Each Time We Love

  Each Time We Love

  The Southern Women Series

  Book Two

  by

  Shirlee Busbee

  New York Times Bestselling Author

  EACH TIME WE LOVE

  Reviews & Accolades

  "One of the best romance writers of our time."

  ~Affaire de Coeur

  Published by ePublishing Works!

  www.epublishingworks.com

  ISBN: 978-1-61417-704-3

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  Please Note

  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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  Copyright © 2014 by Shirlee Busbee. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

  Cover and eBook design by eBook Prep www.ebookprep.com

  Dedication

  Just for Howard,

  still the very best friend and husband

  a woman could have!

  Prologue

  Oh, breathe not his name!

  Let it sleep in the shade,

  Where cold and unhonour'd his relics are laid.

  Thomas Moore

  Irish Melodies

  Spanish Texas, Fall, 1804

  This had not been a good trading expedition for Jeremy Childers—his partner was dead, and instead of the riches they'd planned on reaping this trip, Jeremy's reward for nearly a year's efforts was one old wind-broken horse. Considering the past few weeks, Jeremy guessed he was damned lucky to have that.

  Giving up any further pretense of sleep on the hard ground, he scratched for the ever-present fleas and lice; after squashing a persistent flea between his dirty fingers, he sat up, cursing the day he had ever crossed the Sabine River into Spanish Texas. Resentfully he stared at the scarlet dawn breaking over the canyon rim, his moody thoughts on just how very bad the scheme to trade with the Indians had been. He should have listened to Yates and not that fool Haley.

  It had seemed such an excellent idea when he and his partner, Orval Haley, had first discussed it in the winter of 1803. They had been sitting in a darkened corner in one of the many dens of vice with which Natchez-under-the-Hill abounded, and both of them had been more than half drunk. But in the morning, despite their aching heads, the scheme to slip into Spanish Texas to trade with the Indians for horses had seemed like a sure way to enhance their meager finances. An unexpected stroke of luck settled the matter: not two nights later, they stumbled over a drunken riverboat captain and, not a pair to overlook opportunity, a swift rifling of the man's pockets brought into their possession a tidy sum.

  With never a backward look, they had used their stolen gains to purchase the supplies and horses and mules needed for their venture. Very early in 1804, the pack animals loaded down with all sorts of brightly colored cloth and trinkets with which to tempt the Indians, the partners had slipped across the border into the jealously guarded Spanish territory and headed west. West to make their fortunes.

  Luck appeared to be with them, and by early fall they were congratulating themselves on the large herd of horses that they had amassed to sell at exorbitant prices in Louisiana. They expected no trouble smuggling the animals safely across the Mississippi River and were already discussing the riotous time they would have in New Orleans, spending their money on liquor and fancy women.

  Unfortunately, it was then that they had allowed their innate greed to overcome what common sense they possessed. Word of a band of Comanches, the Kwerhar-rehnuh, or the "Antelopes," who were rumored to be the possessors of unlimited herds of horses, reached the two traders. The fact that these Indians were known to be the wildest and fiercest of all the bands of the Comanches did not deter the two men, nor did the fact that the Antelopes were situated deep in the remote windswept ranges of the Llano Estacado. The only thing that Jeremy and Orval could think about was all those horses....

  Finding a secluded canyon with plenty of grass and water in which to corral their herd of horses until they returned from the Comanches with more horses was simple enough to do, and it was then that things started to go wrong. They were erecting a barrier across the only entrance into the canyon when a Spanish patrol stumbled across them. Since they were caught by surprise, there was never any question of the outcome. All their possessions were promptly confiscated and a Spanish jail looked to be their residence for quite some time. But their luck seemed to hold. As the group came closer to the small settlement of Nacogdoches, the Spaniards grew careless and Jeremy and Orval were able to slip away one night with a pair of horses and a couple of mules still laden with the remainder of their trading supplies. The next morning they watched glumly from the concealment of a canebrake as, after a cursory search for the escaped prisoners, the Spaniards shrugged and rode away, driving in front of them the horse herd that Jeremy and Orval had spent months acquiring.

  Their fortune disappearing in a cloud of dust, Jeremy and Orval decided to waste little time in finding the Kwerhar-rehnuh. Which turned out to be the very worst idea they had ever had, Jeremy thought resentfully, as he bit into a hard biscuit. Again Yates's words came back to haunt him: "Are you crazy?" Yates had demanded in Natchez when he and Haley had originally thought to cut him in on their scheme. "You think you're going to get rich, but I'll tell you what's really going to happen—you'll both end up dead and your bones will lie bleaching on the plains. Trading horses with Comanches! Fool notion if I ever heard one."

  Yates was right, Jeremy thought dejectedly, and Orval should have listened to me after we lost our horses, when I told him that we should go back to Natchez. But no, Jeremy mused with a bitter twist to his mouth, he said we could recoup everything if we'd just show a little grit! Well, that "grit" had served Orval precious little when that Comanche buck lifted his hair!

  Swallowing the last of his stale biscuit, he kicked his bedroll together and saddled his horse. It didn't do any good ruminating about what they should have done, but as he swung up onto his horse, he couldn't help but think that Orval had been a damn fool for trying to cheat those Comanches at dice. Which, of course, had precipitated Orval's scalping and his own frantic escape from camp.

  Remembering Orval's dying scream, Jeremy shuddered and glanced nervously over his shoulder, fearing to see a bloodthirsty band of warriors bearing down on him. He'd seen no sign of them for two days now, and thankfully, all that met his gaze were the soaring walls and rock-strewn floor of the canyon. Which didn't exactly reassure him—he was lost in the seemingly impenetrable maze of cottonwood-dotted arroyos and jagged walled canyons.

  Doggedly he urged his horse into a trot. Keep moving, he told himself grimly; keep moving, and sooner or later you'll find a place that looks familiar.

  The sun was blazing over the rim of the canyon by now, and to his growing excitement, Jeremy saw that just ahead of him the canyon a
ppeared to open onto a rocky, brush-spotted plain. Jubilant that he had finally found his way out of the aimlessly wandering canyons, he was on the point of kicking his plodding horse into a swifter pace when the stillness was broken by the agonized scream of a man in mortal pain. Jerking his horse to a standstill, Jeremy first thought his imagination was playing tricks on him—that it was the memory of Orval's final shriek that rang so terrifyingly in his ears. And yet...

  Face white, he reached with trembling fingers for the battered old rifle secured on the cantle of his saddle. Swinging down from his horse, he tied the animal and crept near the mouth of the canyon. Concealed by a jumble of tumbled rocks, he peered around one of the big boulders.

  His breath stopped and his heart banged painfully at the sight that met his eyes. Not a hundred feet in front of him, a naked man lay spread-eagled on the plain, and standing over him with a bloodstained knife was the most magnificent and frightening savage Jeremy Childers had ever seen. Tall and powerfully built, with bronzed hawk-like features, the Indian wore his lustrous black hair in braids—but it was the sunlight glinting on the bloodied knife that held Jeremy's fearful gaze. He couldn't tear his eyes away from the knife, so shocked was he by the sight before him that it never occurred to him to lift his rifle and fire.

  In stunned terror, Jeremy watched as the Indian, with never a backward glance at his victim, effortlessly leaped onto his horse and rode away. Even after the Indian had disappeared, Jeremy remained frozen in his hiding place, his heart pumping at a frantic rate, his mouth dry with fear.

  Eventually Jeremy gathered his shattered courage, and after a thorough scrutiny of the area, retrieved his horse and walked over to where the man lay. Staring down at the pitiful wreck that remained, Jeremy blanched.

  Jesus Christ! he thought sickly as his gaze moved over the mutilated body. It was obvious that the man had been staked here for a while, and equally obvious that he had suffered greatly before the Indian had inflicted the final terrible wound—castration.

  I wonder what the poor devil did to deserve such a fate, Jeremy wondered. From the signs, it was apparent that the Indian had deliberately waited and watched for some days before deciding to strike the final blow. Again Jeremy's gaze briefly touched the naked man. A Spaniard, he decided, noting the black hair and swarthy skin. The ruined features still showed a faint vestige of a once-handsome face, but even in death there was an air of arrogance about the man. No peon, Jeremy thought as he stood there considering the dead man. Some fancy hidalgo must have crossed the wrong Indian.

  His courage returning, Jeremy glanced around again. In front of him, nothing but the vastness of the plains met his gaze, and behind him, he knew, lay the twisting canyons with their incredible spires and pinnacles. A fine-looking horse wearing a saddle lavishly inlaid with silver was loosely tethered nearby, and Jeremy guessed it had belonged to the Spaniard. He sighed. Except for the corpse at his feet and the two horses, he was alone.

  There wasn't anything that he could do for the man, and he decided that since the Spaniard's horse and saddle looked a damn sight better than his own, there was nothing to stop him from improving his lot. He turned away, his boot heel crunching on the uneven ground.

  "Blood Drinker?" croaked a voice behind him. His eyes widening in disbelief, Jeremy spun around to stare at what he had thought was a dead man.

  Incredibly, the poor wretch was still alive! Dropping down beside him, Jeremy quickly cut loose the rawhide that bound the man. "What did you say?" he asked.

  The Spaniard stiffened. "Who are you?" he gasped.

  Jeremy hesitated, not trusting even a dying Spaniard, but it was obvious that the man would not live more than a few moments longer. "Jeremy Childers," he answered. "Who are you?"

  "Blas Davalos!"

  The effort to say his name exhausted the man, and Jeremy waited a second before asking, "Who did this to you? I saw that big Indian buck ride away."

  The blackened lips twisted into a snarl and Davalos muttered painfully, "Jason Savage... Blood Drinker murdered... me!"

  The names meant nothing to Jeremy, and swiftly reaching for his canteen, he poured a little water onto the man's lips. Greedily Davalos drank the precious moisture. The water appeared to momentarily revive him, for his voice grew stronger and he said, "Savage must be punished!" Weakening again, he added feebly, "Find him... New Orleans or... plantation, Terre du Coeur."

  Having no intention of involving himself in Davalos's vendetta, but knowing that time was running out for the man, Jeremy said soothingly, "I'll do what I can." Bluntly he asked, "Is there anyone you want me to tell of your death?"

  Davalos nodded. "Daughter... bastard," he gasped. "Savanna O'Rourke. Crow's Nest. Stack Island."

  Jeremy's eyebrows rose. He was familiar with Crow's Nest and he was surprised that this Spaniard's daughter lived there. Situated fifty miles north of Walnut Hills, it was well known as a hideout and gathering place for all sorts of unsavory men.

  Davalos seemed to lose consciousness, and Jeremy, oddly loath to leave the dying man, hunkered down beside him to wait uneasily for the end. But the Spaniard was not done yet, and he suddenly thrashed about and muttered fiercely, "I must find the gold! The map! Jason knows!"

  It was obvious that Davalos was raving, but at the word "gold," Jeremy's interest became acute. Avarice gleaming in his blue eyes, he leaned nearer the dying man. "Gold?" he questioned softly. "What gold?"

  "Nolan's golden armband... I killed him... hid it! Savanna will have it...."

  Jeremy's eyes widened. A golden armband! His interest fully whetted, and impatient with the man's ramblings, Jeremy murmured eagerly into Davalos's ear, "Tell me about the gold."

  "It's here! It's mine!" Davalos panted feverishly. "Mine! Aztec treasure! They found it, but it's mine—all mine!" He had barely stopped speaking when there was a funny little rattle deep in his throat and he lay very still.

  "Here?" Jeremy yelped, glancing around at the bleak landscape. "What do you mean it's here? Where?"

  There was no answer from Davalos, and reaching out to touch him, to shake him, Jeremy knew the instant his fingers had touched him that Davalos was dead. Disgustedly Jeremy stared at the dead man. Now, why couldn't he have lived just a few minutes longer? Now I have to go find that daughter of his to figure out what she knows, and then I'm going to have to find this Jason Savage. As for the Indian, Blood Drinker... Remembering the tall savage as he had stood over Davalos's naked body with the bloodied knife in his hand, Jeremy shuddered. No. He wouldn't go looking for Blood Drinker. Savanna O'Rourke or Jason Savage should be able to tell him what he wanted to know.

  Already speculating on ways to make Savanna tell him about the treasure, Jeremy walked over to Davalos's horse. Deciding that the obviously well-bred animal was a vast improvement over his own sorry mount, he quickly transferred his rifle and bedroll to the dead man's horse. Whistling tunelessly, he swung up into the saddle. Taking one last look at Davalos's corpse, he concluded that maybe this hadn't been such a bad trading trip after all. Wait until he told Yates. He glanced around the vast landscape. An Aztec treasure, huh? A treasure just waiting for someone to find it....

  Leading his old wind-broken horse, he kicked the Spaniard's mount into a swift trot, his thoughts busy on how he was going to find Savanna O'Rourke and, er, convince her to tell him all she knew about the Aztec gold. And then there was always Jason Savage.... Confident that his luck had finally changed for the better, he was eager to leave the Spanish territory and begin his search for the golden treasure.

  But fickle fate wasn't quite through with Jeremy Childers; three days later he rode smack into another Spanish patrol. Worse, this particular patrol had been led by a lieutenant named Blas Davalos—a lieutenant who had mysteriously disappeared with a Cherokee named Blood Drinker....

  Davalos's men had been searching for their vanished commander for nearly a week, and though Jeremy vociferously protested his innocence of any wrongdoing, the fact that he was in Spanish Texa
s illegally and was riding Davalos's horse, with the lieutenant's prized silver inlaid saddle still on the animal, was damning evidence against him. Feeling the noose tightening around his neck, he frantically told them how he had come to possess Davalos's belongings. Sullenly they listened to his story, but it was obvious they did not believe him.

  Even his eager, desperate cooperation in leading them to Davalos's body did not help him—it only seemed to increase their certainty that he had killed the lieutenant. As far as the temporary leader of the patrol was concerned, there was nothing to do but bury Davalos and leave for San Antonio with their prisoner. The officials there would decide what to do with the gringo.

  All too soon Jeremy found himself locked in the adobe-walled jail in San Antonio, fearing that every day might be his last. For months he languished in his small cell while the Spanish officials argued and waited for word from Mexico City about what to do with him. When word did finally arrive, Jeremy's heart sank—he was to be taken to Mexico City to be tried for the murder of Blas Davalos.

  In Mexico City, his plight did not improve even though he was found innocent of killing the Spaniard. He was still a gringo and viewed with great suspicion by the Spanish. To his horror, he found himself sentenced to ten years in prison for having been in the country without permission and, of course, for stealing Davalos's horse and saddle.

  Nearly a year later from the day he had first laid eyes on Davalos, as Jeremy stared morosely out of the barred window of his tiny cell, a cell that would be his home for ten long years, he viciously cursed a fate that had shown him the way to great riches and then had cruelly prevented him from seeking it.

  But time will pass, he told himself grimly as he began to mark off with a pebble the days of his confinement on the walls of his prison. Time will pass and when it does... A crafty smile curved his mouth. When it does, I'll be paying a visit to Savanna O'Rourke....