The Cowboy's Honor Read online

  The Cowboy’s Honor

  Lacy Williams

  Contents

  Exclusive invitation

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Part II

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Epilogue

  Epilogue 2

  Exclusive invitation

  Winning the Schoolmarm sneak peek

  Also by Lacy Williams

  Exclusive invitation

  Are you a member of Lacy’s email newsletter? Right now you can receive a special gift, available only to newsletter subscribers. Jonas’s Daughter is a 45-page short story and will not be released on any retailer platform—only to newsletter subscribers.

  Thirteen-year-old Breanna White discovers a secret that turns her life upside-down.

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  Part I

  1

  1905 - Denver, Colorado

  Someone was pounding on the door. Emma Morris tried to rouse herself from a deep sleep, but it felt like swimming through molasses.

  Bam, bam, bam.

  All right. She was awake.

  It had to be the middle of the night. Since she’d lost her sight two years ago, it was harder to discern the passing of time. She and her brother Daniel lived on a quiet residential street a few blocks from Denver’s bustling downtown. In the mornings, there might be neighbor children playing games in their front yards or a housewife chatting with her chickens. Of an evening, there would be scents of whatever her neighbors were cooking and sometimes the sounds of families conversing through their open windows.

  In the beginning, she’d strained her ears to listen to those voices talking over each other, and she’d grieved everything she’d walked away from. But even her grief had been dulled by time and distance.

  Right now, it was completely quiet. Even the pounding that had woken her had stopped.

  She grabbed her shawl from the chair at her desk and wrapped it around her, covering her flannel nightdress.

  As she stepped out of her room and into the upstairs hallway, quiet, muffled voices met her ears. Cool air swirled around her feet. Daniel must've gone downstairs and opened the door. It must be an emergency. They never had middle-of-the-night visitors like this.

  There was muffled sound and then an exclamation from Daniel.

  “What is it?” she asked from the top of the stairs. She stood with one foot on top of the other to try and keep both feet from turning into blocks of ice.

  “Go back to bed,” was Daniel’s distant response.

  It sounded as if he were dragging something heavy through the house, toward the parlor. What in the world…?

  Cold air still rushed inside the open door and up the stairs. Obviously, the door was standing open. Daniel was talking in a low voice, now in the parlor. Talking to himself?

  Instead of returning to her room, Emma padded down the stairs.

  She shivered against the draft and quickly reached out to close and lock the door.

  Daniel never invited his clients home. He’d discouraged her from visiting his office. She knew he worked with difficult people, some criminals. Occasionally, he’d received a message and left on a mysterious errand late in the evening.

  But never anything like this.

  What was happening?

  She moved on near-silent feet into the parlor. The rug beneath her toes meant she’d reached the edge of the room, and she stopped there, unsure.

  “Daniel, what is going on?”

  A low groan from across the room startled her. It hadn’t come from Daniel.

  “I told you to go back to bed.” Her brother sounded exasperated.

  He should know better by now than to order her around like that. It wasn’t going to work.

  He sighed. Maybe he’d realized the same thing.

  “Who was at the door? Who is… that?” She didn’t know what to ask. Was the person who had groaned injured?

  “If you aren’t going to go back to bed, then start some water boiling and bring some cloths. I need to staunch this wound until the doctor arrives.”

  She hadn’t gotten an answer about who was in their home, but someone was wounded. She hurried to the kitchen to do Daniel’s bidding.

  It wasn’t like her brother to prevaricate. He didn’t want her to know the identity of the injured person in their parlor.

  Why the secrecy?

  She stoked the fire by touch—it was habit after all this time—and put on a pot of water to boil. When she returned to the parlor with her arms full of cloths, the room was silent except for the sounds of two people breathing.

  Daniel’s breaths were deep and even. He must be sitting on the sofa, or maybe kneeling on the floor next to it. As she neared his side, she could hear the stranger struggling for breath. Whoever it was, each breath was shallow and almost sounded wet.

  “What can I do?” she asked, laying the cloths on the low table next to the sofa.

  “Pray. He’s been badly beaten. At least one stab wound. Someone kicked him in the ribs. And he’s got a lump on his skull. The doctor’s coming, but…”

  But whoever this was might not make it. The gravity of the situation felt heavy in Emma’s middle.

  “He?” she asked softly.

  “Emma, I don’t quite know how to say this, but… it’s Seb White.”

  * * *

  At first he was only aware of darkness. Darkness and pain.

  More awareness came in snatches.

  Memories whirled through him, masquerading as dreams.

  His adopted ma, Penny, serving a lopsided, half-frosted birthday cake when he’d been all of seven.

  A voice he would never forget came from somewhere nearby. Why couldn’t he see her? "I'm worried that he hasn't woken up yet."

  Driving cattle with his pa. The wide open Wyoming sky above them and Jonas giving him a proud smile.

  Holding a letter in his hands. An important letter. And then crumpling it into a ball and tossing it into a fire. Watching it burn.

  Another voice he recognized, a man's voice. “The doctor said the fever is burning away infection. If it doesn’t fade soon, I’ll fetch him again.”

  There was a momentary sensation of bliss as something cool rested on his head and neck.

  A whisper. "Seb. Wake up."

  Last, a memory he’d buried so deep that he hadn't thought of it in years. He didn't know how old he was. A little tyke, that was for sure. He was standing in a dusty street, his stomach howling with hunger pangs. Somehow he knew. That he was absolutely, terrifyingly alone. He called out for everyone he could think to call out for. A mama he no longer remembered. A papa. Had there been someone else? An older sister? He couldn't remember now. All he knew was that it didn't matter how much he cried, nobody came.

  It was that ugly memory from his childhood that forced him awake. When the pain hit, he wished he were still unconscious. His midsection was on fire. He’d definitely busted a rib or two. And something deeper than that, something on the inside wasn't right. His face ached. His head, too. Even his legs felt bruised to the bone.

  It all rushed back to him in an instant. Tolliver’s thugs—three against him. The beating he was pretty sure he wasn't supposed to have survived.

&n
bsp; But against all odds, it seemed he had. He cracked one eye open. Where was he? If Tolliver had him locked away in a storehouse somewhere, he might wish himself dead.

  Just the effort it took to open his eyes sent spears of pain ripping through his pounding skull. Morning sunlight was shining in the window decked by some kind of blue frilly curtains. A bookshelf filled with thick, leather-bound tomes lined one wall. There were fresh flowers on a sideboard. and he seemed to be lying on some kind of makeshift bed. A sofa, he realized. He was in a parlor he didn't recognize. He’d never been here before.

  Was this one of Tolliver’s properties? Seb’s former boss was wealthy and had more than one house in Denver. What if the thugs had brought him here?

  He had to get away from this place.

  But when he tried to rise up on his elbows, shards of pain sliced through his midsection. He breathed fire.

  Flat on his back again, he panted through the agony. Had he cried out? He couldn’t be sure.

  Footsteps approached and he froze, trying to settle his breathing. He closed his eyes, not wanting whoever was keeping an eye on him for Tolliver to know he was awake.

  He heard steps. They faltered near the doorway, then continued closer. A skirt swished.

  A woman?

  He’d been around too many women growing up. There was no mistaking the sound.

  He could overpower a woman and escape. Maybe. He was awfully weak.

  Seb couldn’t stand not knowing.

  He opened his eyes the slightest bit. Kept his face smooth, hoping whoever it was would believe him still asleep.

  And saw her.

  Suddenly, all his intentions of pretending to be unconscious disappeared like leaves on a brisk mountain breeze.

  His eyes flew open. Weakness that had nothing to do with his injuries immobilized his limbs.

  It was Emma. His Emma.

  No.

  Not his anymore.

  What was she…? He blinked a slow blink, trying to wake himself up. What was Emma doing involved with Tolliver?

  She wasn’t.

  That knowledge loosed the cinch that had clenched around his chest since he’d come to. There was no way Emma—tenderhearted, couldn’t-tell-a-lie-to-save-her-life Emma—was involved with Tolliver.

  Which meant that somehow Seb had been delivered to her doorstep.

  He flicked a glance at the rag and bowl on the low table next to him. Emma was taking care of him? Helping him?

  Why?

  His spinning thoughts had taken only the space between two breaths.

  She was rounding the end of the sofa now, her slender form almost close enough to touch.

  His heart beat a sluggish, painful drum in his chest.

  His head was still pounding, and he couldn’t make his thoughts line up.

  How had he ended up here, in what must be Emma and Daniel’s home?

  Did Emma know who he’d been working for?

  The last time she’d written, Emma had said she never wanted to see him again.

  She bent closer, and soft, cool fingers touched his wrist. Her touch was there and gone so quickly that he wanted to weep. Even if his broken body had been able to move, he was frozen in place, barely breathing.

  He tried to brace himself for her glance at his face. Would he see disgust in her eyes for what he’d become?

  But when her gaze flicked to his face, it was unfocused. He wasn’t even sure that she was really looking at him.

  She straightened and moved across the room toward the window.

  She hadn’t said one word to him, though he’d been staring at her the entire time.

  The pain of her dismissal rose among the physical pains rolling through his body.

  He let the anger come because it was easier than feeling the turmoil inside.

  Obviously, her feelings for him had not changed. Whatever small affection she’d felt for him before she’d left Wyoming was gone. Obliterated by what? Something he’d done? Or…? Maybe she’d never really cared for him at all.

  How had he ended up in her house? Why was she caring for him, if she was so indifferent? Their families were connected—his brother was married to her sister—but he’d never planned to cross her doorstep when he’d come to Denver.

  He’d never thought to have the chance.

  He’d used his fists to get this far from home. Boxing and brawling his way through gambling dens and saloons until he’d reached Denver.

  The parts of town where he made his living were far removed from this sun-filled, proper home.

  How had he ended up here? The question repeated in his mind, but Emma was staring out the window now, and fierce pride kept him silent.

  If she had nothing to say to him, then he certainly had nothing to say to her.

  He didn’t need her help.

  Stubborn pride kept him still and silent on the sofa. He didn’t want her to see how weak he was.

  When she left, he’d get off this sofa—no matter how much it hurt—and walk out of there.

  He studiously ignored the fact that he hadn’t been able to sit up only a few minutes before. His injuries weren’t ideal, but he was still alive, wasn’t he?

  However, as the situation became clearer, he realized he was shirtless. A blanket covered his upper body, and when he shifted slightly, he felt the pull of what must be stitches on his left side beneath his ribs.

  He experienced a swift recollection of a huge goon, a glint of metal in the moonlight, the slice of a knife and searing pain.

  The memory brought phantom pain in addition to the burn he already felt, and he must’ve shifted somehow or made some noise because Emma’s head turned slightly in his direction.

  But her eyes were unfocused again. And she still didn’t speak.

  And he knew that he had to get out of here.

  No matter if he was shirtless with no money to his name, no horse, and half dead.

  As soon as she left the room, he’d go.

  But since she was ignoring him anyway, he let his eyes slide closed. He’d just rest his aching head until she left.

  Darkness dragged him under.

  2

  The slam of a door startled Seb awake.

  Dusk was falling, the sitting room much darker, and he struggled for a moment through the pain until he remembered where he was.

  And that he had no intention of staying.

  The slamming door must’ve been a neighbor. It was quiet in Emma’s home.

  He craned his neck—ignoring the sharp pain in his head—to make sure she’d gone.

  The room was empty.

  As he listened, he could hear familiar kitchen sounds. Seemed she was making supper.

  Time to go.

  Except when he tried to push himself to a sitting position, those stitches in his side pulled and burned, making him gasp with pain. He went hot and then cold. His hands trembled as he scrabbled for a grip on the too-smooth sofa.

  He was still horizontal when a door opened and then closed. Heavy footsteps moved away from him. Voices murmured from the other room. The kitchen, if his earlier guess had been correct.

  It sounded like Daniel was home.

  Unless…

  Maybe Emma had married in the two years since he’d seen her.

  The heavy footsteps returned. This time, the parlor door opened, and Daniel strode inside.

  Seb ignored the beat of relief that swept through him. He no longer cared who Emma had in her life. Right?

  Unlike the way Emma’s gaze had glanced and bounced off of him, Daniel’s direct stare landed right on Seb.

  “You’re awake.” The man moved further into the room, standing near the foot of the sofa so Seb didn’t have to strain his neck. He could’ve wept in relief.

  “Help me up.” Seb’s voice was scratchy, unused.

  Daniel shook his head. He was near the same age as Seb’s older brother Maxwell. And Seb had been the recipient of a disappointed look—just like Daniel wore now—from his brothe
r plenty of times.

  “I don’t think so. Not after all the work the doctor did to put you back together. Stop that.”

  Seb was struggling to a sitting position even as Daniel refused to help him.

  He didn’t make it. He lay back on the cushion, right hand crossing his body to clutch the wound in his side.

  Daniel shook his head slightly, disgust clear in the twist of his lips.

  Anger flushed Seb’s skin hot. He hated that the other man was seeing him weak.

  Daniel moved closer, and Seb reacted by instinct, twisting his body and throwing out one hand to protect himself.

  Something softer than the disgust moved through Daniel’s expression faster than Seb could read it. Concern? Compassion? But maybe he’d imagined it. Or blacked out for a second, because when he blinked, Daniel was holding out a glass of water to him.

  Seb took it and drank greedily, flushing when some of the liquid escaped the glass and dribbled down his jaw to wet the collar of his shirt.

  Just the effort of taking a drink exhausted him, and his head fell back as Daniel rescued the glass from his hand.

  He was too weak to get up on his own, and Daniel refused to help him.

  “What’d the doctor say?” he asked.

  Daniel knew he was really asking how long? The other man’s eyes glittered with some emotion Seb couldn’t read. “The knife wound in your side was vicious. He was certain it would become infected—probably why you’ve been fighting a fever for four days. Broken ribs, bruising all up and down your body.”

  At Daniel’s cold recitation, Seb could feel every pain mentioned.

  “He was also worried about your head. You’ve got a contusion here”—Daniel pointed a long finger at his right temple—“that the doc said looked like had come from the wrong side of a heavy boot.”