the real world. Then Emil Hahn rode into camp with that cock-eyed story about his daughter Emilie, and old memories rushed back into Creed’s life like a flash flood in springtime.

Creed picked up Sandy Creek shortly after leaving the Ranger camp, and he now stopped along its red bank to water the sorrel and to take a breather himself. His clothes had dried, but his pants, wetted down as they had been by his longjohns, dried tighter to his skin than was comfortable. He walked a bit up and down the riverbank, squatting and bending his lanky frame, stretching the fabric to a more comfortable fit. He took a piece of jerked meat from his saddlebag and chewed on it while he studied the northwest horizon.

They were definitely in for a spring shower. And he didn’t hanker to be caught along the banks of Sandy Creek with a rainstorm upriver. This country was as noted for its killer floods as for Indian uprisings. Only thing, the Indians were of little threat these days, while the floods continued to come along all too regular.

Remounting, he touched spurs to the bay and picked up his pace, still troubled by the unpleasant memories Emil Hahn had called forth.

Creed’d joined up with the Rangers four years back on the dodge. Not to hide out from the law, like some fellers, rather to escape the memory of a dark-headed woman with fair skin and a fickle heart.

Fannie. He met Fannie Blackburn when she was just sixteen, and they married a couple of months later, unable to think of one more day passing without belonging to each other, heart and soul and body.

Oh, she was sweet, all right. Sweet as sugar candy until he took her back to the Tennessee River bottom, where she had to live the life of a poor farmer’s wife. Not that he would have remained a poor farmer for long.

He’d tried to reason with her. To assure her that poverty was a passing thing for them. That, even though they had to sacrifice at the moment, with her help he intended to build and grow, and she would one day have all the luxuries she desired.

But Fannie didn’t care to work for them. Said she couldn’t wait. And she didn’t.

Creed sighed. The muscles in his jaw still hardened in response to the memory of the day he returned from the fields to find her gone. She’d left nothing of her sweetness; of her once-laughing face and twinkling brown eyes; only her faded and tattered garments and the note.

The contents of that note remained chiseled as with flintrock into the depths of his soul:

I can’t live like this any longer, Creed. I’m missing too much of life. You’re better off without me, anyhow. Fannie

A light rain began to fall, and Creed adjusted his hat against it, recalling the evening before Fannie left. She’d gone off with the drummer they’d given shelter to the day before. When he found the note, he was dumbfounded, but he knew he should have seen it coming.

After supper the three of them had sat before the fire until Creed dozed off from boredom at the drummer’s tall tales of the cities of the nation. That drummer had more lip than a muley cow, but Fannie didn’t notice. Creed could still see the light in her eyes and hear her cries for more every time the drummer paused.

Finally, Creed went to bed, leaving them talking before the fire. Fannie came to bed late, and the next morning he left for the fields with them sitting at the breakfast table, the drummer talking and Fannie fawning all over him, like they’d been at it all night.

Funny thing was, Creed couldn’t even recall the man’s name. Actually, he didn’t think he’d ever known it. He exhaled his pent-up breath. The man had destroyed all his dreams, and he didn’t even know his name.

And this damned Hahn matter smelled like a skunk of the same stripe. Creed nudged the sorrel along with spurs to his flank, riding head down now through the increasingly heavy rainfall. In the distance he glimpsed occasional flashes of lightning. The ominous rumble of thunder warned him that he was very likely in for a second drenching this day.

Although Emil Hahn had gotten his hackles up, Creed had to admit the man likely had cause. He appeared prosperous enough. His horse and those of his men were well cared for; his clothes showed signs of domestic attention. After Hahn left camp, Captain Roberts pointed out that the man was a prominent rancher in the Llano River country.

The idea that Emilie Hahn ran out on her father, like Fannie ran out on him, worked on Creed’s mind, and by dusk, when he reached the base of Enchanted Rock, he had decided that’s exactly what she must have done.

Not that he intended to relax his vigil. No doubt Sparks was as desperate a character as Hahn insisted. But Hahn could be counted on to have prettied up the picture of his daughter a bit. Emilie likely had her finger in this pie, too. And Creed had to admonish himself to go easy on her. He couldn’t let his bitterness toward women like Fannie color his duties as a Ranger. The least he could do was to apprehend Sparks and return Emilie to her father. Perhaps that would help ease his own mind over not trying to get Fannie back.

Enchanted Rock loomed in shadowed silence directly ahead of him. Walking his horse now, Creed kept to the soft bank of Sandy Creek wherever he could, and thus made his way around the reported six hundred some odd acres of granite, looking for sign of the pair. It took him a couple of hours to wind around