Chapter One

Drifting in the misty unreality of dreams, Rafe Kendrick surrendered himself to the images that moved softly through his mind. As he sank deeper into slumber, the details gained clarity and seemed more lifelike. He smiled drowsily. He was down on the lakeshore, he realized, not far from the main ranch house. Through the stands of evergreen trees, he could see the sprawling expanse of ivy-covered brick that was his family home, three of its fireplace chimneys silhouetted against the summer-blue sky. On the gentle breeze, he heard the whinny of a stallion coming from the north pasture behind the stables.

Home. On some level he knew this was only a dream, but it felt wonderfully real, a vivid recollection of all that he'd lost. Small, water-worn rocks shifted under his feet as he followed the sweep of shoreline. The soft lapping of the water soothed him. He took a deep breath, identifying the smells that had once been so commonplace he scarcely noticed them. Fir and pine. Sunwarmed grass and fertile earth. A crisp edge to the breeze, even on a summer day, because the highelevation basin was ringed by snowcapped peaks.

His footsteps slowed as he crested a slight rise. Ahead of him in a shaded grove, he saw a sorrel mare and a buckskin gelding. They grazed contentedly, their reins loosely draped over the limbs of sapling oaks. Nearby two blanket-draped saddles rested on the green grass.

A sense of deja vu filled Rafe. He remembered this day. He and Susan had taken the kids for a short ride through the forest, and then they'd come back here for a picnic by the lake. They had enjoyed themselves, singing silly songs they made up as they went along to entertain their three-year-old son, Keefer. It had been a near perfect outing, and they had ended it here because they loved spending time near the water.

He eagerly scanned the clearing, his yearning to catch a glimpse of his family so sharp that it made his breath hitch. Drawn by a red-checkered tea towel that fluttered in the breeze, his gaze came to rest on the wicker picnic basket first. The hinged lid was wedged partially open by the protruding neck of a wine bottle that their nannyhousekeeper, Becca, had slipped inside to accompany their meal.

Oh, yes...he remembered it all so clearly -- Susan, in snug faded jeans and a pink cotton blouse, her golden hair caught at the crown with a clip to spill in a silky cascade to her shoulders. He could almost hear the sound of her laughter rippling around him -- and smell the little-boy scent of his son, riding double in front of him on the buckskin. After coming here to eat, he had rocked his baby daughter to sleep while Susan set out the food, and he could recall exactly how his little girl's plump body had felt in his arms.

A slight frown pleated Rafe's brow. This was too real to be a dream. He could actually hear the water lapping and feel the breeze caressing his skin. With every step he took, the beach pebbles pressed sharply into the soles of his riding boots. Dreams weren't this vivid.

Oh, God. Could he dare to hope? Maybe a miracle had happened, and somehow he'd been hurtled back in time. Maybe, after all this time, his prayers had finally been answered and God was giving him a second chance.

Oh, yes, please...All he needed was just one more chance. This time, he wouldn't blow it. He'd put his family first. Nothing had ever mattered more to him than his wife and kids. Nothing. He'd just gotten so caught up in the everyday responsibilities and obligations of being a husband and father that he'd lost sight of what was really important for a while.

He'd...

Chapter One

Monday, July 17
Laurel Creek, Oregon

It had been nearly a year since Marilee Nelson's last panic attack, and she honestly believed she'd never have another one.

Until she saw the football helmet.

As football helmets went, it was ordinary enough, gray and striped with crimson, the team colors of Laurel Creek High, her alma mater. Nothing very frightening about that. No, what struck terror into her was that the helmet lay in the back window of an unknown blue Honda with California plates that was parked in front of her garage.

That was enough to send Marilee straight past panic into full-blown hysteria.

After her car had rocked to a stop, she cut the engine and stared at that California plate until her eyes burned. JOE, it read. A very ordinary name. It was undoubtedly pure coincidence that some guy named Joe from California had parked his vehicle in her driveway. A kid working his way through college by selling magazine subscriptions, maybe. Or a census taker who'd wandered into the wrong state.

She might have convinced herself, only there was that helmet. Only one Joe from California would have Laurel Creek High football gear in his car. Her Joe. Six feet plus of muscular, lethal-edged male.

"Oh, God."

At the sound of her voice, her bloodhound Boo stirred awake from his nap on the passenger seat. Casting her a disgruntled, droopy-eyed look, he yawned and licked his nose.

"Don't look at me as if I'm a coward. You're the one who needs a Valium to get through an appointment with the vet."

Marilee dragged in a shaky breath, gulped, and tried to relax her body. Slow, even breaths. Center your thoughts. The routine came second nature to her now, and though sometimes ineffective, it worked this time to decelerate her heartbeat. Thank heaven. Having a panic attack at the mere sight of his car would be a dead giveaway.

"This is silly. I mean...why be upset? He's moved home after ten years. So? We used to have a thing going. Big deal. After being back for almost two months, he's suddenly decided to drop by and say hello. Why, I have no idea. To make me miserable, maybe? Yeah, that works.,"

Boo whined, rested his massive head on his paws again, and closed his saggy red-rimmed eyes.

"Exactly. Boring. Like I care anymore." She dropped her keys in her purse. "I mean, really. I'm a self-sufficient twenty-eight-year-old in the dawn of an enlightened century. No matter how sticky the situation, I can handle it."

Gathering her courage, Marilee stepped from the car. All she had to do was take control and think up a really good lie to get rid of him.

Oh, God, why is he here?

Her hands shook as she walked around the car, opened the door, and rousted Boo from his nap. The hound groaned when she patted his broad, bony head. "Come on, you big chicken. For once, put that nose God gave you to good use. Sniff him out. Act vicious. Chase him away, and I'll feed you juicy top sirloin for dinner."

Boo grunted as he slid off the seat. Closing the door, Marilee turned to follow him, determined not to let this throw her. Everything had been going so well for her this last year. She'd be damned if she would let Joe waltz back into her life now and turn her world topsy-turvy.

No way. She had important things on her agenda for this afternoon. It mattered not a whit that it was only a huge pot of beef stew simmering on the stove. At precisely four-thirty, she had to put in the potatoes. That qualified as a pressing engagement,...

Chapter One

Southeastern Colorado, 1868

There was nothing quite as distinctive as the scent of human blood, Race Spencer thought grimly. Warm and slightly sweet with a coppery tang, it put him in mind of his childhood and the stolen pennies he'd often clutched in one grubby fist.

All his life, he'd heard men tell of seeing things so terrible it curled their hair. Race, whose wiry, jet-black locks were as straight as a bullet on a windless day, had always believed those tales to be flapdoodle. Until now. Judging by the prickly feeling under his collar, the short hairs at the nape of his neck were curling as tight as the topknot on a bald-faced calf.

Even his horse Dusty was all het up, withers twitching, ears cocked, freshly shod hooves nervously striking partially buried slabs of rock on the sandy rise. Race leaned forward in the saddle to stroke the buckskin's muscular neck. Not that he figured on it doing much good. Dusty knew the smell of death, and like any living thing with a lick of sense, the horse had a hankering to make fast tracks.

"Easy, old son," he murmured to the mount who was also the best trail partner around. "Give me a minute to eyeball this here mess before we decide to hightail it."

In the arroyo below, a half dozen wagons sat in a loose circle around a lone candelabra cactus. The stretch of sun baked, yellow clay between the wagons was littered with all manner of possessions and so many dead people Race had trouble counting them in a sweeping glance. All were dressed in black clothing, with large, crimson patches staining the yellow earth under their spread-eagle bodies.

Though a few rays of fading sunlight were still visible over the distant peaks of the Rocky Mountains, Race felt chilled to his marrow. A shudder did a do-si-do up his spine, and his skin went as knurly as a plucked goose.

Over a mile back, he had started catching whiffs of the blood. Knowing it was fresh and most probably human, he should have been braced for the sight that greeted him now. But to say these people had died violently was like saying Methuselah was sort of old. This was a massacre, nothing less, the type of thing Apache warriors might do, only as far as Race could see, there hadn't been a single scalp taken.

All totaled, Race counted eleven bodies in the rubble, six middling-aged men and five women. Citified folks, he reckoned, lured west by the promise of free land and wide-open spaces. It was disheartening to think that high hopes for a better life had led them to such a sorry pass.

From the looks of things, they'd traveled a far piece, probably clear from St. Louis, a hell of a journey for both man and beast. A fellow lying in the foreground wore boots with patched soles, indicating that he'd walked many a mile, and the canvas on the rattletrap wagons was tattered and sported so many holes, it reminded Race of the punctured Arbuckle can that his biscuit roller, Cookie Grigsley, used as a strainer.

The poor damned fools. What craziness had led them to leave the main wagon train? And after doing that, why in the hell had they ventured off the Santa Fe Trail? He supposed they might have taken a wrong turn. The Mountain Branch of the Santa Fe Trail meandered in a northwesterly direction for quite a spell before it dove south toward New Mexico, and sometimes inexperienced travelers got to thinking they were headed the wrong way. When they tried to correct their course, they often got lost.

He heaved a weary sigh, knowing even as the questions circled darkly in his mind that he'd come up with no answers. None that made sense, anyhow. After hiring out his gun to Santa Fe Trail wagon masters for ten long years, Race knew that all...

Chapter One

It was the devil's own afternoon. Black clouds gathered over the teeth-sharp peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and an angry wind from the north drove gusts against the buildings. Locked into his own thoughts, Luke Taggart stood by the window in the Golden Slipper's best upstairs room and watched the sun drift behind a patch of thunderous gray. Heralding the approach of winter, September was coming in with a vengeance. Unless he missed his guess, there would be one hell of a rainstorm before nightfall.

The warm glow of the gaslights placed strategically around the red and gold bedchamber did little to offset the gloom. Oblivious to the opulence he'd once admired, he listened with half an ear to the sibilant hiss of the gas jets, his heart striking two muted beats to every click of the pendulum.

From beyond the windowpane he heard a hoarse shout, followed by a stream of curses. Another barroom brawl in the offing? he wondered without much interest. Leaning a hip against the sill, he gazed morosely through the glass at the cobblestone sidewalks two stories below him. Townsfolk scurried past the Golden Slipper to patronize shops farther up the way. As the ladies walked by the gambling house, they stepped clear off the curb and into the street, their noses lifted in disdain, their fancy skirts drawn close around their ankles, as if the very air might be contaminated.

Anger burned low in Luke's gut like a smoldering coal buried under a thick layer of ash, the fire inside him always

It was the devil's own afternoon. Black clouds gathered over the teeth-sharp peaks of the Rocky Mountains, and an angry wind from the north drove gusts against the buildings. Locked into his own thoughts, Luke Taggart stood by the window in the Golden Slipper's best upstairs room and watched the sun drift behind a patch of thunderous gray. Heralding the approach of winter, September was coming in with a vengeance. Unless he missed his guess, there would be one hell of a rainstorm before nightfall.

The warm glow of the gaslights placed strategically around the red and gold bedchamber did little to offset the gloom. Oblivious to the opulence he'd once admired, he listened with half an ear to the sibilant hiss of the gas jets, his heart striking two muted beats to every click of the pendulum.

From beyond the windowpane he heard a hoarse shout, followed by a stream of curses. Another barroom brawl in the offing? he wondered without much interest. Leaning a hip against the sill, he gazed morosely through the glass at the cobblestone sidewalks two stories below him. Townsfolk scurried past the Golden Slipper to patronize shops farther up the way. As the ladies walked by the gambling house, they stepped clear off the curb and into the street, their noses lifted in disdain, their fancy skirts drawn close around their ankles, as if the very air might be contaminated.

Anger burned low in Luke's gut like a smoldering coal buried under a thick layer of ash, the fire inside him always there but carefully banked. Snobbish bitches. Let them risk life and limb if that pleased their condescending sense of morality. It was no skin off his nose if one of them got run over by a passing conveyance.

Running a hand inside his unbuttoned shirt, Luke rubbed his chest, his fingertips tracing the hard bulges of muscle under his sweat-moistened skin. God, he felt fired, the kind of tiredness that ran bone-deep and far beyond the physical.

"Luke, baby. Come back to bed."

Gloria's purring demand raked down his spine like a fingernail over a blackboard. In spite of its pretension to elegance, the room carried the subtle odor of fish...