Swept Away

© 2013 by Mary Connealy

Published by Bethany House Publishers

11400 Hampshire Avenue South

Bloomington, Minnesota 55438

www.bethanyhouse.com

Bethany House Publishers is a division of

Baker Publishing Group, Grand Rapids, Michigan

www.bakerpublishinggroup.com

Ebook edition created 2013

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

ISBN 978-1-4412-6110-6

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.

Scripture quotations are from the King James Version of the Bible.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, incidents, and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.

Cover design by Dan Pitts

Cover photography by Mike Habermann Photography, LLC

Author is represented by Natasha Kern Literary Agency

I’m dedicating
Swept Away
to my daughter Shelly. Shelly is a gifted storyteller. She’s animated and charming, with a smile that lights up a room and a talent for drawing people in and making them happy to be with her. She’s also a natural athlete. I figured this out the first time she grabbed the edge of my kitchen doorframe and climbed it to the ceiling. She was about three at the time. I actually knew before then. She had this stunt when she was about a year old, involving . . . well, best not to go into details on that one.

Shelly would make a great storybook heroine, bright and beautiful and sweet. Also, she’s a pretty good shot and she looks great in a Stetson, which makes her fit in my books even better.

C
ONTENTS

Cover

Title Page

Copyright Page

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

About the Author

Books by Mary Connealy

An excerpt from Book 2

Back Ad

Back Cover

C
HAPTER 1

O
CTOBER
1868

The sharp crack of a cocking pistol brought Lucas Stone’s head around.

“I’ll shoot if you so much as twitch.” The deputy’s badge gleamed in the dim lantern light of the stable, and his aim was true.

“What’s the problem here?” Luke straightened away from his horse, his hands spread wide and raised slightly. He hoped this didn’t count as twitching; he didn’t want to give the deputy an excuse to flinch.

“Those your saddlebags?” The lawman looked at the bags Luke had just thrown onto his horse and used the gun to point at them. Not a careful man. He looked to be about twenty, and none too bright.

“They are. What’s going on?”

“I got a tip I’d find money in those bags. Money from a stagecoach robbery that happened in these parts last week. Had a man killed.”

A shiver went up Luke’s spine. He’d noticed his saddlebags were moved. He’d left them here with his horse and, since there was nothing worth stealing in them, he hadn’t
thought much of someone shoving them to the side, even going through them. Now he had a bad feeling that if he opened the bags, or let the deputy open them, there’d be something tying Luke to robbery and murder.

“You got a tip?” Luke tried to stall for time as he wondered who’d tried to frame him. Only one name came to mind. Flint Greer. A man who had good reason to not want Luke to make it home alive. “From who? I’ve only been in town a few hours. Just passin’ through on my way home to Texas.”

More honestly on his way to reclaim his home in Texas. “I just came in from far north. I have a bill of sale dated yesterday that proves I’m new to these parts.” Luke reached for the breast pocket of his brown broadcloth shirt.

“Don’t move!” The deputy’s gun came up and his finger visibly trembled on the trigger.

“Easy.” Luke wondered how the kid could believe there was a gun hidden in Luke’s shirt pocket, but he slowly moved his hands away from his body. “You want to get the bill of sale yourself?”

Luke hoped he would come within grabbing distance.

Nodding, the lawman edged toward Luke.

Luke knew plenty about being tough, having grown up in north Texas, a land of stark rock canyons and roving bands of Comanche and Kiowa. That alone was enough, but he’d also spent years fighting in the War Between the States, and more time living off the land after the war. And he was boiling with anger as he made his way home to avenge his father’s death. Those things combined to make him a careful, knowing man. A dangerous man.

This deputy was none of those.

Luke was close to home now, and Greer, the man who’d killed his father, knew he was coming because Luke had
sent a letter, along with a legal document, telling Greer to get off Stone land. Greer didn’t want Luke to make it home.

Luke knew a setup when he saw one. Which meant there was little or no chance he could talk his way out of this. Which left fighting his only way out. He braced himself, determined not to hurt a lawman—at least not too bad. But once a jailhouse door clanked shut, Lucas expected the only way out would be as he was led to the gallows.

The deputy reached for Luke’s pocket.

Luke shoved the kid’s gun upward, drove his fist into the kid’s belly, then slugged him in the jaw. Luke jerked the pistol out of the deputy’s hand, chopped him on the skull with the gun butt, and grabbed the front of his shirt to lower him, unconscious, to the stable floor.

Luke flipped open his saddlebags to find a cloth cash bag. Dragging it out, Luke looked at it for a few long seconds, tempted. Considering its weight, Luke knew it was gold.

It would come in handy. It’d buy him enough bullets to start a war, which was exactly what Luke had in mind to do.

With some regret, but no interest in turning thief, he dropped the money, then double-checked the saddlebags to make sure there wasn’t more. Whoever had tried to frame him hadn’t wanted to part with too much.

If this was Greer’s work, the man was thorough. So if the deputy was here in the stable, where was the sheriff? Luke eyed the doorway and was sure if he walked out, he’d be facing a firing squad.

With grim silence Luke finished slapping leather on his horse and led it to the back door of the stable. A black horse on a black night, and Luke always dressed to move around undetected. No shining hatband. No silver trim on his boots or Colt. No jingling spurs.

Easing the door open, he saw a stretch of land leading into a copse of trees. Behind those trees, a bluff rose. He’d seen it earlier. But could Luke’s gelding climb the bluff? Being afoot in Texas was a good way to end up dead.

His horse was game, so Luke set out, leading his mount, listening for every night sound, his hand on his six-gun as they paced off the distance to the shelter of the trees.

No one stopped him. If this was Greer’s work, he’d be furious. He was a man who hired his shooting done and he expected his money’s worth.

Luke reached the trees and decided to trust the black to find a way up. Mounting, he rode up the bluff and over the top. As soon as he was out of hearing distance, Luke slapped his horse’s rump and they picked up the pace in moonlight almost as bright as day.

While he put space between himself and the posse that was bound to be coming, Luke wondered how much Greer had paid to kill Pa. Top dollar most likely, because the job had been done right.

Pa dead.

His S Bar S Ranch stolen.

Luke was headed home to set things right.