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eBook Category: Historical Fiction/Romance
eBook Description: Western Skies novel line! When the sun is setting and it turns the prairie gold, you can feel the magic in your blood and the love in your heart for the West. Gold rush, saloons, bordello, bucking horses and cattle drives, Indians and the Calvary, there is no end to the stories it took to build this country. Rediscover the Old West at Midnight Showcase! Accused of a shooting in his native England, John Stuart is sent to the British owned ranch in America's Wyoming territory until his name was cleared. Pursued by British authorities, he finds refuge at a homesteader's home near Laramie City. Being unaccustomed to manual labor due to his high social position, John acquires a new respect for tools and the men who use them. The Norwegian family provides the strength and courage for John to become a western hero.

eBook Publisher: Midnight Showcase
Fictionwise Release Date: January 2006

This eBook is part of the following series:

• Various Authors Midnight Showcase Series

2 Reader Ratings: Great Good OK Poor

Available eBook Formats [MultiFormat - What's this?]: Adobe Acrobat (PDF) [1.1 MB], eReader (PDB) [211 KB], Palm Doc (PDB) [197 KB], Rocket/REB1100 (RB) [175 KB], Microsoft Reader (LIT) [198 KB] - PocketPC 1.0+ Compatible, Franklin eBookMan (FUB) [220 KB], hiebook (KML) [522 KB], Sony Reader (LRF) [283 KB], iSilo (PDB) [161 KB], Mobipocket (PRC) [203 KB], Kindle Compatible (MOBI) [261 KB], OEBFF Format (IMP) [257 KB]
Words: 63893
Reading time: 182-255 min.
Microsoft Reader (LIT) Format: Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud ENABLED
Adobe Acrobat (PDF) Format:  Printing DISABLED, Read-Aloud DISABLED
All Other formats: Printing DISABLED, Read-aloud DISABLED

John Stuart stepped from the grimy stagecoach to the dusty street of Hawk Springs, Wyoming. He did not expect it to be like his native England, but this was beyond his comprehension. The amber plains seemed to stretch endlessly to the horizon and not a single tree stopped his view. He grunted disgustedly at the scene.

"You have anything up here?" the stage driver asked as he eyed the empty luggage rack. He removed the dusty, sweat stained hat and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his dirty shirt. The west wind rustled his oily, shoulder length hair and he pushed it back with a gloved hand then slapped the hat back in place. He stood full length in front of the driver's seat and brushed his dusty, brown trousers. "Long hot summer we had," he said. "October's here and it's still too warm for me." When his passenger said nothing, the driver checked the luggage rack again. "You have anything up here?"

John shook his head. "No, I have nothing." All he owned had been lost somewhere between Chicago and Cheyenne. He grunted again, brushed the dust covering his blue suit, and slapped the Derby hat against his thigh. He ran his grimy hand through his dark hair and replaced the hat.

Dirt whirled down the street as a dust devil spun through town chasing tumbleweeds before it. The whirlwind passed as quickly as it came and disappeared at the end of the dusty street that bordered the edge of town.

The man cursed quietly as he pulled a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped the dirt from his eyes and face. He had seen small towns before, but this was the ultimate, he thought. His gaze followed the buildings pressed together on one side of the street as if holding each other up against the never resting prairie wind. The town consisted of a saloon, general store, and blacksmith shop.

The late October sun felt warm, but the west wind carried a chill announcing the future days of winter. He pulled up the collar of his jacket and surveyed the wide treeless plains that were to be his home. His eyes roamed the vastness, the tall grass bowing in the breeze. Like the ocean, he thought, that separates me from the cool green lanes of England. He shook the thought from his mind and fought back bitter memories that ravaged his sleep at night. Then his mind slowed back to the present, to the immense stillness and the dust of Wyoming. Sighing deeply, he stepped upon the boardwalk in front of the saloon and waited for the man who was to take him to the Stuart Ranch.

Music and loud laughter pulled his attention toward the swinging doors. Inside, he saw the bartender, with garters on his sleeves, pulling a song from the piano that needed to be turned. Three young men in tall hats and chaps covering their pants sang off key and raised their glasses.

John chuckled at the sight, remembering similar experiences with his friends in England. Home sickness crept through him and he turned from the door. The smile slipped to a frown and the light in his eyes darkened. "Oh, to be in England," he whispered. "Oh, to be home in England." His melancholy was shaken by a horse drawn wagon pulling up beside him.

"You John Stuart?" The driver asked.

John swallowed a lump growing in his throat then squared his shoulders. A steady gaze replaced the uncertainty. He cleared his throat and tried to sound confident. "Yes, I am."

"I'm Forest Graves, foreman at the Stuart Ranch." He stuck out a big hand.

John cautiously eyed the tall man from his massive shoulders to the holstered gun hanging on his narrow hip. Shaking the man's hand, he nodded and smiled. "It's good to meet you, I'm sure."

Forest smiled from beneath his dirty brown Stetson. He had encountered these British men before, but could never fully understand the composure they displayed in difficult times. "Climb on up. We've a ways to go."

A young man watched the proceedings from the swinging doors of the saloon. He staggered to the wagon and leaned heavily against it. Pushing his hat back, he studied John and sneered showing tobacco stained teeth. He blinked his blood shot eyes and gave his attention to Forest. A guttural laugh slithered from his throat as he glanced at John. "He one of them bad English boys" He chuckled wickedly like the cackle of a witch. "When are they gonna stop sending these worthless remittance men to run the ranches?"

John's head snapped to meet the cowboy's gaze. His clear blue eyes narrowed and his mouth became a straight line of disgust. He leaned toward the cowboy and started to speak, but Forest gave the horses a slap and John grabbed hold of the buckboard. He glanced over his shoulder and watched the cowboy stagger back to the saloon. The Englishman knew about remittance men. They lived off the allowances provided by their fathers or other members of the family. They were the sons of wealthy families and their backgrounds were tinged with little wrongdoings. John, himself, fit into this category.

John grabbed hold of the wagon seat as it bumped over a clump of sagebrush. He looked at the endless miles of prairie and blinked back the memory branded in his mind. His reason for being here differed from other remittance men who had come across the sea. A reckless party, a seemingly unloaded dueling pistol, and the body on the plush blue carpet caused his appearance on the broad Wyoming plains. He shook the incident from his mind as the rollicking wagon bumped along the dusty road.

"How much further?" He yelled at Forest above the noisy wagon.

Forest pointed a hand full of leather lines down the road. "Just over the hill," he called back.

"Just over the hill," John mimicked in disgust. Then he chuckled and shook his head. The stage trip from Cheyenne was beginning to show. John yawned and shook the weariness from his head. He turned in the seat and checked the road behind. Only the wagon's dust could be seen. Squinting, he searched beyond the dust. Satisfied no one was following, he faced forward again.

Forest noticed his fidgeting. "We haven't seen anyone new around here." He motioned behind with a nod. "Those lawmen following you won't be here for a spell."

John nodded and relaxed. He sighed and let the air escape in a long, drawn out breath. "They'll be here, though. That's a certainty." He folded his arms and watched the late afternoon sun send shafts of light through the clouds hugging the western horizon.

As they topped a hill, John saw the planes give way to a sheltered valley watered by a sparkling stream. A ranch house stood tall and lonely against the sunset.

As the wagon stopped in front of the two story white frame house, a short wiry man with thinning white hair hurried from the building. "Step on down. I'm Bill Juston, the manager here. Supper's on. Looks like you can use a good meal." He extended his hand in welcome.

John jumped from the wagon and grasped the tanned, callused hand. "Thank you. I'd appreciate that."

Bill took a step back and studied the exhausted Englishman. He motioned from the Derby hat to the flat heeled shoes. "We'll have to do something about this."

John stretched out his arms and gazed at his clothes. "About what?" he asked puzzled.

"I'll fix you up," Bill chuckled then gave his attention to Forest still sitting on the wagon. "After John's had something to eat, have Tuffy show him Thunderbolt. He'll need a good mount."

Forest's head snapped around to meet Bill's gaze. "That's a lot of horse."

"He'll need a lot of horse. The wranglers, riding herd to the south, saw a couple men camped down by the creek. I wouldn't doubt they'll be here first light."

After supper Tuffy led John to the corral. He held a lantern above his head so John could see the long legged black horse hidden in the darkness.

"He's a good one," Tuffy's pale blue eyes danced in the lantern's light. "Full of surprises." He chuckled as if he had a secret he held from John.

John nodded and patted the horse's great chest and velvet nose. "I'm sure," he said.

Tuffy sat the lantern on a post and leaned his small boned muscular body against the corral. "So, you're on the run," he said outright. He crossed his arms on his chest and shook his head. "Not a good time for a tenderfoot to be starting out. November's comin' on."

John ran his hand down the horse's foreleg then stood and faced Tuffy. "No doubt," he said patting the house's muscular neck. "But, it would seem, I have no choice."

Tuffy rubbed his clean shaven chin. "I heard you killed a guy."

John's head snapped to meet Tuffy's gaze. His eyes filled with anger. "I killed no one," he shouted. Then with a sigh he checked the fury and the British composure returned. He rested his arms against the corral. "I was accused of the act," he continued calmly. "I did not commit the crime." He shrugged, frowned and turned to Tuffy. "Actually it was an accident." He looked away from the cowboy and gazed into the darkness. "The dead fellow's parents wouldn't accept that. They're an influential family."

"Someone had to pay," Tuffy added.

John nodded. "For the negligence." Taking a deep breath, he blew the air from his lungs. "As you know, my family owns this ranch." He gazed into the darkness beyond the lantern's light. "My uncle sent me here until he can clear my name in England."

Tuffy wrinkled his forehead. "And they sent the law after you?" He shook his head and gazed into John's face. "And you didn't do it?"

"No," John answered emphatically. "I didn't do it."

Tuffy nodded and dug his boot into the dust. "Those lawmen don't believe you're innocent." He raised his eyebrows. "Guess you do need a good, fast horse." He stepped to the animal and patted his rump. "This one will do it."

The next morning Bill Juston hurried to the corral where John watched Tuffy saddle the black stallion. Bill pointed toward the road. "Looks like the law's right behind you. There are some big ranches to the south. Maybe you can get on there with Thunderbolt. We'll keep those lawmen here as long as we can. Give you a head start."

John squirmed nervously in the saddle so foreign to him. He was accustomed to the English seat and tried to find a comfortable position. "I'm extremely grateful," he told Bill.

Bill smiled up at the Englishman. "Good luck. You're gonna need a hell of a lot of it."

John touched his heels to the animal's sides and the black stallion leaped forward from the stand still. He gave Thunderbolt his head, hoping to get as much distance as he could between him and the ever-present pursuers behind him. He finally pulled the horse to a stop and checked the trail. Only miles of prairie met his gaze and pronghorn antelope peacefully grazing on the long step grass.

Puffy clouds with dark bottoms drifted from the west hiding the warmth of the late afternoon sun. A chill wind accompanied the oncoming rain and John shivered beneath the blue suit jacket. He looked again down the invisible trail that led back to the ranch, but saw only the broad plains. He gave the horse a kick and continued down the long trail, the end of which seemed only an empty mirage.

Each mile seemed endless. John stopped repeatedly scanning the horizon for the ranches Bill Juston had spoken. Then he looked behind at the constant danger looming at his back door. He shivered until his teeth rattled in the chill of evening. He saw nothing. A false sense of safety crept into his mind and he decided to stop for the night.

Dismounting stiffly, he searched for something to build a fire. He spied the miles of sagebrush with its tough woody stems growing from the dust. He smiled, took a knife from his pocket, cut the plants, and piled then beneath the dry brush. Well, he thought, those experiences in India, in service of the Queen, will finally be of some benefit. He had watched the British soldiers use brush to build a warming fire.

As the brush began to blaze, John gave a satisfied nod, unsaddled the horse and sat by the fire. He unrolled the fat saddle roll Bill had tied behind the saddle. Tucked inside the two brown wool blankets were a heavy sheepskin coat, a yellow slicker, Levi's, a wool shirt, high heeled boots and a slightly bent black Stetson.. He quickly pulled the coat over the blue suit jacket and spread the blankets closer to the fire. Inside a smaller pouch he removed cold biscuits and strips of jerky. He gingerly tried to bite the hard roll then tossed it aside. With a grunt of disgust he sniffed the jerky and stuffed it back into the bag.

John unfolded another bundle wrapped carefully and securely. A holstered Colt gleamed in the firelight. He gently slipped the gun from the holster, a whistle escaping from his lips, and pointed it into the gathering darkness. The loaded gun discharged and its recoil sent the weapon from John's hand. He sat startled, gazing at the gun a moment, then he gingerly picked up the weapon, looking at it intently.

His mind slipped back to England as he stroked the ivory handle. Home in England. He tossed the gun aside and gazed into the fire. Home. He picked at the fire with a branch of the sagebrush and a picture of his father's house emerged. The large two story structure sat surrounded by green lawns and a forest of oak and maple. White gleaming stables shone in the sun and thoroughbred horses grazed on an emerald pasture. His nanny, Miss Ample, cared for him following his mother's death when he was only three. He was told his mother fell from a high spirited horse. A storm at sea claimed the life of his father as he journeyed to America to oversee his land in Wyoming. The house and acreage were sold shortly after and at fourteen years of age, John moved in with his Uncle Henry.

John tossed more brush on the fire and lay on the rough, woolen blanket. He closed his eyes and tried to sleep, but his past kept racing through his mind.

Uncle Henry was good to him. Although he had four sons, he included John in the fox hunts, trips to Africa and India. When John was sixteen, he was enrolled in military school. Uncle Henry said it would strengthen his education in areas that the private tutors did not supply, and would make a man of him.

Shaking the memory from his mind, John got up and fueled the fire with more brush. He gazed at the prairie as far as the firelight would allow and sat close to the warmth draping the blanket around his shoulders. As he watched the blaze, chilled and alone, he remembered Darcy. Long weeks before, at the home of a friend, a party was held in John's honor, for he had just returned from India and the Queen's service. Darcy, his bride to be, clung to his uniformed arm. Her tightly curled hair piled high on her head bounced as she giggled coyly at his jokes. Darcy. The name formed a melody in his mind and he smiled at the song. As he watched the sparks from the fire rising skyward, remembrance of her face warmed his passion. Eyes of deepest blue in which he found himself lost. Satin cheeks he had to touch. And her mouth. John gently touched his own lips remembering hers. Full lips that opened to straight gleaming teeth. "Darcy," he breathed, his voice quivering. "Oh, Darcy. Why did you deceive me?" Shaking his head, he forced the memory from his mind until only the prairies of Wyoming lay before him. Angrily he wiped at tears forming and crawled between the blankets.

As he fought for sleep, huddled beside the dwindling fire, thunder peeled and rain mixed with snow began to fall, lightly at first then heavier. John reached for the yellow slicker, covered himself with it and cursed the weather, the country, and his predicament.

The morning sun beaming from a clear sky woke John and he squirmed in the blankets and groaned at the intrusion. He rubbed his eyes then lay quiet. A rattling sound caught his attention. He searched the edges of the blanket trying to locate the creature giving off the frightening sound then stopped suddenly, his gaze falling to his bed. Slowly he lifted the blanket covering him. A rattlesnake, drawn by the warmth of his body, lay coiled close to his leg, frightened now by John's movement.

John's breath came in quick trembling gasps as he searched for something to defend himself. His eyes brightened, seeing the Colt on the far side of the blankets. Between John and the gun, the snake laid coiled ready to strike again. With a gasp, then a wild scream, John rolled from his bed, his heart pounding. The snake lunged, but hit only the space vacated by the man.

He whispered a curse and crawled on hands and knees toward the weapon. His gaze on the angry reptile, he reached out and touched the gun's handle, then the smooth barrel. He seized it with shaking hands and rolled away from the blanket as the snake struck again, its deadly fangs nearly hitting his hand. John scrambled to his feet, pointed the gun in the snake's direction and fired until the hammer clicked against the empty cylinder. The snake, untouched by the bullets, slithered away disappearing in the tall grass. John shook his head in disgust. At that moment, he wished he had learned the art of handling a weapon in his military service. His experience centered around his title of Ambassador to India, which dealt with negotiation rather than weaponry.

With fear and desperation, he threw the empty gun in the direction the retreating reptile had taken and watched, trembling and breathless, until he felt confident the snake would not return. Slowly he walked to his bed and gave the blankets a hearty shake. Once more he opened the bag containing the biscuits and jerky and ate a few bites then stuffed the rest back in their container. Even more depressed, he stripped from the blue suit and slipped into the Levi's and wool shirt, strapped the empty Colt around his hips and pulled on the black Stetson. He grunted in disgust at how he must look, then eyed the high heeled boots. He held a boot up to get a better look at it. Cocking his head from side to side, he studied it, then shrugged and sat on the blanket.

"Not much different from my riding boots," he concluded as he slipped his foot into the boot's top. He tugged and pulled, grunted and yanked, but his foot would not slip into the boot. Growling, he jerked the boot from his foot. Sighing, he gave the footwear his full attention and placed the soul of the boot against his foot. Nodding, he slipped his toes back in and resumed pulling. He gritted his teeth and moaned at the tightness of Bill Juston's choice of shoe.

"Do they really wear these?" he asked the attentive Thunderbolt. He sat puffing, his foot sticking from the boot. "Bloody thing," he complained. Then with a yell, he stood up and stamped the boot's soul against the ground. His foot slid into the boot ever so slightly. John raised his eyebrows and nodded. "This must be how they get into them." Pulling as he stamped, the boot slipped on with a slurping sound.

John picked up the second boot and nodded at it. "Now, I know," he told the boot. Slipping his foot in, he pulled and stamped repeatedly, but lost his balance and sat hard on the blanket. Panting and growling, he jumped up and resumed the yanking until his face became red from the task. Angrily, he pounded and tugged until his foot reluctantly slid into the boot.

He stood panting; his hands on his hips and gazed at the horse. "Well, they're on. I presume I'll have to sleep in them, for I'll not be able to get them off, let alone pull them on again."

Cautiously he took a few steps to get used to the strange footwear. The higher heels forced his body forward and he had to consciously straighten his body. Shaking his head, he gazed at the boots. "Perhaps it would have been easier to face the charges in England" He limped to the blanket and folded his clothes and rolled them neatly inside the woolly cover.

As he tossed the saddle onto the horse's back, he caught sight of riders coming down the invisible trail from the direction of the Stuart Ranch. John pulled the cinch tightly and jumped astride the black. The chase, once again, materialized and John had no place to hide except the distance the black horse could put between him and the British authorities.

The sure footed Thunderbolt raced through the high grass stretching his long muscular body with each stride, forcing the air into his wide chest and, seemingly, enjoying the wildness of the run.

After a quarter mile the great horse began to slow, as if all the spirit had been used up in that first wild spurt. Nothing more was necessary. John looked over his shoulder and saw only the empty land behind him. He pulled the horse to a stop to observe more carefully the invisible path behind him. No evidence lay there of oncoming pursuers, only the grass waving in the blowing wind.

He surveyed the land before him, looking again for the ranches. Nothing filled his gaze, but the herds of antelope. Not a sign that anyone at all inhabited the land.

John rode all day and as evening began streaking across the sky in its robes of gold and crimson, he saw the familiar threat. The riders were behind him again.

"Damned authorities," he shouted and frantically looked for some protection. Only the mountains before him offered any comfort and John headed the big horse for the hills.

Again, the powerful horse stretched out, each muscle eager for the chase. John leaned low in the saddle fighting off the new surge of fear racing through his mind. The dark timber filled his gaze and he urged the horse to give more.

Bullets whizzed past him as he rushed among the trees and began to climb upward. At the top of a hill he stopped and listened to the silence. He dismounted and peered from behind an uplift of rocks. Slowly he pulled the Colt from his holster and pointed it at the lawmen.

The heavy gun barrel drooped as John held it with a shaking hand. He propped it on the rock than squinted into the darkening forest. Although the air was cold, he felt sweat forming beneath the Stetson and trickle beside his ear. If the two lawmen were within a mile, John was sure they could hear his heart beat. He tried to take a deep breath, but a lump growing in his throat permitted air to enter only in sobs. Gritting his teeth, he tried to keep his attention on the matter at hand, but his lips whispered into the shadows. "Darcy. Oh, Darcy. Why didn't you tell them the truth?"

A slight movement and the sound of breaking twigs caught his attention. The action flashed a picture from the past of him and his cousins hunting the doe and the antlered buck. He smiled at the scene filled with laughter and competition. That was the reality he wanted. Reluctantly he shook the memory from his mind and gazed into the twilight. This was the reality he was given. He had to keep these lawmen, relentless as they were, from capturing him. He had to give Uncle Henry the time he needed to clear his name. Slowly, he pulled back the Colt's hammer. Carefully he pulled the trigger and the hammer fell on the empty cylinder.

Cursing, John lowered the gun, took a bullet from the cartridge belt, and tried unsuccessfully to open the cylinder. In rage he slammed the Colt back into the holster.

"Damned, bloody thing," he whispered.

He stood, his intention being to get to the horse, but a bullet sent the Stetson flying from his head. John ducked down, his eyes searching for Thunderbolt. In the half-light, John spied the horse heading further up the hill.

On his hands and knees John scrambled up the hill and stopped, shaking and panting, behind a tree. From his position he could make out the two men who had reached the rock where he had hidden. He looked up the hill again for the horse and saw the animal disappear over the ridge.

John cursed softly and crawled into a thick willow stand and watched his pursuers pick up his Stetson, toss it back to the ground and return to their horses. He tried not to breathe as he watched them approach the willow stand. One of the horses snorted and John crouched closer to the ground. As he glanced up, he saw their dark hacking coats flapping about their knees and their narrow brimmed bowlers pulled low on their heads. The chilled breeze carried the scent of the horses, sweating from the long trek. He heard their muffled voices saying they would never see him in the darkness. Holding his breath, lest they hear his fearful panting, John covered his mouth with his dirty hand and did not move a muscle

In the stillness of the forest, he heard the clop of the horse's hooves grow fainter until only the whispering of the breeze through the evergreens remained. Every muscle in his body ached as he leaned back into the willows. Although the forest was silent, he remained in his hiding place, limp and trembling. His breathing became steadier as the stillness closed in around him.

Cautiously he pulled himself from the willow thicket and brushed at his clothes. He ran his fingers through his dark hair and, grumbling, retreated down the hill for the hat. Dusting off the Stetson on his thigh, he wearily trudged back up the hill. Where the horse had hidden John could not venture a guess. He stumbled up the hill, looking for the horse hidden in the camouflage of darkness. He called the horse's name softly, fearful he might be overheard above the soft whisper of the wind through the pines. From below a soft nicker mingled with the noisy stillness of the forest. John felt his way down an incline and saw the horse's outline on the far side of a cold running stream. Not being able to see his way, John plunged into the shallow stream, cursing at its coldness covering his boots.

He pulled himself into the saddle and let Thunderbolt have his head. There seemed no right way to go, and having been around horses all his life, he felt the animal probably had more sense than he, at the moment.

Snow sifted through the trees as the black made his way through the darkness. John had not remembered seeing clouds building from the west, but then, he did have his mind on other things. Now he could think of nothing but his cold feet. He would stop soon and build a fire, but for now, he let the horse pick his way through the timber. He pulled the Stetson lower to ward off the snow and drew the sheepskin collar close around his face.

Thunderbolt stopped and nickered softly. John lifted his head and listened. Through the darkness, an odd call answered. It was not a horse, but a mule. As Thunderbolt topped a hill John saw the light of a cabin shining through the falling snow like a welcome beacon. He gave the black a kick and headed for what he hoped would be warmth for the night.