Cheyenne Amber.

Catherine Anderson.

Prologue.

Colorado, 1864.

If he didn't get a decent poker hand soon, he would be a dead man.

His body streaming sweat, Tristan Cheney felt like a kettle of boiling water capped with a tight lid. He took another hearty swig of whiskey, then plunked the ceramic jug back onto the dirt beside him. Then, as unobtrusively as possible, he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. No matter how blank a gambler kept his expression, perspiration was always a dead giveaway.

Smoke curled like a ribbon from the feeble flames, and the men who were gathered in a tight circle near the fire leaned closer to see. Tristan curled his lip. Lowlifes. Back in Boston, he wouldn't have acknowledged their kind with so much as a nod, let alone rubbed elbows with them. That had been before he married Laura, of course. Now, because of her, everything had gone to hell, and he was forced to keep company with lice-infested degenerates, the worst of the lot their leader, Francisco Gonzales. For the life of him, Tristan couldn't fathom how such a wellborn, educated man could sink so low.

Unlike his companions, who were still studying their cards, Tristan already had his own memorized. A simple task, that. All he had was a pair of deuces, for Christ's sake.

The night wind whispered in the leaves of the nearby cottonwoods, a soothing lullaby that seemed to be making the other poker players drowsy. Burk Johnson, a thin gringo with more freckles than good sense, kept yawning, picking his nose, and sniffing. Juan Luna's eyelids were drooping, and he occasionally fondled his crotch as if the stimulation was all that kept him awake. Even Francisco Gonzales, who had won most of the poker hands and should have been eager to continue the play, looked weary and kept stretching his neck. At any time now, they would all decide to settle their debts and head for their bedrolls. The problem was, Tristan didn't have the money in his clip to back his bets, and Gonzales wasn't the kind to take an IOU.

All Tristan needed to save his ass were a few decent hands. Just a few, dammit. He had been betting on high hopes for most of the evening, praying he would get a run of luck. Maybe this would teach him not to sit in on a poker game when he was drinking. Whiskey and gambling could be a lethal combination when a man was low on money. He had anted in for the first round of cards thinking he'd only play one hand. Then he had lost and stayed in for one more round, hoping to recoup. One thing led to another, and here he was.

Please, God, get me out of this, and I'll never do it again. I swear I won't. Tristan took another bracing gulp of whiskey. What in hell should he do? He wasn't going to bail himself out of this mess on the strength of two deuces, that was for sure. He flexed his fingers around his cards and fixed a thoughtful gaze on Gonzales. In the past, Tristan had dickered his way out of similar trouble. Never when he had lost so much money, of course, but even Gonzales could be persuaded to be reasonable if given enough incentive.

Mouth dry, tongue thick, Tristan said, "Do you recall seeing my wife, Francisco?"

Nudging back his sombrero, Gonzales fixed Tristan with dark, questioning eyes, his swarthy face cast into eerie shadow by the flickering flames. "I recall seeing her, yes. Why do you ask, city man?"

Tristan forced the tension from his shoulders. The blackness of the night seemed to press in on him from all sides, and he felt swallowed by it. "She's a remarkably lovely woman, my wife. Don't you agree?"

Gonzales fanned his cards and studied them, his speculative smile flashing teeth stained brown by tobacco. "Si, city man, remarkably lovely." The gurgling sound from the nearby stream filled the quiet between his words and emphasized his hesitation. "But what has she to do with our game, eh?"

Tristan stretched his mouth into a grin. "I was just thinking. I'll bet it's been a while since you've had it with a real lady."

"A pregnant one, you mean?"

Johnson came out of his drowsy stupor long enough to guffaw at the joke. Tristan shot him a glare and said, "By the time we find the mustangs and get back to my place with a herd, she'll have dropped the brat."

Gonzales's smile broadened. "And you will be a very happy man?"

Tristan leaned slightly forward. "No, you don't understand. You could be a very happy man. Think of it. A woman like Laura? Hair and eyes the color of whiskey. Being a Mex, you probably haven't had it with a blonde."

A spark of interest crept in Gonzales's expression. "Are you offering to let me diddle your wife, city man?"

"I was thinking more along the line of lending her to you for a time."

"Lending her to me?" the Mexican repeated.

Heartened by the sudden heat in Gonzales's gaze, Tristan shrugged. "I'm running a little short on funds. An honorable man covers his bets. All I've got of value is my woman. But what a woman. Skin the color of cream, and nipples so sweet and pink, you'll think you've latched on to cherry blossoms."

Gonzales rested his wrist on his knee, the faces of his cards pressed against his grimy denim pant leg. Eyes glinting, he turned his smile on the others. After a moment, he looked back at Tristan and said, "I've sucked my share of pink tits, amigo."

"She's a lady, Gonzales, a genuine lady. In the past, I'll bet you've watched women like her from afar, wanting but unable to take."

Gonzales chuckled. "Wanting and not taking, that is not my way, city man. Surely you know me better than that by now. It is true enough that your wife is very lovely. Before I ever met you, I had heard tales about her from the miners who saw her when you passed through Denver. Not many women have hair and eyes that color."

Tristan nearly whooped with relief. "Then we have a deal?"

For a moment, Gonzales seemed to consider the offer. "I am not so sure. Why should I settle for temporary possession? After I grew bored with her, a beauty such as she would bring a very fine price down Mexico way. As you say, women with her coloring are rare among my people."

Tristan sensed a sudden change in the other men. Those near the fire moved away from him. Those in the darkness behind him abandoned their bedrolls. Fear crawled up his spine. Believing himself to be among friends, he hadn't bothered to strap on his gun belt after washing up for supper.

His taunting smile still in place, Gonzales casually drew his Colt revolver from its holster and blew a breath of air into the muzzle. "Amigo, you insult me. I am too much the gentleman to borrow my friend's wife." He perused the gleaming, nickel-plated barrel, then shrugged his broad shoulders. "Every time I tasted those sweet, pink nipples and ran my hands over her creamy skin, I would think of you and feel very guilty. You understand?"

Tristan understood, all too well. He tried to speak, but his throat felt frozen shut.

"Like you, I, too, am an honorable man," Gonzales continued silkily. "The only way I could ever bring myself to enjoy your woman would be if she were widowed." He looked directly into Tristan's eyes. "And since you are very much alive, that is a problem, yes?"

Frantically searching for a path of escape, Tristan darted his gaze left and right, but the shadowy forms of Gonzales's men stood all around him.

The Mexican went on speaking, his voice deceptively syrupy. "Being such a decent fellow, I would be filled with regret if, to get you out of the way, I had to kill you without a reason." His smile turned feral. "How accommodating of you to have given me one. It is very bad of you to sit in for poker when you haven't enough money with which to play. In this country, that is a shooting offense."

With that, Gonzales aimed his revolver and pulled the trigger.

Chapter 1.

*Digging a well was dark business. As she emptied her shovel, Laura Cheney squinted to see. Feeling with one hand, she discovered that the damp earth in the bucket was mounded high. For what seemed the thousandth time, she set aside the shovel and started up the ladder.

One step. Two. She concentrated on counting and tried to ignore the leaden sensation in her feet. With every movement, the muddy folds of her skirt and petticoat clung to her legs, then pulled free with muted little sucking sounds. Three, four. Perspiration popped out on her face. Five, six. Dirt fell into her eyes. She swiped at her cheek, not remembering until too late that her hands were muddy. So thick and heavy, she swore she could taste it, the smell of mold and dampness nearly gagged her.

Pausing to catch her breath, Laura gazed at the sphere of light above her. Seven more rungs. A cramp knifed down her left thigh, and her leg began to jerk. She bent to knead the knotted muscle. As she shifted her position, the ladder teetered. She gasped and threw her weight against the rungs.

"Blast you to hell, Tristan Cheney. This was supposed to be your job."

Inside the well, the sound of her voice was amplified. The words, ugly and discordant, rolled back at her. The first thing she knew, she'd be taking the Lord's name in vain and smoking a corncob pipe like old Missus Peabody on the wagon train.

Heaving a sigh, she curled her hands around the rung and forced her feet back into motion. As she hauled herself upward, a water blister on her palm tore to the quick. Clenching her teeth, she kept climbing. There was a well to dig, a garden to water, and a baby to care for. Time was precious. The morning sun would reach its zenith in only a couple of hours.

As her head cleared the rim of the well, sunlight momentarily blinded her. She blinked to see and then nearly lost her balance as she focused and found herself nose to nose with a short-horned lizard. A rotund little creature with winged ridges above his beady little eyes, he sat spraddle-legged at the edge of the well. With his belly and wattled throat puffed up for battle, he put Laura in mind of a little armored gladiator. Beneath his triangular chin, she could see his pulse hammering, and by that she knew how badly she had startled him.

Too exhausted to feel charitable, she said, "Shoo!"

As slowly as cold molasses dripping from a spoon, the thorny-skinned lizard lifted one foot. After what appeared to be great deliberation, he finally managed to move another. Laura had been told that his species was one of the slowest on the continent, and watching him now, she could well believe it. At the moment, she felt like a close runner-up for the title and doubted she could defeat him in a foot race. At least he had been blessed with an ability to blend in with his surroundings.

"Shoo," she whispered again, and watched as the lizard made a lackadaisical retreat.

Badly in need of a brief rest, Laura folded her arms on the ladder and rested her chin on her wrists. The morning breeze caressed her cheeks. She gazed at the azure Colorado sky that stretched as far as she could see in all directions. The expanse made her feel minuscule, and a wave of homesickness washed over her. Oh, how she sometimes yearned for the comfortable embrace of city buildings and the wonderful smell of salt air.

No point in wishing, she reminded herself. As her husband, Tristan, so often pointed out, they were both stuck here. There was nothing left for either of them back home in Boston.

Colorado really wasn't so bad. Intimidating but lovely, the sort of landscape she had once admired in paintings. Not far from their squat log cabin, the green plains broke into hilly shrubland. Oak formed dense thickets of glossy jade interspersed by occasional clusters of dull-leafed mahogany in the rocky washes. As a backdrop, thickly forested, velvet green mountains tiered like the seats in an amphitheater to the craggy peaks of the Rockies.

To Laura, though, the most beautiful part of the landscape was the wild roses that lent the hillside splashes of color. Ranging in hue from lavender pink to vivid red, the delicate petals gave testimony that it wasn't only the hardy that could survive in this rugged country. From the flowers developed rose hips, which she could use to make perfume and medicinal tea. Thus far she hadn't made it up there to gather any, but now that she'd had the baby, she hoped to do so soon. All practical reasons aside, a bouquet of dried roses and sprigs of goldenrod would lend a bit of cheer to the otherwise drab cabin. To make a home here, that was her aim. A place so pleasant that Tristan would forget Boston and all that he had been forced to leave behind. In that lay Laura's only hope for her marriage. If she worked hard enough to be all Tristan wanted her to be, perhaps he would make an effort to change as well.

Her throat dry with thirst, she worked her mouth for moisture, swallowed, and took another deep breath before she finished climbing from the well. Her legs threatened to fold under her as she scrambled to her feet. Frustrated by the weakness she hadn't been able to shake since giving birth to her son, she lifted her skirt and one leg of her bloomers to tug up a sagging garter. To her dismay, she found a rent in the knee of her black stocking. She bent closer to estimate the damage and decided she could probably mend it.

As she straightened, a bout of dizziness hit her. She pressed the back of her wrist against her forehead and stood there for a moment until the swimming sensation left. According to Tristan, Indian women squatted by bushes to give birth, strapped their newborns onto their backs, and then raced to catch up to their tribes. Laura wondered how on earth they managed.

She stooped to haul up on the rope and empty the bucket, pleased to note the pile of removed dirt had doubled in size with only two hours of work. A slow process, but at least she was getting it done. Tristan couldn't help but be pleased when he came home. No matter that digging the well deeper should have been his responsibility. She had predicted that the hole would go dry when he had stopped working on it last fall. Dammit, Laura, I'll dig it deeper when the time comes. Right now I have bigger fish to fry.

That was Tristan's biggest problem; he always had bigger fish to fry, and she was left to do his work. She shifted her gaze to the wilted plants in the vegetable garden, which might be all that stood between Tristan's family and starvation next winter. And where was he? Off chasing mustangs. Somehow the thought of surviving until spring on horse meat didn't appeal. Not that she believed he would bring home a herd. That was another problem with Tristan's dreams; big aspirations didn't put much food on the table.

After tossing the empty bucket back into the hole, Laura planted her hands on her hips and arched her back to get the kinks out. The snug band of her skirt pinched her waist, and she ran a finger under the cloth to get some breathing room. Perhaps meager pickings at the dinner table were a blessing in disguise. Carrying a child had not only straightened her curves but had added a few where she shouldn't have any.

Glancing toward the cabin, Laura decided she should probably go check on Jonathan. His sudden restfulness worried her. What if he wasn't feeling batter but was just too exhausted to cry? Her knowledge of babies could fit in a thimble. What if he had a terrible disease of some kind?

Pshaw! Leave it to her to borrow trouble. He didn't have a fever, and he was still nursing at regular intervals. Maybe all newborn babies were fretful for the first few days. He probably just had a little stomach upset of some kind. At least she prayed that was it. If not, the nearest physician was in Denver, and Laura wasn't certain she could find her way there.

After scraping her black high-topped shoes clean on a clump of grass, she smoothed a tendril of amber colored hair from her eyes and headed for the cabin. As she crossed the dusty dooryard, she heard the faint tattoo of a horse's hooves. Her emotions a tangle of dread and relief, she turned and cupped a hand over her eyes, expecting to see her long overdue husband.

As she focused on the approaching rider, her smile vanished. It wasn't Tristan. Even at a distance, she could see that the man wore a wide-brimmed hat, some sort of sombrero if she guessed right, and a black poncho, the fringed folds trailing behind him in the wind.

Retreating a step closer to the house, she stared with trepidation at the stranger. In the ten months she and Tristan had lived here, they had had company just once, and only then because some disreputable friends of his had stopped by to invite him along on the mustang roundup. Except for her baby, Laura hadn't seen a living soul since.

Spurred into action by the rider's fast approach, she launched herself into a run. In this country, uninvited visitors usually meant trouble. Earlier she had left the door to the cabin ajar so she could listen for the baby while she worked. Now she was grateful that she had. Winter dampness had warped the planks and stiffened the leather hinges, making the door stick sometimes.

She lunged through the entrance and whirled to slam the door closed. A weapon of some kind, she thought wildly. Blast Tristan's hide for taking both guns. No matter that she didn't know how to handle a firearm. A man looking for trouble would think twice before nettling a woman who toted a rifle.

She dashed to the table and grabbed up the knife she had been using that morning to peel potatoes. Stuffing it into the deep pocket of her satin skirt, she whirled to scan the room. Her gaze settled on the handmade broom that leaned in one corner. If she stayed in the shadows and aimed the handle as she might the barrel of a gun, would the man, blinded by sunlight, be able to tell the difference? It was a chance she had to take.

Atremble with fright, she moved Jonathan's makeshift cradle to a protected corner of the room. Then she grabbed up the broom and approached the glassless window, taking care to stand off to one side and back from the spill of sunlight.

As the stranger drew up on the reins and brought his bay to a halt in the yard, Laura decided she had more in common with the little short-horned lizard than she liked to admit. In some situations, all anyone had for protection was bluff and bluster. "State your business!"

At the sound of her voice, Jonathan whimpered and squirmed, but didn't awaken. Laura was grateful for that. The less to distract her, the better.

Throwing the folds of his poncho over one shoulder and nudging back his sombrero, the man narrowed his dark gaze on the window. Dressed in a mismatch of denim jeans, black shirt, conchae-studded gun belt, and beaded heather vest, he looked mean and dangerous. His face was a swarthy brown, his jaw bristled with whiskers that caught the greasy strands of his wind-tossed black hair. On the horizon behind him, gloomy thunderheads wreathed the craggy peaks of the Rockies. "Are you Senora Cheney?"

At the question, she heard Jonathan stir again. She tightened her grip on the broom. How had this man come to know her name? Regarding him more closely, she thought he resembled one of the men who had gone with Tristan to search for mustangs, but she couldn't be certain. She had seen the group of riders only from a distance. "Y-Yes, I'm Mrs. Cheney."

"I bring news of your husband. Very sad news, I'm afraid."

He started to get off his horse, and Laura yelled, "Stay put, Mister. If you get down, I shall blow your brains out."

He froze with one leg poised above the saddle. Then, very slowly, he resumed his seat. Squinting to see her, he flashed a tobacco-stained smile. "With which end of that broom do you plan to kill me, senora?"

"I..." There was nothing she could think of to say. Feeling more foolish than she ever had, she dropped the pitiful excuse for a weapon. In one corner of her mind, she registered that the man was well-spoken for a Mexican saddle tramp, but humiliation and fear nudged the thought aside.

"Senora, I won't harm you or the child. If you will think back, you will remember seeing me out by the barn the day your husband left to go on the roundup. He was a friend of mine."

Was? Laura locked her knees and squeezed her eyes closed. Oh, dear God. Not that.

Saddle leather creaked, and she lifted her lashes to see the stranger dismounting. The longer she looked at him, the more familiar he seemed. She supposed he must be telling the truth about being a friend of Tristan's. Not that it was much of a recommendation. Tristan's only acquaintances were seedy individuals he had met in the saloons of Denver.

As the man walked toward the cabin, spurs chinked at the heels of his dusty boots. Feeling numb, she drew the knife from her pocket, hid it within the folds of her flounced skirt, and moved to unbar the door. There was little point in trying to keep him out, after all, not with two large and unshuttered windows to foil her. Her only recourse was to be gracious and pray he would leave as quickly as he had come.

As the door swung inward, the Mexican's shadow fell across her. Wary of his getting too close, she stepped back. A husky man of lofty stature, he dwarfed the tiny room and everything in it when he entered. She clenched her hand around the smooth wooden handle of the knife.

"You neglected to give me your name," she said pointedly.

He gestured with his hands. "Francisco, senora, Francisco Gonzales. As I said, I was a friend of your husband's."

"And wh-what is this news you say you have of him?"

He took off his sombrero. "It is very sad news, Senora Cheney. Perhaps you should sit down."

"I shall hear it standing, thank you."

What looked to be regret clouded his brown eyes. "Your husband..." Turning the brim of his hat in his hands, he bent his head. "I am very sorry, Senora Cheney, but your husband has had a very bad accident. While chasing a herd of mustang with me and my companeros, he was thrown from his horse and..." His dark gaze sought hers. "It is so very difficult a thing for me to say. Your husband was trampled to death."

Laura flinched. Slowly, dazedly, she went back over the words, trying to assimilate what they meant. Not just trampled, but trampled to death.

She swayed slightly as the enormity of that sank in. The knife slipped from her frozen fingers and thudded to the floor. From out of nowhere, it seemed to her, a warm, gentle hand cupped her elbow. Dizzy and disoriented, she blinked and tried to focus. Tristan wasn't going to come home.

"Wh-Whereis his body? You don'the isn't with you."

"We buried him in the mountains, senora. It was such a very long way to bring him back here, you understand. The weather has turned so warm..."

Nausea surged up Laura's throat. Tristan, dead. A corpse that couldn't be transported any distance because it was summer. Oh, God. Oh, God. This couldn't be happening.

He tightened his grip on her arm and steered her toward the three-legged table that Tristan had built last winter. "Why don't you sit down? I'll dip you some water, eh?"

Weakly Laura sank onto one of the stumps she had rolled inside to serve as chairs. Bracing her elbows on her knees, she cupped her face in her hands. "I can't believe it. Dead? He was so young! There has to be a mistake."