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CHAPTER 1


CHAPTER ONE

"She's new. Her name's Emma."
Lamentation Culver glanced over his shoulder at his friend, wordless, then back to the young brunette. The girl mingled among the rough, unshaven men, leaning seductively close to one, giving a soft caress to another. From the corner of his eye, he could see Henry grinning at him from across the bar.
"You're interested in her…"
       He stood with his foot on the brass rail, leaning an elbow against the bar as he shifted his attention to the crowd. Every table in the Golden Lady Saloon was taken, the bar full as well. The smell of fresh sawdust on the floor mingled with the heavy scent of sweat and stale liquor from the drunken cowhand next to him. He shifted away from the man, then turned to face Henry with a grim smile.
       "All I'm after is a whiskey."
       "That's all you're ever after. I tell you what. She's yours for the night…on the house," Henry said. Lam knew too well that the teasing tone in no way lessened the serious proposition his old friend was making.
       "Don't start, Henry. You know that's not why I'm here. Just get me the whiskey please."
       Henry chuckled.
       "You're the only man I know who's fool enough to turn down an offer like that."
       The faint smile disappeared from Lam's lips for an uncomfortable second, but he forced it back to his face.
       "Alright, you won't get me that drink, I'll get it myself."
       He hoisted himself onto the bar and started to swing his legs over. Henry gave him a playful jab in the belly.
       "Get the hell off my bar, Culver. I'll get it for ya."
       A moment later, Henry slid a glass toward him. Lam paid his friend, and with a wave, picked up the glass. He faced the room as he took a sip. The amber liquid burned his throat, but Lam gave no indication. He weaved through the crowd toward the back.
       A large, raucous crowd stood gathered around a table where a poker game was in progress. A number of men, as well as several of Henry's girls stood watching the gambling. If he guessed right, that meant the pot was growing. Someone was going to win big.
       He stepped into the crowd surrounding the table. As Lam took another swallow of whiskey, a big, blond man picked up a stack of chips. There was a swagger in his movements.
       "I'll see your fifty," he said, a faint slur to his words. He deliberately placed his chips at the edge of the pot, then grabbed a second tall stack of chips. Pausing long enough to count them, he continued, "and raise you…one hundred more."
       Once more, the blond man placed the chips in a neat pile at the edge of the pot. He tossed off the last of his whiskey, then sat back with a self-satisfied smirk aimed at one of the two men Lam recognized at the table.
       Burly Bill Tolliver also leaned back in his chair, glaring across the table at the blond stranger. The girl nearest Tolliver's right shoulder started to move, but Tolliver clamped a hand on her wrist. She winced as he yanked her back to him.
       "I need another drink," Tolliver snarled. The girl gave a nod and started off again.
       The man between the blond stranger and Tolliver tossed his cards to the table. As the petite girl skirted his chair, the blond man also snaked out a hand to stop her.
       "Make that two drinks, Darlin'. And when I win this hand, you and me'll have us some other business to see to," he said, running a hand over her hip. The lusty look on his face revealed exactly what was on his mind. The blond man took one of the chips from his depleted stacks, traced it down her chin and neck toward her cleavage, and left it between her round breasts. Lam watched the woman turn from the blond man without a word, disdain in her eyes.
       The man turned again toward Tolliver. Tolliver glared back, his gaze raw and rabid. His demeanor was cold, his face mean and ugly. Lam could sense the trouble brewing. Both Tolliver and Mort Keyes, the other player Lam recognized, were ornery sorts, trouble hunters, men that Lam knew but steered clear of.
       "I do believe it's your call," the blond man prompted Tolliver.
       "Call…" Tolliver growled in a gravelly voice, never looking at his chips as he tossed them into the pot. He glared at the blond man, running his thumb across his unshaven salt-and-pepper whiskers.
       Mort Keyes, Tolliver's fat friend, folded his hand. Another player folded after the fourth card, tossing his cards to the table in disgust. With only the blond stranger and Tolliver still in the running for the sizable pot, at least $1000 by Lam's best guess, the last card was dealt to each.
       Lam took another swallow of whiskey. The blond man and Tolliver called and raised one final time. The stranger flashed a smug grin at Tolliver, then deliberately turned each card face up on the table in front of him. He was holding a four through a nine of clubs, a straight flush. As he placed the last card on the table, a stillness grew over the surrounding crowd. All eyes went to Bill Tolliver, waiting for any hint of his reaction. Yet the man remained stoic, staring not at the stranger's cards, but at the man himself. The rabid look was gone, leaving only the cold of Tolliver's typical expression. The whore returned with their drinks, and Tolliver chose that moment to place his cards on the table.
       As he drew his hand away from a royal flush, the silent corner of the room erupted in incredulous calls.
       Tolliver stared at the stranger until the smug grin disappeared from the blond man's lips. Mort Keyes let loose a crazy laugh that quieted the noise in the saloon. The blond man's drunken arrogance gave way to disbelief and shock. The haughty look that had been on the blond man's face now spread across Tolliver's. Tolliver started to rake the pot toward him, never looking away from the unlucky stranger.
       The blond man stared hard at Tolliver, glancing only once at depleted stacks of chips. Lam could see the rage veiled just below the surface.
       "Tough break, Mister," Tolliver taunted. "You seemed almighty sure of that hand."
       Keyes laughed again, a haunting, humorless sound that drew the attention of every man in the bar. As Tolliver kept raking his winnings toward him, the sounds in the room faded into the faintest of whispers. Trouble permeated the smoky air.
       "You cheated me," the blond man hissed. "You're a god-damn lyin' cheat."
       Tolliver was on his feet, gun in hand. From where he stood, Lam Culver could see Mort Keyes push his chair back, his hands close to his pistols. It didn't take a smart man to see the blond stranger was begging trouble from the devil himself. The thick crowd that had been gathered thinned down to nothing, and Lam spun on his heel.
       "What did you say about me?" Tolliver barked in the sudden stillness.
       Lam heard no sound as he searched the bar for Henry. Silently, Lam lifted himself onto and over the bar. He knew exactly where Henry kept the shotgun under the counter, and he went to it now. Gun in hand, he once more swung up onto the bar, standing to his full height.
       His sudden, shrill whistle brought every head around. When Tolliver looked his way, Lam smiled a broad, friendly smile.
       "Howdy, fellas. I'm sure Henry wouldn't want blood spilled in his establishment, so I'll ask you to put the guns away."
       "This don't concern you, Culver. Stay out of it," Tolliver warned.
       Before Lam could reply, Henry answered from the other side of the room.
       "Tolliver, Lam's speaking for me, and I brought the sheriff to back up his words. Put the gun away and get out. You too, Keyes. The game's over."
       Lam and Tolliver looked over toward the doorway simultaneously. Henry stood there beside the sheriff. The room suddenly seemed very empty. Men were hiding under tables, some had sneaked through the door onto the street, even a few hid behind the counter. Lam glanced back at Tolliver, Keyes, and the blond man.
      "Friend," he called out to the stranger. "I suggest you gather up what money's yours and head on home for tonight."
       He reached across the table to rake the pile of chips and money toward him. Lam cleared his throat, again drawing the blond man's attention.
       "Just what's in front of you, Mister."
       The blond man started to speak, but thought better of it. With a shaky hand, he swept off his hat and scooped his remaining chips into it. Without hesitation, the man hurried out the back door just a few steps beyond. As he disappeared, the sheriff walked toward Tolliver and Keyes to escort them out. Once they were gone, the whole room seemed to breathe again. Men crawled out from their hiding places, mumbling and dusting themselves off. Henry hurried behind the bar and took the shotgun Lam offered him.
       "Thanks," Henry said.
       When Lam nodded his response, Henry shot him a wry grin.
       "Now get the hell off my bar."
        

 
CHAPTER TWO
Analise Silsby Prescott stared out the window at the passing countryside. Clumps of silvery-green sage and tall, spindly cholla plants blurred past as the stagecoach rumbled down the bumpy road. The stage lurched forward as one wheel hit a depression in the path. Analise closed her eyes and braced herself to keep from falling off the thinly-cushioned bench. One hand went to her swollen stomach, and she desperately wished that the jostling ride would end.
       A puff of cool air came through the window, touched her cheek, and was gone again. Once it was gone, all that remained was the stifling, dusty air she'd been breathing. Touching her face with one dusty hand, she felt the heat of her skin. The dustier position next to the window would afford her the better breeze. Being the sole passenger on the stage, she had her choice of seats. So, she scooted closer to the window, placing her small bag on her knees once more.
       She drew a deep breath as she leaned toward the window to feel the cool air on her face. It had been such a long trip. She'd never expected to get on the stage when she did. Everything had happened so quickly. She was still reeling from it.
       This long, hot, dusty ride had given her the chance to see new places, to experience the world a bit. Yet if she was honest with herself, she couldn't deny that she'd been a bundle of nerves the entire way. It wasn't a trip most 20-year-old women make, especially in her condition.
      Analise stifled a yawn and leaned farther into the breeze coming in the window of the coach. At least the cool, albeit dusty, air refreshed her a bit. Her new position gave her a far better view of this strange land. Her impression of the Colorado territory so far was one of emptiness and desolation. It was far different than Boston. Yet over the past days of travel, she'd come to find that she enjoyed its beauty. She'd spent much of the trip staring out the windows at the endless rolling hills of brown-green grass, sage, cholla and yucca.
       The stage hit another bump, jostling her swollen body in ways that made her ache. Once more, she laid a hand on her belly, this time rubbing at the spot where her unborn child kicked in protest.
      "I'm sorry. I don't think it'll be much longer. We'll be to La Junta soon and then we can set about our business."
      Their business. What a turn of events her life had taken to bring her on this journey so close to her time. Eight months ago, things had almost seemed normal. Then everything started to change. Her husband waited until his parents left for a year's travel abroad, then set forth on a wild journey of his own. He'd given her only a couple of days notice that he was leaving. And so much had happened since. How she managed to deal with it all, she still wasn't sure. All she had known was that by the end of things, she found herself with only one choice. She had to come west.
       She arched her back and tried to fill her lungs. For weeks, she'd been unable to catch her breath easily what with her unborn child crowding her breathing space. She leaned her head back and rubbed at her eyes. As she shifted in the seat, her bag tumbled to the floor and a few contents spilled. Without thinking, she bent to retrieve the bag, her large belly stopping her. It was only now, at the end of her journey, that she could admit that her cousin had been right. She was crazy to have made this cross-country journey so near her time. What was even crazier was she'd traveled unescorted.
       For a moment, she contemplated letting the bag remain where it was, it's contents spilled on the floor. At that moment, Analise wasn't sure she could muster the energy to move. But she saw the wind teasing the spilled contents—her lace handkerchief and the old bundle of ribbon-tied letters from Gareth. She would need to retrieve them before they were scattered across the surrounding emptiness. With a small sigh, she smoothed wisps of her golden hair back in place, then lowered her once petite frame to the floor.
       She reached for the spilled contents, retrieving the letters first. Crouched on the floor, she fingered the first envelope. What joy those letters had once brought. With a sigh, she stuffed them and the other things back in the bag and tried to straighten up. As she did, a sharp pain caught her. She sagged back to the floor with a startled gasp.
       Analise felt the sweat break out under her clothes. Fear throttled her. She was near to her time, but by her figuring, she still had a few weeks to go. One hand went to her stomach, the other to the seat. She gulped in a breath. It was as she knelt there that the coach began to slow. They must be nearing the town.
       "Lord, please…don't let this child come. Not yet," she whispered through gritted teeth.
       The stagecoach continued to slow, and she became faintly aware of the sounds of other horses and wagons, the sound of a tinny piano that grew louder, then faded again as they passed a saloon. The driver outside called to the team, and she felt the rumbling under her stop. Momentum pushed her toward the facing bench, then pulled her into the seat behind her. The pain in her lower belly intensified at the movements. Analise stifled a grunt.
       "Culver, what're you doing off your spread again? I wasn't expecting to see you back so soon," the stage driver called to someone in an amiable voice. "How long you plannin' to be around this time?"
       "Don't know yet," another man answered as the door swung open.
       The stage driver was framed in the door, his pockmarked face turned back over his shoulder. He grinned at someone Analise couldn't see. As he turned toward her, he laughed at some unheard comment. His smile disappeared when he saw her huddled on the floor, holding her belly. His eyes widened a bit as he stared at her.
       "Oh, lord… Lam," the driver called over his shoulder. "You know where that ma of yourn is?"
       The man stepped up into the coach, crouching near her.
       "Ma'am, are you okay?"
       "No," she mouthed her answer, unable to force any sound out. She grabbed hold of him, her fingers pressing hard into his muscled arm.
       "Culver," the driver shouted. After a moment, another man appeared near the door.
       "What?"
       "You best go after yer ma. Looks like she's gonna be needed here real soon." The driver moved out of the second man's line of sight, allowing him to see Analise crouched on the floor.
       She glanced up at the man, noting the shabby clothes and the several days' worth of stubble covering his jaws. For a stunned moment, they seemed to study each other. Then, an easy, reassuring grin spread across his face.
       "Ma'am, you think you can walk a short ways? My sister's got a boarding house just across the street, and my ma's a midwife."
       Analise felt her cheeks flush crimson. How had she gotten into this situation? She was in a strange town, surrounded by rough, dirty men. And here she sat, in all likelihood ready to give birth to her child. She dearly wanted to crawl under the bench and hide from them. Yet she nodded without intending to.
       "I can try," she mumbled to the grinning stranger.
       "Good." He turned to the stage driver, his smile disappearing. "Ben, you help her up, and be easy about it."
      The driver touched her arm. She kept one hand on her belly, the other on the driver's arm as she struggled to her feet. Once standing, Analise started to reach for the bag she'd dropped, but the stranger spoke again.
       "Ma'am, from the looks of you, I'd say you best leave that bag and come along. Ben'll see to it."
       Her cheeks flushed again, embarrassment turning her pale skin red. What had she done? How had she gotten herself into this? And why did these two strange men have to be witness to it all?
       What made it even worse was that the man offering her advice seemed to understand more of what was happening to her than she did. With a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan, she took a step toward the door.
       The pain in her belly was constant, but the movement sent a shock through her. Her knees buckled. The driver, Ben, caught her as best he could. The other man helped him lift her out of the coach. Analise pressed her eyes closed as the man settled her in his arms and finally started to move.
       If she hadn't hurt so much, she would've been embarrassed by all of this fuss. As it was, she thought of nothing other than the pain and the fear that something was terribly wrong.
       Her eyes fluttered open and she looked at the man carrying her. She drew a breath to ask a question, then realized that people all around them had stopped to stare. It was that moment that her eastern breeding and sensibilities returned to her.
       "Put me down," she hissed suddenly.
       "What?" the stranger asked, sounding winded, as well as vaguely amused.
       "Put me down, sir. I can walk now."
       Analise twisted in his arms, attempting to plant her feet on the dusty street. Once more, the movement sent a shock through her. She gasped as her body tensed.
       "I don't think so, Ma'am."
      He quickened his pace. Just a few seconds later, he carried her through the doorway of a house. His footsteps faltered once and he paused to lift her into a better position. Analise blinked to refocus her eyes after the bright sunlight. Across the room, she saw a shadow move. Squinting, she realized the dark form was a woman.
       "Lam?" the woman in the shadows called.
       "Rosie, go get Ma. Hurry."
       "Okay. Watch the girls."
       "Go! Hurry!"
       The woman named Rosie ran past them as the man rushed into the hallway. He moved past the kitchen and into the back half of the house, finally stopping outside a closed door. He lowered her feet back to the floor and pushed the door open. Without a word, he started to lift her once more, but Analise took a halting step into the room. The pain that had subsided a bit now tugged at her belly again. She once more put a hand to her stomach, the other to the wall.
       "Let me help you."
       She glanced at him, part of her wishing he'd leave her alone. But she knew full well that if she was left to walk to the bed alone, she'd get no farther than where she stood. Analise hesitated a moment, then nodded her assent. Once more, he began to lift her, but she spoke.
       "No. I want to walk."
       He chuckled, but straightened up and gripped her arm firmly, motioning her forward. Progress was slow. After two halting steps toward the bed, she glanced around, seeing that the room was tidy except for a pile of things in one corner—saddlebags, a rifle resting against the wall, a bedroll. This was his room. She jerked around, ready to protest. But the sudden movement sent a stab of pain through her middle. She caught his arm just before her knees went soft.
       He scooped her up and settled her on the bed. Analise rolled onto her side and tucked her legs up close to her body. Suddenly, it didn't matter if the bed belonged to this stranger. In that instant, it was forgotten.
       After a moment, he gently pressed a cool cloth against her forehead. Her eyes fluttered open. Resting on the soft mattress, she felt fatigue seep through every joint and muscle. She closed her eyes again as she drew a deep breath.
       "Ma'am?" the man's voice cut into the quiet room.
      "Yes?"
       "A woman traveling alone in your condition… Well, I was just wonderin' if you've got kin around these parts. Or some friends, maybe?"
       Analise pondered the words, trying to make sense of them. It dawned on her that he was asking to contact someone for her…if she had anyone.
       "Gareth…Gareth Prescott. Do you know him?"
       "No, Ma'am, but if he's from around these parts, someone in town should. Soon as Rosie gets back, I'll see if I can find him for you."
       Again, he adjusted the cool cloth. She heard his boots on the floor as he walked away. Analise tried to force her eyes open, only her eyelids were so heavy. The stranger's boots continued to sound on the plank floor. Analise was sure he was leaving. She didn't much care just then. Gently, she touched the damp cloth he had draped across her forehead. Her hand fell limply back to the bed. She was so tired.
      From somewhere outside the room, Analise heard a child's excited call.
       "Uncle Lam, Gramma Molly's comin'…"
       "Good. You girls bring her on back here, okay?" His voice was close, sounding like it was right outside the door, and Analise peeked in that direction. He leaned against the far wall of the hallway, watching her intently. When he caught her looking his way, he shifted his gaze to the floor
      "Mister…" She called out, fighting the fatigue.
       "…Culver. Lam Culver." He stepped into the doorway.
       Analise blinked, knowing that what she was about to say would cause him to raise an eyebrow, at the very least. For Gareth's sake, as well as her own, she felt she had to say it. She beckoned him nearer. When he was crouched beside her, she spoke.
       "Please…be discreet when you find my husband. He doesn't know I've come…" She paused to catch her breath. "…nor does he know about our child."

Copyright Morgan J Blake, 2001
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