Ballad Beauty Read online

  Table of Contents

  BALLAD BEAUTY

  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

  CHAPTER 21

  CHAPTER 22

  CHAPTER 23

  CHAPTER 24

  CHAPTER 25

  CHAPTER 26

  CHAPTER 27

  CHAPTER 28

  CHAPTER 29

  CHAPTER 30

  CHAPTER 31

  BALLAD BEAUTY

  LAUREN LINWOOD

  SOUL MATE PUBLISHING

  New York

  BALLAD BEAUTY

  Copyright©2015

  LAUREN LINWOOD

  Cover Design by Ramona Lockwood

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, business establishments, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.

  The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials.

  Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.

  Published in the United States of America by

  Soul Mate Publishing

  P.O. Box 24

  Macedon, New York, 14502

  ISBN: 978-1-61935-759-4

  www.SoulMatePublishing.com

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

  For Elaine & Carol

  I treasure all of our

  experiences & memories together

  PROLOGUE

  Texas, 1875

  Flattery would get him killed. Why in hell hadn’t he stayed with the Frontier Battalion?

  Noah Daniel Webster figured it was too late to second-guess himself at this point. Especially as McNelly’s company crossed the Rio Grande illegally, under cover of the dark November night.

  Captain McNelly himself had sweet-talked him, convinced that Noah was the crack-shot he needed to shoot thieving Mexicans along the border. Noah had served as a Texas Ranger four years now, mostly defending settlers from the rambunctious Comanche that roamed in menacing bands across the state. He figured a change of scenery couldn’t hurt.

  He’d only reported to Special Forces that morning when the message came from McNelly. Company D rode the sixty dusty miles to the border in less than five hours. Now Noah’s horse was winded but good, he was dead-dog tired, and here he was following the captain on what even that gentleman termed “a dubious project, from both a legal and tactical view.”

  Thank God they were in the south of Texas. Even at that, the water was cold as it lapped against his long, muscular legs. He stroked Star’s mane, as much to reassure the horse as himself.

  McNelly was known for his bold actions, and his men would crawl through hellfire for him—but Noah wasn’t too sure about this endeavor. The army boys had chosen to remain behind on the U.S. side of the river. Hell, they didn’t want to start another war with a piss-poor place like Mexico. Why should McNelly and his Rangers?

  Of course, the man did stand on principle. Every Ranger that served under him idolized him, despite McNelly’s short stature and poor health. The commanding officer had guts. And dreams. Noah admired him for that. At least he was one man who was as good as his word.

  Unlike Noah’s father.

  They reached the Mexican side of the river and quietly dismounted, ready for their instructions. Fifty men gathered in the pale moonlight around McNelly. As always, the captain was soft-spoken. He leaned closer to catch the commander’s words.

  “Las Cuevas is known for harboring cattle rustlers. There’s about two hundred fifty, up to three hundred, at the ranch.”

  McNelly coughed, the spasms racking his small frame. He cleared his throat and continued. “Our only hope is to take possession of the first house and hold it until the federal troops come to our assistance. I told them this before we crossed the Rio Grande. And,” his eyes glittered as he finished, “I told them not one of us would get back alive without their aid.”

  McNelly signaled his scout, Casoose Sandoval, who stepped forward. Noah had no reason not to trust the guide, but he’d never liked the man.

  Sandoval held a hand up and flicked his wrist twice before he turned and mounted his horse.

  “Fellow of few words,” snickered someone behind Noah.

  The men quickly slipped onto their horses and rode toward Las Cuevas. His stomach began churning, flip-flopping faster than his pulse. His gut screamed to turn Star around. But orders were orders. As he rode, the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood at attention.

  Something was off.

  The Rangers moved closer to their target. He could see a few outlying buildings outlined in the moonlight. The main ranch house lay beyond them. Only a handful of lanterns lit on its porch cast a small circle of dim light. No guards were in sight.

  A squawking chicken ran loose as it crossed the path of the Texans. Sweat broke out across Noah’s forehead, despite the night chill. His fingers tingled as he drew his Colt from its holster. The men reached the patio when the whoop went up. Within moments, the clear night air filled with the smell of smoking guns.

  Noah swung from Star, gun cocked, and raced toward the doorway. Mexicans spilled out into the night, their own guns in hand. He fired twice and saw a man go down. The moans of the dying quickly filled the air. He fired again, and a second man fell. Suddenly, McNelly waved them away. Confused, he jumped on Star’s back and followed his commander away from the ranch. The dust of their horses’ hooves billowed clouds behind them.

  Mistake.

  It was the first word he caught. He realized Sandoval must have led them to the wrong ranch as they fell back into a thicket. He heard the rumble of horses in the distance and saw at least two hundred riders stream across the open land before them. He instinctively knew these men traveled from the real Las Cuevas.

  Then who lay dead a mile back? Had he killed innocent men? He swallowed hard as the bile rose in his throat, threatening to erupt in a thick stream. He shook his head hard to gain control.

  The first wave of men came over the rise in the moonlight, led by Juan Flores, owner of Las Cuevas. Even at this distance, Noah recognized the alcalde, then watched as he fell from his saddle.

  The air soon stank with the tinny smell of blood. No matter how many times he inhaled it, he never quite hardened himself. He could look
at it as it poured from a man’s wounds. He could even feel it as he turned over a body to insure a felon was dead. But he’d never become accustomed to the smell.

  Especially the blood of the blameless. It weighed heavily on his soul that a mile back lay men brought down by his hand, men that would never see another sunrise or kiss their babies and women—thanks to him. He vowed in that moment to quit Rangering and find something else to do with his life. As long as it was different from his daddy’s chosen path.

  He took aim and fired his Winchester. It looked like it was going to be a long night.

  CHAPTER 1

  Boston

  Jenny McShanahan tried to still her trembling fingers. She placed the letter in her lap and folded her hands tightly together, willing them to quit shaking. She’d become an expert at controlling her feelings. She had to be. One didn’t allow bullies to see how their words stung. No matter what raged inside her, she learned at an early age to place a placid look on her face and blankly stare at those who wished to hurt her.

  She resorted to those lessons now.

  Finally, her emotions under control, she lifted the letter with a now-steady hand and re-read its contents. Her heart raced as she scanned the words her father had penned.

  Dearest Jenny -

  I hope this letter finds you well. I have at last come into some money through a recent venture, and I would like nothing more than for you to join me here in Texas. I have sent a bit of money with this missive, for I suspect you’ll need to get a few clothes and some sturdy boots. The streets of Boston are nothing like those here in the dusty Southwest. Texas is a rough country, still fighting against being tamed, but I think you’ll grow to love it as I have.

  I also send to you something for safekeeping, which I will explain when I next see you. Please guard it closely. I will send you a telegram as to what transportation you’ll need to take and wire you the money to pay for your tickets.

  Thank dear Miss Thompson, too, for allowing you to stay on these past two years. I know you must have enjoyed teaching the young ladies, even if it was only for room and board. But Jenny, work is now a thing of your past. You’ll never have to do without again.

  I love you, my darling girl. I always have, just as I love your dear mother to this day. Say a prayer for me each night, and perhaps we’ll be together by the New Year, singing a chorus of “The Irish Rover” together.

  Your loving Papa,

  Samuel McShanahan

  Jenny brushed away a falling tear. Finally. She’d waited ten years for this one letter. At first, he told her she’d be in school only for a little while, as he handled all the arrangements for her mother and settled his own affairs. Then it had been postponed for a year, as he tried a few new business opportunities.

  Eventually, his excuses numbered so high she no longer bothered to count them. They’d been as numerous as fleas on a dog. Yet she never gave up hope, certain he would one day send for her. She’d been only ten when she last saw him. Another ten years had now passed. Would he recognize her? Did he really still want her? Could they truly be a family once more?

  She’d been incomplete for years. She lost the precious love of her mother with Suzannah’s untimely death, and then her father all but abandoned her for the last decade. She’d lain awake far into the night, wondering if she wasn’t good enough or smart enough or pretty enough for him to want her.

  The girls at The Thompson School teased her unmercifully. They always looked at a new student as fresh bait for their deadly hooks. They taunted her endlessly in the months after her arrival when she’d been so alone and resentful.

  Gradually, she developed a hard shell. She proved to be an excellent student, and so she lost herself in her studies. Only holidays hurt because every girl had somewhere to go. Except her. Her father paid extra for her to remain at the school year-round.

  Thank goodness for Dr. Randolph. The school’s physician struck up an unlikely friendship with her, even allowing her to assist him in the infirmary and later the free clinic he ran. She gained both practical knowledge and self-esteem in the many hours they spent together. He was also kind enough to invite her to his home during long vacations for a meal or a few days’ visit. He had four children of his own, all younger than she, and she lived for the times she spent in their rambling, boisterous home. For a short while, she became part of a real family.

  Guilt ate at her when she found herself wishing Dr. Randolph could be her father. His amiable, gentle manner, his trusting eyes, his words of wisdom—they all helped mold her character and provided her with love. His guidance gave her the courage for what she was about to do.

  Jenny set her father’s note on the desk before her and without hesitation jotted a few sentences in her neat hand. She stared out the window as the ink dried, barely taking in the falling snowflakes that drifted through the late afternoon air as she hummed “The Irish Rover” softly to herself.

  She rose and changed into a fresh gown. She had come from Dr. Randolph’s clinic, where she assisted him with the birth of a child. She tidied her hair, as well, wanting to look polished and serene, despite the frantic beating of her heart.

  She took the letter she’d written and ventured downstairs. Before her courage failed, she knocked firmly on Miss Thompson’s door.

  “Enter,” called the familiar voice.

  Jenny pushed open the massive oak door and closed it behind her. Miss Thompson looked up from her stack of correspondence, her glasses perched on the edge of her nose.

  “Yes?” The headmistress’s voice held the impatient tone that Jenny had come to know. The woman was all business, without a nurturing bone in her body. Instead of kindness and encouragement for her students and teachers, Miss Thompson only thought about how to turn a greater profit.

  The older woman glanced at the timepiece pinned to her gown and frowned. “You realize it is not my usual hour to receive anyone. If you would be so kind as to leave?”

  Instead, she crossed the room under Miss Thompson’s unwavering gaze and handed her the page.

  “I’ve come to give you my letter of resignation.”

  Bone weary, Noah Webster rode up to headquarters with his patrol, feeling much older than his twenty-five years. He rubbed a hand over his mouth and stubbled cheeks, a week’s worth of beard coating his tanned face. His clothes remained wrinkled and stained from sweat and blood, courtesy of the stand-off at Las Cuevas last night. He had three things on his mind—a bath, a fresh set of clothes, and a long night with a soft woman.

  Not necessarily in that order.

  He waved a greeting to those he knew, nodded politely in passing to those he didn’t recognize, and made his way toward his tent. The Rangers almost always were on the move. Pitching tents in a central location was a huge concession by those in command. Noah figured they had to have a base of operations, and this patch of barren, dusty land was as good as the next. At least it gave him a place to stash what few personal possessions he owned.

  He saw the tent flap raised when he got there. He lowered his tall frame into the opening. Patch Manning was stretched out on his cot, his long feet dangling off the bottom.

  “Yer looking might pretty, boy.”

  Noah grinned. “Good enough for us to head into town?”

  Patch snorted. “Gawd, boy, you might be a fine specimen of manhood, and the Rangers’d always be proud to claim you—but you ain’t that good.” He shifted on the cot.

  Noah pushed aside a stack of books and sat on the trunk at the end of his own bed. “Guess I could use a bit of sprucing up before I go to Miss Sally’s.”

  Patch shook his head. “Rose and Lizzy done been missing you bad, boy. They nearly had a cat-fight talking ‘bout which one of them would get to service you first.”

  Noah beamed at his friend. “There’s plenty enough of me
to go around. I’ll service whichever gal needs it, I reckon.”

  The older Ranger chuckled. “That or read ‘em some of your fancy-pants poetry.”

  Noah picked up a book of sonnets from the pile next to him. He stroked it lovingly. “You’d be amazed how successful reading a few of Mr. Shakespeare’s poems can be.”

  Patch whooped with delight. “Then get all fixed up, sonny, ‘cause we’re gonna have us a good one tonight.” Patch slapped his knee and then turned away, trying to hide a frown.

  Instantly, Noah was on the alert. He knew that look. “What’s up?”

  His friend hesitated before he spoke. “Got some news for you. Thought I could take yer sweet mind off work for a while, but the guilt would probly eat me up.”

  “Give it up, Patch.”

  The Ranger whistled low. “Yer always trying to glean tidbits about Famous Sam and Pistol Pete.”