Texas Twilight

Book Two of the McCutcheon Family Series

Caroline Fyffe

Texas Twilight by Caroline Fyffe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011 by Caroline Fyffe

www.carolinefyffe.com

Texas Twilight is a work of fiction. Names,
characters, places, and incidents are either products of the
author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual events, locals, or persons, living or dead, is wholly
coincidental.

All rights reserved

No part of this publication can be reproduced
or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or
mechanical, recording, by information storage and retrieval or
photocopied, without permission in writing from Caroline Fyffe.

Cover art by Kim Killion

Proudly Published in the United States of
America

ISBN # 978-0-9840146-8-2

This book is dedicated to the incredibly
brave men (one of whom is my son, Adam) and women of the 373D MI
Battalion of the United States Army now serving in Iraq—the last
Military Intelligence Battalion to serve there. It is your
dedication, determination and honor that make this country great!
Thank you for your service.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Heartfelt gratitude to my sister, Jenny
Meyer, for her expert editing and good advice—over all the years,
over all the projects. We make a good team. Thank you!

Fond appreciation also to my critique
partners for the help, encouragement and insight given so
generously on this story. Each of you is talented in your own way,
and this book would not have been completed without you: Theresa
Ragan, Leslie Lynch and Sandy Loyd. Thank you!

A huge hug of thanks to my four beta readers
for their gifts of time, talent and super-sharp eye. I value your
sincerity for the project along with your kind words: Jennie
Armento, Mariellen Lillard, Patricia Fyffe and Michael Fyffe. Your
suggestions have made this book so much better! Thank you!

To my wonderful author friends on the web and
in my RWA chapters, whose support and willingness to lend a helping
hand, encouraging word or velvety soft piece of warm chocolate in
times of desperate need—thank you!

To all the readers who’ve written to me with
enthusiasm and love—thank you, too! You’re the reason I write.

Texas Badlands, 1886

T
he stagecoach
lurched. John Jake McCutcheon opened his eyes and saw the young
woman next to him grasp the leather loop that hung from the coach’s
ceiling to keep from being tossed around. She tipped precariously
to the right, then left, bumping forcefully into his shoulder. With
an apologetic glance she moved away, then dabbed at her brow with a
folded handkerchief. She looked at her elderly aunt.

“Tante Harriet? Are you all right?” she asked
in a soft German accent. She opened the fan she held and swished it
back and forth in front of the tiny woman. “Your face is extremely
red.”

“Of course, Lily,” Harriet Schmidt said in a
raspy voice laced with exhaustion. The old woman’s hair was swept
up atop her head and fastened in a bun, but after the miles and
miles traveled on the dusty, sun-baked road, it looked more like a
weather blown tumbleweed after a storm. She patted her niece on the
knee. “Thank heavens we’re almost there. Just one more day and
we’ll be out of this oven.”

John glanced away, not wanting to seem
impolite. He’d met both Harriet Schmidt and her niece, Lily
Anthony, when they’d boarded the stage together in Concepción. He’d
seen them on the train from Boston, too, but they’d kept to
themselves, never speaking with anyone else.

John gazed out the window, thinking. He was
finally finished with his medical training and heading to West
Texas. Anticipation coursed though him.

Rio Wells was a long way from his family
ranch in Montana, but he’d get used to it. His plan to return to Y
Knot after graduation hadn’t panned out. His hometown already
supported two full-time physicians. If he really wanted to make a
difference in people’s lives as a doctor and surgeon, he had to
strike out in a place where the townsfolk were in need. At least he
wouldn’t be a complete stranger in Rio Wells. Uncle Winston and his
family were there. And his fiancée, Emmeline Jordan, would be
joining him this fall.

John closed his eyes, recalling Emmeline’s
elegant profile and dark, alluring eyes. In his mind’s eye, her
mouth drew down into a seductive little pout, a manipulation he
knew all too well, but one that, all the same, fueled his blood.
She was like a beautiful, exotic bird, needing care and
affection.

“Oh, just to take this corset off,” Harriett
said to no one in particular, then chortled softly at her niece’s
shocked expression at her bluntness. “It pinches horribly. I think
I’ll throw it away for good.” She paused, thinking. “No…” Her eyes
twinkled mischievously. “Actually, I’ll burn it.”

Cyrus and Jeremiah Post and Abigail Smith,
the other passengers cramped uncomfortably on the opposite seat,
just smiled, now used to the old woman’s antics. Miss Smith, a
teacher, had been hired by the same town council that had hired
John, and he felt a small kinship with her.

“You know, Doctor McCutcheon,” Harriett
Schmidt went on, trying to catch his eye, “my Lily doesn’t need a
corset. Her waist is eighteen inches without one.”

“
Tante
Harriett.
Please
.”

John chuckled and shrugged his shoulders.
He’d tried not to notice something like that, but it had been
difficult, if not impossible. The girl had practically been
snuggled to his side for several days.

Without warning, the driver called out
sharply to the horses and the coach picked up speed. The two guards
riding on top of the stage scuffled around and one shouted
something unintelligible. John glanced out the window.

A shot rang out. One second later, one of the
guards fell from the top of the stage, past the window, landing
with a thunk as the stage rolled on. Lily gasped and threw her arms
protectively around her aunt. Abigail screamed and then fainted,
flopping over onto Cyrus’s shoulder.

The driver bellowed to the horses again and
the stagecoach heaved forward as the six-horse team was propelled
instantly into an all-out gallop. Three more shots were fired, and
the sound of horses’ hooves thundered from behind.

John looked back through the dust to see a
number of riders racing toward the stagecoach, eating up the
distance between the two. What the hell was he supposed to do now?
He was a doctor. He’d taken the Hippocratic Oath to heal not three
weeks before. His job was taking bullets out, not putting them in.
But then, he’d also been raised on a rugged Montana ranch, where
the unwavering reality was hard. Sometimes staying alive meant
killing someone else. Besides, everyone’s lives were on the line,
not just his. It would be especially bad for the women aboard.
These hills were a common hiding place for Comancheros. They used
women in the worst ways and then sold them into prostitution in
Mexico. As pretty as she was, Lily Anthony would fetch top price.
Hell, they’d sell the skinny teacher and the old woman, too.

Smoke and
dust filled the coach.
Pop. Pop. Pop
. Lily covered her ears. Her elderly aunt coughed as she
struggled to hang on. Abigail, now fully awake again, filled the
small space with one shrill scream after the other, never even
pausing to take a breath. John reached for his satchel under the
seat, withdrew a Colt 45, and strapped on his holster. Carrying his
guns was a habit he hadn’t been able to break even after his years
at school. With hands nimble from experience, he loaded and fired
several shots out the window. Two riders fell.

“You have another gun?”

John was surprised to see old Harriet Schmidt
eyeing him expectantly. One hand was outstretched while the other
grasped the windowsill as the coach careened down the road, jerking
violently this way and that. “I’m not letting those filthy dogs
take my Lily!”

“Can you shoot?”

“I wouldn’t ask if I couldn’t. My derringer’s
not worth diddly.”

John squeezed off three more shots, then
pulled another gun from his bag, handing it to Harriet. He pushed
the bag toward Lily. “Bullets.”

Cyrus Post fired out the other side of the
coach just as a bullet hit Cyrus’s brother in the chest, slamming
Jeremiah violently against the back of the seat. Jeremiah gasped
several times as he tried to hold back a rush of crimson that
spurted through his splayed fingers, soaking his clothes. With just
a glance, John could see he wasn’t long for this world. Abigail’s
eyes grew round as she took in the blood. With a gasp, she fainted
again, blessedly putting an end to her screams.

“Son of a bitch! “ Cyrus cried out. “There’s
too many. Prepare to meet your maker.”

“Hush your mouth, you old coot,” Harriet
shouted as she hefted the heavy gun and shot out the window. “I
have more faith in God than that.”

The coach rounded a corner dangerously fast
and then slowed up a bit as it began an uphill climb. One side of
the road dropped off, falling some forty feet to a bed of jagged
rocks.

Seizing the moment, John holstered his gun
and opened the narrow door. He climbed the side of the rocking
coach using the window as a step, and grasping the luggage rack,
pulled himself up. He flopped onto his stomach, facing the oncoming
killers and picked up the fallen guard’s Winchester. He took
aim.

He was able to shoot, cocked the rifle and
pick off three Comancheros. One thing about a McCutcheon was that
their father took great pride in teaching them all how to shoot
well. Even his sister Charity was a sharpshooter.

Two bullets whizzed by John’s head so close
he felt a trail of heat. He hunkered lower behind the cargo and
steeled his nerves. A third shot took the life of the driver,
forcing the remaining guard to jump into the driver’s box and grab
for the multiple reins before they were lost completely. The man
scooped them up and slapped the leather across the backs of the
charging horses, demanding more speed.

John paused to reload. He wasn’t ready to
die, dammit! He’d worked his tail off to get into Harvard and get
his medical degree. And now this? Angry at the turn of events, he
unloaded his chambers, bringing down two more outlaws.

“Help me up,” a female voice shouted over the
ruckus.

Lily Anthony dangled from the side of the
stage, her white knuckles grasping the iron rod of the luggage rack
to keep from falling under the steel-rimmed wheels. Her dress
swished around her legs as she struggled to secure footing. John
reached down and took a firm hold under her arms and pulled her up
next to him. “What the hell are you doing?” he yelled over the
sound of gun shots and galloping horses.

“Helping you,” she shouted back as she
scanned the area. She picked up the abandoned Winchester, reloaded
it from a bag of ammunition, and handed it over to John. He grunted
his understanding, took aim and fired three times, sending more
outlaws into the dirt.

As the coach slowed, the seven remaining
desperados prepared to come aboard. John grabbed for his Colt and
brought down the two closest. Taking aim on a third, he squeezed
the trigger, only to have the chamber click empty. The rest of the
ammunition was inside with Harriet. At this range the Winchester
was nearly useless.

He swung to his left as a man leapt from his
mount and began climbing up. With his empty gun, John bashed him in
the face, knocking him off. Lily hefted the Winchester to her
shoulder and fired, taking down a rider who was bringing up the
rear.