Raven and the Cowboy: A Loveswept Historical Romance Read online

  Raven and the Cowboy is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1996 by Sandra Chastain

  Excerpt from Ride With Me by Ruthie Knox copyright © 2012 by Ruth Homrighaus.

  Excerpt from See How They Run by Bethany Cambell © 1996 by Bethany Campbell.

  Excerpt from Ivy Secrets by Jean Stone copyright © 1996 by Jean Stone.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT and colophon are trademarks of Random House, Inc.

  Raven and the Cowboy was originally published in paperback by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1996.

  Cover design: Derek Walls

  Cover photo © Ana Abejon / istockphoto

  eISBN: 978-0-307-79871-8

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

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  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Ruthie Knox’s Ride With Me

  Excerpt from Bethany Campbell’s See How They Run

  Excerpt from Jean Stone’s Ivy Secrets

  Prologue

  The dream came again. At first there was the fluttering sound of wings. Then came the elusive shadows that fled before her as she walked. For weeks it had been the same, but now it was different. Now there was a curious fear mixed with the anticipation.

  She stood at the edge of the precipice, her arms extended, the wind against her back urging her forward. The river below was a glittering reflection of blue sky, snaking its way along the boulders, through cliffs as slick and straight as ice.

  Unafraid, she waited. Then the dream changed. This time she answered the urging of the wind and stepped out into the vast open space beyond. And suddenly she was falling. Yet she welcomed the sensation, the presence of unbound joy.

  She could live or she could die. The choice was hers. Miraculously, she began to move her arms. The updraft caught her body and cushioned it, lifting her into the current where she soared like a bird. She glanced down at her body; it was covered with glossy black feathers. Her arms became wings. Her senses sharpened; she could feel the movement of tiny animals along the water’s edge.

  She was now the raven for which she was named.

  But why? What did the dream signify?

  Beyond the cliff and the river, the mountains loomed like guardians over her, not friendly, yet not angry at her presence. They drew her closer, hypnotically luring her toward their lofty peaks.

  Then she saw him, a man, a tawny mountain lion of a man, a cougar lying on the ledge. Majestic in sleep … or death. She couldn’t tell.

  Drifting nearer, she felt drawn by the force of his inner power, a self he protected, hid from the world. A self he’d closed off for so long that only the spirits knew of its existence. He was alive.

  She flew to the ledge and settled down beside him, knowing that this place, this man was her destiny.

  1

  Spring, 1877

  Raven Alexander knelt by the dying man, her clasped hands resting against her knees, her head bowed. The coals of a mesquite fire burned down, breathing little warmth into the shadows. But she did not feel the cold.

  From outside the tepee came the sound of low, muffled drumbeats, growing slower and slower, like the ebbing of the old man’s heart. Then came the keening of voices, high, tight with grief, blown by the wind.

  Death was no stranger to Raven. Her mother had lost her life bringing Raven into the world. Her boisterous Irish father had been killed in a mining accident. Now she was losing Flying Cloud, the man she’d always called Honorable Grandfather.

  Suddenly the old man opened his eyes and reached out to clasp her by the arm. “Come close, my child,” he said, gasping for breath. “I have little time.”

  “Be still, Grandfather, you must rest.” She tried to ease him back to the rug on which he lay, but he continued to hold tight.

  “No, you must listen. I have told you of the wealth of our people hidden in the sacred mountains to the south. The time has come for you to go there, to claim the treasure.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “The spirits will protect you, Raven. You must go.”

  Flying Cloud let go of her arm and collapsed back to the ground.

  “Grandfather? Please, I can’t leave you.”

  “I have prepared you for this journey all your life, Raven. You will find two men. One comes to you,” he rasped, “in the form of the cougar.”

  “Cougar?” Over and over in recent weeks, she’d dreamed of a sleek golden mountain lion.

  “He’ll take you to the other, the keeper of the sacred treasure who will guide you to the place where the light of the moon touches the light of the sun.”

  “But I don’t want to leave you now.”

  “Go, my child. Promise me that you will do this thing.”

  She had no choice but to follow the wishes of this man who’d been her rock in a changing world. “I promise, Grandfather.”

  With a heavy heart, Raven stood and backed away from the man she’d loved all her life. His last words followed her from the dwelling.

  “Beware the bronze dagger.”

  In a small cantina just south of the border, Tucker Farrell watched the slim Mexican across the table blatantly deal his Spanish friend a card from the bottom of the deck. The Spaniard wore an open jacket, displaying crossed silver-trimmed leather straps filled with cartridges for the pistol at his hip. Not only was he a crooked card player, he was a bandit as well.

  The dealer gave a sharp laugh as he slapped a card on the table before Tucker and moved on to the grizzled old half-breed miner who’d turned up earlier, and who, in order to get into the game, had bragged about finding a lost treasure.

  Nothing new about that along the Rio Grande. Tales of lost mines and treasure were routine. Tucker studied his cards. He was holding a pair of fours. Another time, he might have stayed in, but he weighed the possible loss of his drinking money against his chances and threw in his hand. He might have won, but a sure bottle was worth more than a few hundred maybes.

  The miner studied his cards, took two. When the old man raised the bid, he shuffled his cards several times, then pulled a nugget of gold from his pocket and threw it into the pot.

  The two remaining cardplayers looked at each other and nodded. The onlookers grew quiet. Tucker would have moved away had he not been caught up in the tension of the play. The hand progressed. Consternation was obvious on the old Indian’s face. Now the pot held two nuggets and what looked like a heavy gold watch fob set with a ruby.

  A sick feeling hit Tucker in the pit of his stomach. The prospector was heading straight for trouble, and he seemed oblivious to
the danger.

  “The bet, it is to you, old man,” the dealer said in heavily accented English. “What do you say?”

  Tucker wondered why the miner took such a chance. If he had actually found a treasure, it had to be worth a lot more than a meager pot in a poker game.

  Must be pride, Tucker decided. Hell, he could understand that. He’d felt the same way, until he’d lost his own self-respect and given up on finding it again.

  “I have a name,” the old man said, a sudden burst of excitement giving him courage. “I am called Luce, the keeper of the mountain.”

  Just as quickly the bravado turned to uncertainty as he wiped perspiration from his forehead with the worn sleeve of his shirt. “I—I cannot cover the bet, not with what I have. But I give you my marker. I will return with the money, I swear.”

  “We don’t take no markers,” the dealer’s sidekick said. “You’d better have money or it’s all mine.”

  Tucker groaned and laid his hand on the pistol strapped on his left hip, hoping he wouldn’t have to use it. The old Indian had been showing off. No telling how he’d come by his precious loot, but he was in the stew now.

  “But I have more,” the old man insisted. “I do. I will make my mark.” He reached inside his pocket.

  Tucker heard the sound of a pistol being cocked. Ah, hell. The bastards weren’t going to let him get away. If Tucker didn’t act quickly, the bandits would have more than the old man’s IOU. Without thinking, Tucker reached for the bottle in front of him, knocking it over on the cards. The dealer turned his eyes on Tucker in disbelief.

  “What the—?” the bandit swore, scrambling backward.

  “Sorry.” Tucker took his bandanna from around his neck. “I’ll just wipe it up.” He lurched to his feet, slurring his words just enough to convince onlookers that he was drunk.

  At the same time, he stumbled, swept the nuggets and the watch fob into his pocket, and collapsed across the table, determined that the bandits not profit from their cheating.

  Then, as if he were trying to right himself, Tucker pulled the table toward himself and, shoving the miner out the door, sagged backward, blocking the exit as he fell. “I think I’ve had too much to drink,” he said with an affected laugh.

  “Get out of the way, you idiot!” The two men tried to get past him, one of them firing at the escaping prospector. But in his efforts to apologize and stand, Tucker managed to delay both men long enough for the old miner to get away.

  The tirade that followed was in Spanish. Tucker didn’t have to understand the exact words to know the men weren’t going to let him leave the cantina peacefully. It looked as if the half-breed wouldn’t get his treasure back after all. Still, it wasn’t until until they forced Tucker out of the saloon and into the plaza beyond that he realized what they had in mind.

  The saloon emptied as the customers followed, expecting to be entertained by what was obviously a common occurrence in the village.

  “You know what we do in Mexico to people who get in our way?” the dealer asked, a cruel grin exposing the stark white of his teeth against his swarthy complexion.

  “It was an accident. I wasn’t even playing. I’d already folded.”

  “You and the old man were in cahoots. I saw you steal the ruby,” the sidekick said. “Get a rope for the americano outlaw, compadres. Then we go treasure hunting. Si?”

  Suddenly the situation wasn’t so funny anymore. Tucker opened his eyes and took in the circle of men. He was a lot bigger and stronger than the Mexicans, but the guns pointed at his chest evened that difference.

  “You can’t hang me.” Tucker drew himself to his full height and looked the cocky little bastard straight in the eye.

  “Oh, but we can, señor,” the man with the pistol boasted. “We surely can.”

  Tucker swallowed hard. He might as well give them the nuggets. Unless a miracle occurred, he didn’t have a chance in hell of living to return the gold. After all the bad things he’d done as a soldier in the name of duty, he was going to die for helping a man he’d never seen before.

  “What the hell,” Tucker said. “This place has definitely lost what little charm it had. The whiskey’s bad, the games are crooked, and as for women, haven’t seen one I’d mess around with since I left Amarillo.”

  Tucker didn’t know whether his stomach, his pride, or his manhood was suffering more. As his captors slipped a rope around his neck, he knew he’d never satisfy any physical need again. Returning the booty wouldn’t change anything. The only way he’d get out of there was to sprout wings and fly.

  Then suddenly he heard a low rumbling sound, like the ripple of sails in the wind, that grew louder and louder. The onlookers grew quiet as angry shrieks cut through the air. The sky filled with hundreds of large, yellow-eyed, black birds. They settled in the tops of the gnarled mes-quite trees surrounding the plaza and on the roofs of the buildings. Soon the hard-packed ground was black with the querulous birds, while others hovered above the circle of men.

  The Mexicans looked at each other in alarm. Two of them dropped to their knees, crossing their chests. The others followed.

  The birds continued to appear as if they’d been summoned, closing out the sun and leaving the plaza dark and cold. For a moment Tucker was stunned. Then, seeing he’d been given a chance, he slipped the rope from his neck and ran to his horse.

  “Get me out of here, Yank,” he whispered, throwing himself into the saddle and leaning against the animal’s neck. The birds scattered before them as, for once, the horse followed orders and together they raced away from the village toward the safety of the hills to the northwest.

  Behind him the unnatural shrieks of the birds still filled the air. Then, as quickly as they’d come, the flock swept across the sky before him in a dark swirling mass, blotting out the setting sun like a black-gloved hand.

  A ripple of unease ran up Tucker’s spine. He didn’t understand what had just happened, but he knew that it was unnatural as hell, and maybe as close as he’d ever want to be to the place. If he’d been a religious man, he might have been unnerved. Now he galloped along an unfamiliar trail in the burgeoning darkness, his freedom in peril should the Mexicans decide to come after him instead of the old prospector.

  After several hours of hard riding along the rocky terrain and through shallow streams, Tucker reached a point where he could look back over the area he’d covered. He couldn’t see any evidence that he’d been followed. And there was no sign of the half-breed Indian miner.

  The horse Tucker had given, in a moment of irony, the name of Yank was breathing hard. Tucker was edgy, not only from almost losing his life, but from the way in which he’d been saved. He’d seen buzzards and he’d seen crows. The flock that had dropped like a cloud over the plaza was neither.

  Shaking off the sense of unease that had traveled with him, Tucker was satisfied that he’d escaped. It was time to give both himself and Yank a rest.

  Remembering his mad dash to safety, Tucker swore and reached back to examine his saddlebags. The pint of whiskey he normally carried was still there. He retrieved it and, with his teeth, pulled the cork from the bottom and spat it into his hand. He wasn’t normally given to heavy drinking, but he was not normally rescued by demon birds either. Tonight he could use a little courage. He lifted the bottle.

  When the bottle was half empty, Tucker Farrell re-corked it and stuck it back into his pack. Not only was he wide awake, but all his senses seemed enhanced. Once, in the path of a tornado, he’d felt a sudden tingle in his skin that announced some startling event. Tonight he felt it again.

  The moon had risen full and threatening, showering the trail with moonlight, making him an easy target to anyone watching.

  Even Yank seemed unusually high-strung. He stumbled and came to a stop as he encountered a rock that had fallen from higher up. “Get on, you stubborn mule,” Tucker cajoled.

  Yank, true to his name, bullied his Rebel master by following orders only when they suited
him. Tucker swore. Getting himself killed was one thing, but injuring his horse was something Tucker would never do. It was time to find a place to bed down before he fell off and rolled back down the mountain to that godforsaken place he’d escaped from.

  Tucker disengaged one foot from the stirrups, swung it over the saddle, and, leaning his upper body in the other direction, slid to the ground. Too late he realized that he should have dismounted on the side toward the mountain instead of the side toward the ravine. As he tried to balance himself the earth beneath his feet gave way and he slid straight down, bouncing only once before he hit his head on a rock and knocked himself out cold.

  For most of her twenty-six years, Raven Alexander had been torn between two worlds. Three days ago she’d left them both.

  Perhaps her life would have been different if her father hadn’t been Irish and her mother, Pale Raven, half Arapaho. But her kinship with her mother’s people and the Grandfather, Flying Cloud, had pulled at her, forcing her to follow a separate path.

  The leaving hadn’t been easy. She’d had to fight her older half sister Sabrina’s disapproval from the moment she’d announced her mission. Expecting Sabrina to understand the difference in their backgrounds had always been impossible. Sabrina’s practical Irish mother had instilled such responsibility in her children that Sabrina would always consider herself head of the family.

  Raven should have left in secret. That way, she’d have been saved having Sabrina accompany her to Denver, trying one last time to change her mind. “Raven, you are not going to New Mexico, alone, on some kind of crazy treasure hunt.”

  Raven let her go on. All the Alexander sisters had learned that when Sabrina set her mind to something, there was no stopping her. Raven could only be grateful that the other three sisters had married and moved away. Otherwise she’d have been besieged on all sides.

  “The country is changing,” Sabrina had argued. “The Comanche and the Apache are at war. The ranchers in the Southwest are bringing in gunfighters to stop the cattle rustling. And you don’t even know that the treasure exists.”