Twice a Texas Bride (31 page)

Callie found herself in the grip of a frenzied passion that was demanding and unrelenting.

She needed. Wanted. Hungered.

Her hands were touching, kneading, searing, then pulling him deeper inside her in a quest for the shuddering moment of ecstasy.

On soaring waves of mind-numbing pleasure she climbed, reaching for that moment when she became one mind, heart, and soul with Rand.

Arching her back, she rose up to meet him.

As he exploded inside her, tremors of release rippled the length of her body. She gripped him tightly and rode the blissful high peaks.

Seconds later, as she lay gasping for air, he rose on an elbow to gently kiss the soft curve of her stomach. Callie smiled, threading her fingers in his silky hair, curling her body around his. Warm contentment spread over her.

God, how she loved this man.

* * *

As dawn peeked into their window, the bed protested the shift of weight as Callie moved from Rand's side and got up. He grinned. Though he had yet to drift to sleep, he felt energized. He reached for her, but she evaded his grasp.

“No you don't, mister,” she scolded. “We have lots to do today, and I think I hear the children stirring.”

His darling wife was right, of course. He went over the things in his head. One visit to the lawyer about the adoptions to add Mariah to the list, and scrounging up another bed for his new daughter. But first would come the chores.

Suddenly he remembered something. He threw back the covers and picked up his trousers. Rummaging in the pockets, he drew out a small kerchief bundle and stood before Callie. “I meant to give these back to you yesterday, but I forgot.”

He laid the emerald ring and the jewel-encrusted brooch into her palm. “Cooper retrieved these from Fleming's body.”

Callie stared at them a minute. “I was willing to do anything to try to save Mariah. I thought these were my legacy, but they're not. Wren, Toby, and Mariah are my legacy. They're a million times more valuable than these pretty baubles.”

“You're a wise woman, my darling.” He gently kissed her and helped her into a clean dress.

“I suppose so, but I'm very damaged. I'll never be the same.”

He held her face between his hands and stared into eyes that had seen so much sorrow. “I'll take you any way I can get you. About a year ago, a man came into my saloon. He'd been all around the world. He said in some Asian countries, they fill the cracks of favorite broken dishes with gold, believing that when something has suffered damage, it only becomes more beautiful. That is you, Callie. I'll take your cracks and broken pieces and fill them with gold. We'll celebrate each one.”

“What a wonderful custom. Have I told you I love you?”

Rand took her hand and knelt down on one knee. “Callie, would you marry me?”

“We're already married.”

“Marry me again. I want to do things right and proper this time. I want you to have your church, with plenty of guests and the children looking on at their mama and papa. Will you?”

He saw a quick rush of tears in her eyes. Lifting his hand to her heart as she tugged him to his feet, she kissed him. “Yes, I'll marry you twice, fifty, or a hundred times. I want to raise our children and grow old with you.”

Rand gazed into her whiskey-colored eyes as he lifted her hand to his lips. “You, my darling, are the greatest love I'll ever know. There will never be another.”

* * *

Two weeks later, Rand stood in front of the preacher, holding Callie's hand. He eyed Toby sitting beside Mariah, who bounced Wren in her lap. They perched in the first row of the church, looking spit shined and grinning from ear to ear.

Each child legally belonged to him now. He winked and they giggled. The preacher cleared his throat in disapproval.

Rand took Callie's hand and vowed once again to love and cherish this beautiful woman who'd taken refuge on his ranch, which he'd renamed. No longer was it the Last Hope. His land was the New Hope Ranch now.

He glanced at Callie and into the deep amber depths of her eyes. Love for her poured from his heart.

How did he ever survive before her?

She wore the new rose-colored dress he'd bought during the winter festival celebration, remembering how they'd danced and how he'd known that, despite the secret she kept that might tear them apart, he had no regrets about marrying her.

The minute the preacher ended the ceremony, Rand swept Callie up. “We are good and properly hitched now, Mrs. Sinclair. You can't wiggle out of it.”

Callie traced his jawline with a finger. “Not many women can say they're twice a Texas bride, and both times to the same man.”

“We are unique. Just don't get any ideas about marrying anyone else,” he growled.

“Don't you know by now you're my one and only love?”

Rand grinned. He lowered his head and slanted a sizzling kiss across her lips—one that sealed their love for all eternity.

Read on for an excerpt from

the next book in Linda Broday's Bachelors of Battle Creek series

From the author…

It's given me great pleasure to introduce you to my Bachelors of Battle Creek series. In it, I've shown how three ragged boys came together in the orphanage to form an unbreakable bond as brothers that forges their journey into adulthood. Tears still come into my eyes when I think of how they were so desperate for family that they created their own. Each of the two previous books was special and came from the deepest part of my heart, but I've saved the best for last with
Forever His Texas Bride
.

Brett Liberty's story goes to the very core of who I am, maybe who we all are, and what I stand for. Being a half-breed was the worst thing for a man in the 1800s because it meant he straddled two worlds with neither claiming him. In this story, Brett faces pure hatred to the point that others want him dead. He's never been with a woman, never known the softness of a woman's touch or the feel of her lips on his. But when he meets pickpocket Rayna Harper in the jail cell next to his, he finds a kindred spirit. The brush of her hand is almost unbearable in its tenderness, and when she curls up beside him on the narrow bunk, she curls up inside his heart as well.

This is a story of never giving up hope and reaching for a forbidden love that others are bent on denying. It's about how through compassion you
can
change. Brett and Rayna's deep love binds them together like a strip of the toughest rawhide and won't let them go.

Now, I'd like to share an excerpt of
Forever His Texas Bride
…

North Central Texas

Spring 1879

A plan? Definitely
not dying
. Beyond that, he didn't have one.

High on a hill, Brett Liberty lay in the short, bloodstained grass, watching the farm below. With each breath, pain shot through him like the jagged edge of a hot knife.

The bullet had slammed into his back, near the shoulder blade from the feel of it.

If a plan was coming, it had better hurry. The Texas springtime morning was heating up, and the men chasing him drew ever closer. Every second spent in indecision could cost him. He had two choices: try to seek help from the family in the little valley, or run as though chased by a vicious devil dog.

The blood loss had weakened him though. He wouldn't get far on foot. About a half mile back, Brett's pursuers had shot his horse, a faithful mustang he'd loved more than his own life. Rage rippled through his chest and throbbed in his head. They could hurt him all they wanted, but messing with his beloved horses would buy them a spot in hell.

He forced his thoughts back to his current predicament.

Through a narrowed gaze, Brett surveyed the scene below. The farmer who was chopping wood had a rifle within easy reach. The man's wife hung freshly washed clothes up on a line to dry under the golden sunshine while a couple of small children played at her feet. It was a tranquil day as far as appearances went.

Appearances deceived.

Help was so near yet so far away.

Brett
couldn't
seek their aid. The farmer would have that rifle in his hand before he made it halfway down the hill. The fact that Indian blood flowed through Brett's veins and colored his features definitely complicated things. With the Indian uprisings a few years ago fresh in everyone's minds, it would mean certain death.

Why a posse dogged his trail, Brett couldn't say. He'd done nothing except take a remuda of the horses he raised to Fort Concho to sell. He could probably clear things up in two minutes if they'd just give him the opportunity. Yet the group, led by a man wearing a sheriff's star, seemed to adhere to the motto
shoot first and ask questions of the corpse
.

He was in a hell of a mess and wished he had his brothers, Cooper Thorne and Rand Sinclair, to stand with him.

Inside his head, he heard the ticking of a clock. Whatever he did, he'd better get to it.

The family below was his only chance. Brett straightened his bloodstained shirt as best he could and removed the long feather from his black hat. Except for his knee-high moccasins, the rest of his clothing was what any man on the frontier would wear.

At last he gathered his strength and struggled to his feet. He removed a bandanna, a red one, from around his neck. On wobbly legs, he picked his way down the hill.

When the farmer saw him and started for his rifle, Brett waved the bandanna over his head. “Help! I need help. Please don't shoot. I'm unarmed.”

With the rifle firmly in hand, the farmer ordered his wife and children into the house, then cautiously advanced. Brett dropped to his knees in an effort to show he posed no threat.

The man's shadow fell across Brett. “Who are you and what do you want?” the farmer asked.

“I'm shot. Name's Brett Liberty. I have a horse ranch seventy miles east of here.” When he started to stand, the farmer jabbed the end of the rifle into his chest. Brett saw the wisdom in staying put.

“Who shot you?”

“Don't know. Never saw them before.”

“How do I know you didn't hightail it off the reservation? Or maybe you're an outlaw. I've heard of Indian outlaws.”

Brett sighed in frustration. “I've never seen a reservation, and I assure you, I don't step outside the law. I'm respected in Battle Creek. My brother is the sheriff. If I took up outlawing ways, he'd be the first to arrest me.”

His dry mouth couldn't even form spit. Maybe the man wouldn't deny him a drink, and with a witness to the posse's actions, the sheriff might let him live. It was his only shot.

The ticking clock in Brett's head was getting louder, blocking out the buzz of the persistent bee. His pursuers would be here in a minute. “Please, mister, could you at least give me some water?”

Silently, the farmer backed up a step and motioned Brett toward the well with his rifle barrel.

“Thank you.” Brett got to his feet and stumbled toward the water. He lowered the bucket and pulled it up, then filled a metal cup that hung nearby and guzzled it down. He was about to refill it when horses galloped into the yard and encircled him.

“Put up your hands or I'll shoot,” a man barked.

Brett glanced up at the speaker, who wore a tin star on his leather vest. “Your warning comes a little late, Sheriff. I would've appreciated it much earlier. Would you be so kind as to tell me what I did to warrant this arrest?”

The bearded sheriff dismounted. Hate glittered in his dark eyes, reminding Brett of others who harbored resentment for his kind. Jerking his hands behind his back, the middle-aged lawman secured them with rope. “You'll know soon enough.”

Ignoring the sharp pain piercing his back, Brett tried to reason. “I can clear up this misunderstanding if you'll only tell me what you think I did wrong.”

No one spoke.

Brett turned to the farmer. “I'll give you five of my best horses if you'll let my brothers know where I am. You can find them in Battle Creek. Cooper Thorne and Rand Sinclair.”

The farmer stared straight ahead without even a flicker to indicate he'd heard. While the sheriff thanked the sodbuster for catching Brett, two of the other riders threw him onto a horse. With everyone mounted a few minutes later, the group made tracks toward Steele's Hollow.

The combination of blood loss and the hot sun made Brett see double. It was all he could do to stay in the saddle.

By the time they rode into the small town an hour later, Brett was doubled over and clinging to the horse's mane. The group halted in front of the jail and jerked him off the animal.

“Please, I need a doctor,” Brett murmured as they rifled through his pockets.

After taking the bank draft from the sale of the horses and his knife, they unlocked a door that led down a dark walkway. The smell of the earthen walls and the dim light told him the builder had dug into a hill. They unlocked a cell and threw him inside.

“A doctor,” Brett repeated weakly as he huddled on the floor.

“Not sure he treats breeds.” The sheriff slammed the iron door shut and locked it. “See what I can do, though. Reckon we don't want you to die before we hang you.”

“That's awful considerate.” Brett struggled to his feet and clung to the metal bars to keep from falling. “Once and for all, tell me…what did I do? What am I guilty of?”

“You were born,” the sheriff snapped. Without more, he turned and walked to the front of the jail.

* * *

Panic pounded in Brett's temples like a herd of stampeding mustangs long after the slamming of the two iron doors separating him from freedom. This proved that the sheriff had targeted him solely because of his Indian heritage; he had no crime to charge him with.

His crime, it seemed, simply was just being born.

Dizzy, Brett collapsed onto the bunk as his hat fell to the crude wooden floor.

Movement in the next cell caught his attention. Willing the room to keep from spinning, Brett turned his head. He could make out a woman's form in the dimness. Surely his pain had conjured her up. They didn't put women in jail.

He couldn't tell what she looked like because she had two faces blurring together, distorting her features.

“You're in pitiful shape, mister.”

Since his bunk butted up to the bars of her cell, she could easily reach through. He felt her cautiously touch one of his moccasins.

“Checking to see if I'm dead?” he murmured.

“Nope. Do you mind if I have your shoes after they hang you?”

Brett raised up on an elbow, then immediately regretted it when the cell whirled. He laid back down. “That's not a nice thing to ask a man.”

“Well, you won't be needing them. I might as well get some good out of them.”

“They aren't going to hang me.”

“That's not what Sheriff Oldham said.”

“He can't hang me because I didn't do anything wrong.” It was best to keep believing that. Maybe he could convince someone, even if only himself. “I think he was joking.”

“Humor and Sheriff Oldham parted company long ago. He's serious all the time. And mean. You don't want to get on his bad side.”

“Wish I'd known this sooner. You sure know how to make a man feel better,” Brett said dryly, draping his arm across his eyes and willing his stomach to quit churning. “What is your name?”

“Rayna.”

“Who stuck that on you? I've never heard it before.”

“It's a made-up name. My father is Raymond and my mother is Elna. My mama stuck 'em together and came up with Rayna. I've always hated it.”

“Got a last name, or did they use it all on the first one?”

“Harper. Rayna Harper.”

“Forgive me if I don't get up to shake hands, but I'm a little indisposed. I'm Brett Liberty.”

Blessed silence filled the space, leaving him to fight waves of dizziness and a rebelling stomach. Keeping down the contents seemed all he could manage at present.

Rayna appeared to have other ideas. “Where did you get those Indian shoes, Brett? I'd sure like to have them.”

“My brother.” His words came out sounding shorter than he intended.

“Sorry. I've been in here for a while by myself, and I guess I just have a lot of words stored up. Sometimes I feel they're just going to explode out the top of my head if I don't let some out. What are you in here for? I couldn't hear too well.”

“For being born, I'm told.” Brett was still trying to digest that.

“Me too.” Rayna sounded astonished. “Isn't that amazing?”

Brett had a feeling that no matter what he'd said, she would say the same thing. He wished he could see her better so he could put a face to the voice. Even though the conversation taxed him, it was nice to know he wasn't alone. Maybe she'd even hold his hand if he died.

That is, if she wasn't too busy trying to get his moccasins off instead.

“Why do you think it's amazing?”

“Because it makes perfect sense. I figure if I hadn't been born, I wouldn't be in here for picking old Mr. Vickery's pockets.”

“So you're a pickpocket?” Surprise rippled through him.

“Nope. I'm a spreader of good. I don't ever keep any of it. I take from those who have and give to the have-nots. Makes everyone happy. Except me when I get thrown in the calaboose.”

“You're a Robin Hood.” Brett had seen a copy of the book about the legendary figure at Fort Concho. He'd learned it so he could share the tale with Toby, Rand's adopted son. Brett had taken the six-year-old into his heart and loved spending time with the boy.

“I'm a what?”

“A person who goes around doing good things for the poor.”

“Oh. I guess I am. It makes me so sad that some people have to do without things they need and no one helps them. This past winter, my friend Davy froze to death because the only place he had to sleep was under a porch. He was just a kid with no one except me to care.”

Rayna's big heart touched Brett. She seemed to speak from a good bit of experience. “Do you have a place to sleep whenever you're not in here?”

“I get along. Don't need you to fret about me. Worrying about them putting a rope around your neck is all you can handle. Do you reckon it hurts a lot, Brett?”

“I wouldn't know.” Hopefully he wouldn't find out.

“I'll say a prayer for you.”

“Appreciate that, Miss Rayna Harper.”

Pressure on the bottom of his foot made him jump. He raised his head and saw that she'd stuck one bare foot through the bars and was measuring it to his.

“Stop that,” he said, drawing his legs up. “The doctor'll be along soon. I'm not going to be dead enough for you to get them.”

The next sound to reach his ears was sawing and her soft, “Oh dear.”

“Why did you say that? What's wrong?”

“The sawbones had best hurry or you won't be needing him. They've started building the gallows.”

That ticking clock in his head had taken on the sound of tolling bells.