Chapter 1

Killara, Arizona

December 15, 1893

"BLAST IT," ZARA MUTTERED. HER FOOT WAS BLEEDING AGAIN!

Holding on to the corral post for balance, she scowled at the lacerated flesh on the bottom of her left foot. The rags she had tied around her shoe hadn't protected her wound, and the rocks on the trail coming down from the foothills had done their worst. Even though it was bleeding again, she couldn't be bothered with it now. She was too close to reaching her goal. She quickly shifted the rags to cover the cut, then paused a moment to catch her breath and look at the large adobe ranch house a hundred feet away. It rose out of drifts of snow and only glimpses of its red-tiled roof could be seen through the heavy white mantle atop it.

Killara. The house was more imposing and intimidating than she had imagined. For a moment she felt a thrill of fear at what she was about to do. These wild inhabitants of Arizona had no more liking for housebreakers than the people in her native Ireland and were reputed to be much more violent in dispatching them.

Nonsense, there was no reason to fear. From a high lookout she had watched people depart and was sure the house was deserted now. It was well after midnight; the servants and ranch hands slept in the village over the hill and would not venture out on so frigid a night. She had ascertained before she left Hell's Bluff that afternoon that the savage was planning on indulging his lustful appetites at Garnet's bordello and would pose no threat. She had all night in which to search for and find the treasure—and get away with it, of course.

The icy wind quickened, chilling her to the bone yet bringing with it the faint musical jingle of wind chimes from the front porch. Comfort flowed through her as she realized they reminded her of the chimes during the Mass at Father Timothy's cathedral. Surely this was a sign that what she was doing was not unforgivable and all would be well.

She darted toward the front door, her heart pounding, her breath visible in the clear cold air.

Green eyes glared malevolently at her in the darkness!

She stopped short in shock and then drew a relieved breath.

It was only a huge black cat curled up on the doorstep.

"Have you no sense?" she whispered. "You're no guard dog. You'll freeze out here. Go to the stable, where it's warm."

She stepped forward and the doorknob turned easily under her hand. She had learned the doors of Killara were always left unlocked. Who would dare to steal from the all-powerful Delaneys?

The cat leapt to its feet, arched, and hissed at her.

"Go away. That man is not coming back tonight, and he does not deserve your loyalty if he left you out here in the weather to fend for yourself."

The cat's paw darted out and raked her ankle.

She bit her lip to keep back the cry of pain. The animal's claws were exceptionally sharp.

The cat hissed again, its eyes glittering in the moonlight.

"You're cursed with a foul disposition and a foolish nature." She was the one who was being foolish, she realized, talking to the dratted animal to avoid taking this final step. She must not waver at this crucial moment. She could feel exhaustion seeping into her muscles, the throbbing in her foot increasing with every step. The deed must be done quickly or not at all. What did she care if the stupid feline froze to death? He was clearly as much a tomcat as his master and every bit as wild. She opened the door, hesitated, and then motioned impatiently. "I suppose you might as well go in."

The cat immediately abandoned the attack and ran ahead of her into the hallway. She slipped silently into the house and closed the door. Not softness but good sense had inspired her to let the cat in, she assured herself. Now the animal would not be outside howling. How that dreadful noise would wear on her already frayed nerves!

She identified the scent of lemon wax, pine, and oak in the darkness. She pulled a candle and matches from the deep pocket of her skirt and knelt; the light from the candle seemed bright in the large foyer. A massive copper chandelier hung above her and fine pictures filled the wall space. She had taken pains to learn everything she could about the interior of the ranch, but hearing was not seeing. It was truly a grand and wondrous place. She felt another jolt of fear. The fineness of her surroundings compared to her own ragged attire and dirty face made her all the more aware she did not belong there. What if someone—

She did belong there. At this moment and for this purpose she did belong at Killara. She straightened her shoulders and marched toward the beautifully wrought oak staircase.

At the head of the staircase she paused uncertainly, peering down a long hallway. She knew most of those doors led to bedrooms, but there should be a small door in the alcove to the left. . . .

Copyright © 1992 by Kay Hooper, Iris Johansen, and Fayrene Preston