Love a Dark Rider Read online

  This book made available by the Internet Archive.

  This book is dedicated, with my very great affection, to my "boys"—although now that they're all over twenty-one, perhaps I should say, to my "young men"!

  ALEX POPE, who has actually read and admitted, under duress, naturally, that he enjoyed The Spanish Rose, and who is forever linked in my mind with bone meal and Ranunculus—yes, Alex, it is an ugly tuber! and,

  RICK SPENCE, who was gone in a flash, but who very kindly found me,

  BRYAN "MOOSE" MCFADIN, undoubtedly one of the best "manure movers of America," and who hasn't read one of my books yet, despite the fact that I listen faithfully to all the tapes of his musical efforts! and,

  HOWARD BUSBEE, who is still, after thirty years, the man of my dreams.

  PROLOGUE

  twinings April 1860

  Fortune is not satisfied with inflicting one calamity,

  Maxim 274 —PuBLiLius Syrus

  1

  Sara dreamed of the Dark Rider for the first time the night her father, Matthew Rawlings, was killed in a saloon gunfight. After the initial hubbub had died down and she had been kindly escorted to the privacy of her room in the boardinghouse where Matthew had procured cheap lodgings the previous day, she had lain on the lumpy cot and stared blindly in the direction of the ceiling. Grieving and stunned, she had been unable even to think; she could only lie there in the darkness, dry-eyed and numb, not able to believe the tragedy that had overtaken her so suddenly. Eventually she must have fallen asleep, and it was then, in her hour of deepest grief, that the Dark Rider had come to her. . ..

  The surroundings were always a blur to Sara, but if she could not place where she was, she knew that she was in grave danger, that she was going to die. In the dream, she didn't know how she was going to die, only that she would die if help did not arrive soon. She wasn't afraid of dying in her dreamworld, but she was aware of a strong sensation of regret, of great sadness, a feeling that if she had done something differently, if she had made another choice, life—perhaps even a long and happy life—would have been her fate, instead of this lonely death. And it was then, when all hope was gone, that he appeared!

  One moment the horizon before her was an empty and desolate blue; the next, on a shght rise, a dark rider would suddenly materialize. His face was always in shadow, his black, broad-brimmed hat pulled low across his features, his tall, lean body effortlessly controlling the movements of his horse. She never saw his features clearly, yet she knew with every fiber of her being that she loved him and that, because of him, she would not die—her beloved Dark Rider would save her.

  For Sara, even in her dream, time stopped as the Dark Rider remained motionless on that slight rise, his gaze sweeping the distance, those keen eyes searching desperately for her. And then suddenly that piercing gaze would find her, and with a wild flurry of motion, his horse would explode into action and the next second she would be in his embrace, his strong arms cradling her near his thunderously beating heart, his warm mouth trailing sweet, oh-so-sweet kisses across her face, his husky voice murmuring the words she most wanted to hear. In that precious second, locked securely in his arms, she knew that she would always be safe, that never again would she be alone ... for her Dark Rider loved her....

  From the grimy, rain-streaked window of her cheerless little room in the attic of the boardinghouse, Sara could just make out the small cemetery and the bare earthen mound that marked her father's two-month-old grave. Matthew Rawlings' final resting place was not one that Sara would have chosen for him, but then, in all of her nearly seventeen years of life, it had seemed that she had seldom had any choice but to follow willy-nilly where fate, or more specifically, her father, had led her. And while her father had loved her, his only child, he had not led her down a path strewn with rose petals!

  Her thoughts as bleak as the rain-soaked Texas landscape before her, Sara turned away from the window. With her father dead and her meager livelihood solely dependent these days upon the uncertain kindness of Mrs. Sanders, the owner of the boardinghouse where she and her father had been staying when he was killed, she had to start planning beyond her most immediate needs. Sara had never thought a great deal about her future, as the desperate need to concentrate on where her and her father's next meal was coming from and where they would lay their heads at night had taken up nearly all of her waking thoughts these past four years. But it hadn't always been so, she thought wistfully, gingerly seating herself on the rickety cot that served as her bed.

  No, it hadn't always been so. She could vaguely remember her mother, the lovely, sweet-scented Rosemary, who had died when Sara had been barely three years old. She had been too young then to understand what the death of his adored wife had done to her father. Now she knew that it had turned him from a genial, sober, hard-working planter into a reckless gambler who drank too much and took too many needless risks. She could hardly remember a time when her father had not been as foolhardy and drunk as he had been on the day he was killed. Much clearer were her memories of their former home, the stately house and plantation, Mockingbird Hill, which had been situated outside Natchez, Mississippi.

  Sara glanced around the seedy confines of her tiny room, an ironic smile curving her bottom lip. How very different her surroundings were these days! Had it been over four years since her father had finally gambled away everything he had owned? Over four years since that terrible night when he had come home and awakened her in her silk-draped bed to tell her that they had to leave? That everything —the elegant home and its rich furnishings, the broad acres of cotton, the numerous slaves, the

  stable filled with its fine blooded stock—had been lost on the turn of a card?

  Bewildered and confused by what had happened, when Sara had gotten over the first of her shock she had tried to view their stunning change in circumstances as an adventure. But as the days had passed, she had learned bitterly that it wasn't very adventuresome to have your former friends pretend not to see you on the street, nor was it an adventure to share your lumpy bed with fleas and vermin and to spend your evenings rubbing shoulders with often unclean, foul-mouthed rascals in smoke-filled, drink-scented saloons while your father attempted to regain his lost fortune the only way he knew how—by gambling.

  Word of his appalling loss had spread almost instantly among his friends, and though there were those who sympathized, who kindly offered assistance, most turned their well-clad backs on him. Stiff-necked pride and sheer bullheadedness forbade him to accept the kindness of his friends, and so he had been reduced to gambling where he could, hoarding only enough money from his winnings for his and Sara's most basic needs.

  They had not stayed long in the Natchez area, the shame of his circumstances driving them away. Leaving Natchez by riverboat, Sara and Matthew had become vagabonds, never staying very long in any one place, Matthew constantly in search of the next game, the next win that would repair his fortune, Sara dragged willy-nilly along behind him.

  Sara adapted—she had no other choice—but she never got used to those times when her father had done especially badly at the tables and they had had to depart like thieves in the night, leaving unpaid, irate creditors behind them. As she had grown older, she had begun to supplement their earnings by cooking and cleaning in the various boardinghouses and places where they lodged. It

  was a far cry from the gracious life she had once lived, but at least, she told herself gratefully, it kept her out of the gaming hells and disreputable saloons that her father frequented—and away from the increasingly lascivious and sexually speculative gazes of the men with whom her father gambled.

  It was Sara's maturing face and body that had brought them to Texas. One day it had suddenly dawned on Matthew that
his beloved daughter was not a little girl anymore and that her slim, gently curved form and increasingly lovely face was going to create an unpleasant situation for them sooner or later. There had already been a few unsavory incidents that only his timely interference had prevented from getting out of hand. He had brooded over this problem for several weeks and then a notion had occurred to him: for Sara's sake, he would finally swallow his damnable pride and write to his only other relative, a distant cousin named Sam Cantrell. Sam had always been a kind, charitable man, and as boys, before Sam and his father, Andy, had left for Texas nearly forty years ago to join Stephen Austin's new colony, they had been very close. Since then their contact had been sporadic at best, but perhaps Sam would help Matthew and Sara.

  They had waited anxiously for an answer and the day Sam Cantrell's letter had arrived, expressing warm assurances that he would do anything he could for both Matthew and Sara, Matthew had held Sara to him and wept. They had left immediately for San Felipe, Texas, the town nearest to the Cantrell plantation. Magnolia Grove.

  They did not travel by the most direct route; earning money the only way Matthew knew how, he and Sara had slowly gambled their way in a circuitous route toward San Felipe. Matthew's luck had never been very good and it had finally run out when they had reached

  this unnamed, tiny settlement on the Texas side of the Sabine River. They had procured the room in which Sara now sat, Sara cooking and cleaning for Mrs. Sanders in exchange for their keep. That taken care of, Matthew had immediately wandered over to the small, shabby saloon across the street in search of a game of cards, hoping to increase the small amount of money he had kept aside for gambling. He had done very well that first night. So well, in fact, that he had decided they would stay another night and he would try his luck again.

  And it was on that night, two months ago, that luck had turned her back on Matthew Rawlings for the last time. He had lost everything and, too drunk to choose his words with care, had accused the winner of cheating. Guns were reached for, shots rang out and the next instant, Matthew Rawlings lay dead on the floor.

  Sara got up from her cot and moved around the room restlessly. She had loved her father, she grieved for him, but she tried not to dwell on the fact that a stronger man, a man of more moral fiber, wouldn't have let the death of his wife, no matter how beloved, drive him to the lengths to which Matthew had gone. Guilt smote her every time that thought crossed her mind, but mingled with the guilt was anger that her father had been so wrapped up in his own grief and despair that he had cared so little for her that she was now left alone and destitute and at the mercy of utter strangers.

  Suddenly she buried her face in her hands. What was she to do? It had been weeks since she had written to Sam Cantrell explaining Matthew's death, and she had heard nothing. Had Sam Cantrell changed his mind? Was she truly alone in the world? Possessed of nothing but the clothes she wore? What was going to happen to her?

  "Sara! Sara, get yourself down here right now! There's chores to be done!"

  Jerked from her painful contemplation of a decidedly bleak future by Mrs. Sanders' bellow from below, Sara hastily scrubbed away any signs of tears and hurried from the room.

  Mrs. Sanders was built on formidable lines. She was as tall as most men and her massive bulk would have made three of Sara. A widow of some years, she ran the boardinghouse, while her two husky sons operated the saloon where Matthew had died and the blacksmith shop, which was next to the boardinghouse. Mrs. Sanders was not unkind, but she was a practical woman, and though she didn't object to helping Sara during her moment of need and getting a hard, willing worker in the process, she certainly did not intend for Sara to make her life with the Sanders family. It had not escaped her attention that during the past few weeks, her elder son, Nate, had begun to hang around while Sara did chores.

  Her manner toward Sara had cooled noticeably, and when Sara stepped into the well-scrubbed kitchen at the rear of the house, the older woman's eyes were chilly and her voice was brisk as she said, "There you are! You had better see to the pigs and make certain there is plenty of wood before we start dinner."

  Nate Sanders was sitting at the rough pine table, drinking coffee, and at his mother's words, he said eagerly, "I'll help you, Sara. I can chop the wood while you feed the pigs."

  Mrs. Sanders' already thin lips thinned even more. "No, you won't!" she declared testily. "I'm not letting her stay in a perfectly good room and eat at our table just because I'm a God-fearing, Christian woman—she needs to earn her keep. Besides," she added triumphantly, "since it appears you have nothing better to do, I need you to pick up some sacks of com and beans from the dry goods store for me. Run along, Sara!"

  Her red flannel petticoat and cheap broadcloth skirts flowing behind her, Sara fled, as much because she did not want to irritate her employer as because she did not want Nate Sanders' attentions. Too often of late, she had caught him staring at her small bosom and narrow waist and she hadn't liked the expression in his hazel eyes. Heedless of the rain pouring down, she grabbed the heavy bucket of slop that sat on the wooden back porch and struggled with it over to the pigpen.

  Sara was not a big girl. Nearly seventeen, she was just a little above average height, but her slendemess and fine bones and delicate features made her seem taller and far more fragile than she actually was. Her long honey-gold hair was arranged today in a neat comet of braids around her head, and despite her worn green gown and present occupation, there was an elegant air about her.

  Certainly the gentleman who had just put his horse away in the stable at the rear of the house thought so. He watched quietly as she strained to lift the cumbersome bucket high enough to clear the fence of the pigpen. On the other side, in front of a battered wooden trough, a dozen partially grown pigs snorted and squealed and lunged through the mud toward her. Only the stoutness of the trough and the fence saved her from being trampled. With grim determination, Sara finally managed to tip the bucket, the slop falling into the trough below, and pandemonium exploded as the pigs fought for the choicest scraps.

  The rain began to lessen, but Sara was already soaked to the skin, and it was only as she turned and started to dash for the house that she noticed the tall gentleman standing by the stable. She recognized that he was a gentleman from the stylish cut and fine material of his greatcoat and the buff riding gloves that adorned his hands. Beneath his wide-brimmed, low-crowned hat.

  Sara could see that his cheeks were cleanly shaved and his silver-flecked brown mustache was neatly trimmed. He was a handsome man, his features even and nicely arranged, and he appeared to be in his mid-forties, about her father's age. This was clearly no scruffy stranger seeking momentary haven from the rain, and Sara's heart began to pound in hopeful anticipation. Could it be?

  As she stood there staring at him with anxious expectancy, the man smiled and approached her. "I would have known you anywhere, my dear!" he said waimly. "Even in these unfortunate surroundings, your resemblance to Matthew is unmistakable." Extending his hand, his amber-gold eyes bright with emotion, he took Sara's fingers in his and added, "You must be Sara, and I am Samuel Cantrell, your father's cousin."

  Despite her best intentions to maintain a stout facade, the strain of the past few months suddenly proved to have been too great and Sara's eyes filled with tears. An instant later she found herself cradled in Sam Cantrell's comforting arms as she sobbed uncontrollably against his chest.

  "There, there, my child," he soothed softly, one hand tenderly stroking her rain-wet hair. "You are safe now. Don't you worry about a thing. My wife, Margaret, and I have discussed your unfortunate situation at length and we have decided that you shall live with us at Magnolia Grove as our dear little cousin. Margaret is expecting our first child and she will need a great deal of help. We can help each other. . . you will be much comfort and companionship to my wife and later the baby. Believe me, my child, you never have to worry about the future again—we shall take care of you. It is what Matthew wanted and sin
ce unhappily he is no longer able to provide for you, it will be my great pleasure to do so. Come, now, wipe those tears away."

  With every wonderful word that Sam uttered, Sara sobbed even harder, barely able to believe that her lonely struggle was at an end. Valiantly trying to stem the tears, she gulped and wiped her eyes. "I-I-I'm s-s-sorry! I'm not usually such a water pot!"

  Sam smiled down at her, patting her shoulder. "You have had a great deal on your young shoulders these past few months. It is only natural that you should cry. But your anxieties will soon be a thing of the past, so won't you please give me a smile?"

  Sara's lovely mouth curved into a tremulous smile, her emerald eyes glowing softly between her tear-spiked black lashes as she stared up into Sam's gentle features. "You're very kind," she managed to say. "I will enjoy looking after the baby and I promise that I shall never be a burden to you or make you regret your generosity to me."

  "I'm sure you won't, child. But come along now; we must get you inside and out of this weather."

  Suddenly becoming aware again of her surroundings and the drizzle which was falling on them, Sara gave an embarrassed little laugh. "Oh, sir! I am sorry! Do come quickly. Mrs. Sanders has hot coffee on the stove and the house will be warm."

  Mrs. Sanders was delighted that a solution to the dilemma Sara's continued presence in her boardinghouse was causing had finally appeared in the form of Mr. Sam Cantrell. It took her but a second to size Sam up and place him in the wealthy-planter class. From that moment on, especially once he had explained that he wanted her best room for himself for the night and that in the morning, before he and Sara left, he would settle whatever debts Sara and Matthew had incurred, Sam's slightest wish became Mrs. Sanders' most desired task.

  Sara watched in astonishment as Mrs. Sanders hovered and fussed over Sam. Artfully disposing of his