Leigh Greenwood.

The Cowboys.

Chet.

To my agent, Natasha, and her sidekick, Oriana.

I couldn't get along without you.

Chapter One.

Central Texas, 1880.

Melody Jordan paused on her way from the corral to the ranch house. Someone was riding up. Another one of those rough, unkempt cowboys from the looks of him, probably looking for a place to lie up for a few days, or weeks. They always said they wanted work, but they never stayed. Sooner or later they saddled up and rode off into that limitless horizon.

Melody glanced up at the metallic-blue sky. She loved the feeling of openness and freedom this country gave her as much as she loved the violent shifts in weather. But she still got nervous whenever she had to ride out of sight of the ranch house. After growing up in Richmond, Virginia, with its well ordered streets, she didn't understand how anyone could find their way across this limitless expanse of flat, featureless prairie.

The rider dismounted just short of the ranch yard and started to walk the rest of the way. That made her pause. She hadn't figured out very much about Texas in the three months she'd been here, but she did know a cowboy would almost rather go hatless than walk. Melody peered at him, her hand shading her eyes from the glare of the sun. His horse walked slowly behind the cowboy, as though each step was an effort. Melody found it surprising that a Texan would walk just because his horse was tired. She wouldn't go inside yet. She wanted to know more about this man.

Catching sight of his weaponsa rifle and a gunshe felt a chill. She had lived through the destruction of Richmond, the aftermath of the Civil War. She had seen at first hand what guns could do to people's lives. She hated guns and couldn't understand why every man in Texas felt naked without one. Despite his concern for his horse, apparently this man was no different.

The merciless sun beat down on her bare head, and she retreated to the porch. That was something else she couldn't accustom herself to. It got hot in Virginia, but there were huge trees and thick grape arbors for shade. For the more adventurous, there was swimming in the James River.

There were no arbors here, few treesthe only ones she'd seen were gnarled pines, stunted and misshaped by the windand barely enough water to quench the thirst of the thousands of cattle that wandered the inhospitable land. Melody couldn't imagine how they found enough food to stay alive, much less grow fat.

She didn't understand Texas at all, but she had to learn quickly. She had to choose a husband, and the only candidates were her foreman and the owner of the neighboring ranch.

Chet Attmore felt no embarra.s.sment over leading his exhausted mount. At twenty-nine he was too old to suffer from the vanities that afflicted young cowboys. He was what he was, a gunfighter, a label that would haunt him for the rest of his life.

He liked what he saw. Wood frame ranch house, bunkhouse, and barn. The lumber had been brought in, maybe from as far away as Fort Worth. He was used to sod houses, brush corrals, and rickety sheds. The corral here was constructed of barbed wire and cedar posts. The owner of the Spring Water Ranch was more progressive than his neighbors. The horses in the corral looked strong and well fed, like the cattle he had seen riding in. There must be ample water somewhere, maybe in the spring the ranch was named for.

Chet had already noticed the woman. At first he'd made himself look elsewhere. Looking at what he couldn't have was an irritation he didn't need. Now he was so close, it would be rude not to look at her.

That wasn't a hardship. He could tell at a glance that she was young and fresh from the East. She was still pretty; her skin looked soft and creamy instead of burned to the color of new leather, and she still shaded her eyes rather than peered from between eyelids that formed bare slits. She wore shoes rather than boots. Despite the effects of the wind, he could tell she had taken time to fix her hair. Her dress was made out of a soft, flowered material which the never-ending wind whipped around her body. If she hadn't been wearing some sort of stiff petticoat, he would have had a disturbingly graphic outline of her lower body.

She looked achingly soft, pretty and feminine.

Chet felt his body begin to swell. He cursed. He had no business reacting to her this way, but he couldn't help it. He was in the prime of his life. She looked to be in the prime of hers. The trouble was, their primes were separated by too many men faced over the barrel of a gun. He had come to buy a horse. He would leave as soon as he got one.

He didn't really have to leave to keep from seeing her. She'd run inside and send her father or the foreman out to see him. He'd buy his horse, then be asked to stay for dinner. She would help her mother serve the meal, then disappear again. She and her mother would eat after the men. During the rest of the evening he would hardly see or have a chance to speak to her. It was just as well. What could they have to say to each other?

They might invite him to spend the night in the bunkhouse and eat breakfast with the hands next morning. After that he'd pay for his horse, mount up, and ride out toward Pecos country. He'd rather be going in the opposite direction, to the Broken Circle, Jake and Isabelle Maxwell's ranch. It seemed like years since he'd seen them. It seemed like a lifetime since he'd lived there, one of their many adopted sons.

The memory of those days had followed him all through his time as a hired gunmanwhen he was exhausted from the chase, when he faced a man anxious to kill him, when he questioned why he lived his life as he did. Yet now that he'd given up hiring out his gun, he couldn't go back to the only place he'd ever felt at peace. He was forced to head in the opposite direction. All he wanted from this girl was a horse to help him on his way.

She didn't go inside as he expected. She stood at the bottom of the steps, waiting. She was even younger and prettier than he had thought. Her hair was a rich brown. Cut short, it cl.u.s.tered about her face in a profusion of curls kept in constant motion by the wind. That would soon change. She'd let it grow long, gather it in a bun, and tuck it under a bonnet. He was glad he wouldn't be here to see that. She was utterly charming in her refusal to yield to the harshness of the land.

She watched him with huge, brown, doe-like eyes. Most likely she thought he was just another wandering cowhand. She'd probably seen more than enough of them already. The Spring Water was one of the most prosperous ranches in the area. Every freeloader within a thousand miles probably drifted this way sooner or later.

It annoyed him that she'd think he was a cowboy living off the hospitality of the country, but there was no point in getting upset about something he couldn't change. People were always getting the wrong idea about him. Most of the time that suited him just fine. He didn't know why it should start to bother him now.

"Howdy," Chet said.

"Good morning," she replied. "What can I do for you?"

Virginia. He couldn't miss that accent, its soft vowels and slurred consonants. Probably from some old family with roots going back before the Revolution. She probably grew up in one of those old brick mansions his father used to tell him about. If so, what on earth was she doing in Texas?

"I'd like to talk to your father, miss. Or the foreman if he's around."

"My father's dead, and the foreman's not here. Maybe I can help you."

Virginia manners, too. Calm, self-a.s.sured, with a trace of condescension she probably wasn't aware of. People in Virginia just naturally thought they were better than anybody else. He wondered how many generals and signers of the Declaration of Independence she was related to. He was related to one.

"I need a fresh horse, miss. Mine's worn out." They both stared at the sorrel gelding. His coat wasn't dull, he didn't look too thin, but he stood with hanging head, his legs slightly spread.

"How can you tell?" she asked.

Clearly she hadn't been out here long. She was probably used to seeing Thoroughbreds, Morgans or some other fancy breed, kept in a stall at night and growing fat on a diet of grain.

"He had a little trouble outrunning some Indians a while back. The first time, he outran them with no trouble."

"You were twice attacked by Indians?"

"Not attacked, precisely. I don't make a practice of getting that close. They saw me pa.s.sing through and decided to hurry me along."

"They aren't supposed to be here."

"They were here first. They still don't understand why they have to leave." Being from the East, she probably thought all Indians were dead or chased somewhere on the other side of the Pecos. "The buffalo's gone," she said. "If they don't settle on reservations, they'll starve."

She understood a lot more than many Texans, but he wasn't here to discuss the Indian problem. He wanted a horse. "How about that horse?"

She eyed him more closely now. He could bluff his way through a high-stakes poker game. He wouldn't hesitate to chase bandits or rustlers beyond the Rio Grande or across the Mexican border, but this woman made him nervous. His years as a hired gunman had brought him into contact with many women, but none like this one.

He ought to be thinking about a horse. Instead he was thinking about her soft, rounded chin. It had a tiny crease down the middle, just enough to keep it from being perfectly rounded. And that hair! It was alive. Colored with all the richness of dark chocolate, it moved about her face in a kaleidoscope of shapes, framing her face in neverending variety. She was any woman, and all women at once.

"I can't afford to trade a good horse for one you say is worn down," she said. "Why don't you stay and work for us for a couple of months? If you do a good job, I'll see you get a good horse."

He could pay for a horse, but he would prefer a trade. He'd need his gold where he was going.

"I had a mind to move on," he said. He didn't want her to think he was going to stay long. If they needed permanent hands, her foreman ought to get the word out in Fort Worth or Abilene. No point in depending on whoever happened by. "I want to be as far as Santa Fe before the first snow is on the mountains."

"You can earn enough money to pay for your horse and still make it to Santa Fe before winter," she said.

Why was she so anxious to have him take a job on her crew? She didn't look like the kind to hire just anybody who pa.s.sed by. Besides, he didn't know if she had the authority to hire him. He didn't know a single foreman who would take kindly to having a female move in on his job. But then, maybe she hadn't been out here long enough to know that. She certainly didn't know enough to dress appropriately.

"You don't have to decide right away," she said. "Turn your horse into the corral. You can put your things in the bunkhouse. We have dinner at six. Of course you'll eat with us."

Southern hospitality. You had to feed anybody who stepped on your place and look like you were happy about it, even if you hated their guts. He saw no sense in that. Eating with people he didn't like gave him indigestion.

"There's no need, miss. I can eat with the crew."

"Guests always eat with us." She paused as though considering something. "Why do you keep calling me miss? I'm old enough to have been married years ago."

He didn't know. He guessed he'd just looked at her and decided no married woman would look this young and fresh. The energy of life still flowed strong in her. She didn't look discouraged or weighed down by defeat. She hadn't given up believing in and hoping for the fulfillment of her dreams.

"I didn't mean to hurt your feelings. You just look so young, I figured you had to be an unmarried girl." She smiled. "Unmarried, yes, but hardly a girl. Surely I don't look that young."

"When you get to be my age, anybody under twenty looks like a babe."

"But you can't be more than twenty-five," she said.

"Twenty-nine."

She cut a spurt of laughter off in the middle. "Then you'd better unsaddle that horse and shuffle on over to the bunkhouse while you still have the strength."

She was laughing at him. He heard it in her voice, saw the amus.e.m.e.nt in her eyes.

"Things haven't gotten that bad yet, but I confess my bones do ache worse than they used to."

"If you've been running from Indians, you're lucky you have no more serious complaints than aching bones. Now you'd better tell me your name. I can't tell my foreman I've hired a man without at least knowing his name."

But she had. And that was something else he couldn't explain. People from Virginia usually wanted a four-generation pedigree before they'd let you in the door.

"My name's Chet Attmore, and I only agreed to think about it," he reminded her.

"My name's Melody Jordan. Our foreman is Tom Neland. I'll send him out to talk to you as soon as he gets back."

"No need to bother," Chet said. "I can see him at dinner."

"Suit yourself," Melody said. She turned and mounted the steps, but turned back before she reached the door. "Do consider the job," she said. "We've been short-handed since my father died, and we're having a little trouble. We could use a good man."

"How do you know I'm a good man?" Chet asked.

She smiled at him, a truly friendly, welcoming smile with all the feminine warmth he'd missed for so long. "A woman can always tell that kind of thing." She turned and entered the house.

Not the kind of women Chet knew. Most of them were as ready as any man to pick your bones. The rest of them could be trusted to gravitate to any drunk, liar, or thief with a ready tongue. Chet figured it didn't say much for him that they were the only kind of women he knew.

As he led his horse over to the corral, Chet wondered if this might not be just the place he needed for the next few weeks. He hadn't made up his mind exactly where he intended to go or what he intended to do. His reputation as a gunfighter complicated every decision he made. Maybe this would be a good place to lay up for a while and see if his past came looking for him. If not, he could start looking for some out-of-the-way place to settle. If it did, well, he'd face that bridge when he got to it.

He admitted to himself that Melody Jordan had something to do with his decision. Though he'd steered clear of entanglements with respectable women, he couldn't see a woman in trouble and not want to help her. He didn't know anything about Melody's problems, but if they were as bad as she was pretty, then she was in a heap of trouble. Past experience told him it would be easier to walk away before he became involved.

Past experience also told him he wouldn't. <><><><><><><><><><><><> "Who is that man?" Belle Jordan asked as Melody straightened the pillows behind her stepmother's back. "He's not one of the crew."

"His name is Chet Attmore. He rode in asking about a horse. His is played out."

There was something about that she didn't understand. The animal was obviously of much better quality than a man of his appearance could afford. It was possible he had stolen it, but somehow she was certain he hadn't.

"I hope you didn't give him one."

"No, I offered him a job so he could earn the money to pay for it."

"But you know nothing about him," her stepmother protested. "He could be one of the rustlers."

"That's true," Melody admitted, "but I'm sure he's not."

"How can you tell? Did you ask him?" Her stepmother leaned forward. She could see the ranch buildings from her window. She watched as Chet walked his horse to the corral and let down the bars. "He's certainly making himself at home."

"I invited him to supper. He hasn't made up his mind about the job."

"I wish you hadn't hired him. That's Tom's job," Belle said.

"I couldn't risk his leaving before Tom got back. Lantz Royal's bullying has driven off three hands since Pa died."

"I still wish you hadn't. Women don't know anything about hiring hands."

"Tom can't tell any more by looking at a man than I can."

"We still shouldn't interfere." "Tom works for us, Belle. If you or I want to hire a hand, we can."

"I wouldn't think of doing such a thing," her stepmother declared, her eyes still on Chet as he unsaddled his horse. "I wouldn't know how."

"I didn't think I did either," Melody confessed, "but it was easy."

"What's Tom going to think when he comes back and finds a strange man in his bunkhouse?"

"He'll think we have a new hand."

Melody had never been able to get her stepmother to understand that now that her husband, Melody's father, was dead, they were the bosses of Spring Water Ranch. Robert Jordan's will left half his ranch to Melody and half to his widow and two sons. Since the boys were both under age, Melody and Belle Jordan had equal votes in all decisions.

But decision making was beyond Belle's ability. The habit of depending on men to make all decisions was so deeply ingrained, she had instinctively turned to her foreman when her husband died. She had been shocked when Melody arrived from Richmond and immediately tried to discuss the future of the ranch. Months later, Belle still felt the same way.

"He looks rather old for a cowhand," Belle remarked as Chet replaced the bars in the corral and headed toward the bunkhouse. "He can't have much ambition."

"He's only twenty-nine," Melody said.

"You know his age?" Belle asked, shocked.

Melody felt herself grow warm. "He said to a man of his age I looked like a mere child. I said he couldn't be more than twenty-five. That's when he told me he was twenty-nine." "You shouldn't discuss your age with a stranger."

"I didn't. We were discussing his."