Noelle

The Rawhide Man

DIANA PALMER

Noelle

In memory of Ryan Patton Hendricks, whose light

still shines brightly in the hearts of all those who loved him.

Noelle

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Prologue

The street was wide and dusty—and because it was late in the afternoon, there was a lot of activity in the small town of Terrell, New Mexico Territory. Most of the buggies and wagons had stopped, however, to watch the developing confrontation in front of the adobe courthouse, where the circuit judge had just ruled against a group of small ranchers.

“You sold us out!” a raging-mad cowboy yelled at a tall, distinguished man in a dark, vested business suit. “You helped that land-hungry British son of Satan kick us off our land! What will we do come winter when we don’t have a place to live or food for our kids? Where will we go, now that you’ve taken our land away? It isn’t even as if Hughes needs it. By God, he owns half the county already!”

Jared Dunn, the tall, elegant man he was facing, watched him without blinking, without moving. His pale blue eyes were narrow and intent—dangerous—but the cowboy was too far away to see them.

“It was a fair trial,” the man said in a cultured accent, with just a trace of a drawl. “You had attorneys.”

“Not like you, Mr. New York City big-shot lawyer!” the man said, his expression turning ugly. He was wearing a sidearm. Many people did in 1902, although not in towns, most of which had regulations against firearms. But this little place was much as it had been in the late 1880s and the law was just getting a toehold here. This was still a territory, not a state.

The angry cowboy had come heeled, and Jared Dunn had anticipated he would. The sheriff of this town was a mild little man who was elected for his sunny personality, not his toughness, so he could expect no help from that quarter. In fact, the sheriff had conveniently vanished when the cowboy started yelling threats across the street.

The cowboy’s hand dropped lower, hovering over his gun butt.

“Don’t do it,” Jared warned, his voice deep and clear and ringing.

“Why? Are you afraid of guns, Mr. Big Shot?” the cowboy demanded, with a faint sneer. “Don’t you city boys know how to shoot?”

Slowly Jared unbuttoned his tailored jacket, and, without taking his eyes from his adversary, smoothed the jacket back…past a worn leather holster slung low across his lean hips. It contained a Colt .45 revolver with an equally worn black handle.

The way the revolver was worn would have been enough to warn most men. But even the smooth action of the hand sweeping back the jacket spoke for him. He stood very quietly, his posture elegant, deceptively relaxed, his eyes focused only on the cowboy.

“Ed, give it up,” one of the cowboy’s friends demanded. “You can’t shoot lawyers, more’s the pity. We’ll find some other land, and this time we’ll make sure the seller has legitimate deeds.”

“It’s my land. Deeds be damned! And I’m not getting off it because some rich man paid a city lawyer to take it away from me!” He began to crouch; his hand made a claw over the gun butt at his waist. “You draw or you die, fellow.”

“Just like old times,” Jared murmured to himself. His blue eyes narrowed, steady and unblinking, and he smiled coldly.

“Draw!” the cowboy yelled.

But Jared didn’t move. He simply stood there.

“Coward!”

Still Jared stood his ground, waiting. He’d learned that it wasn’t the man who was fastest who won this sort of fight—it was the man who took his time and placed his shot.

Suddenly the cowboy dug for his revolver. He managed to get it out, and he even got off a shot, but not before Jared’s bullet had smashed a bone in his gun arm. The concussion jerked his fingers and set off his pistol as he fell, crying out, to the dusty street.

The wild bullet hit Jared’s leg just above the kneecap, but he didn’t fall or cry out. His gaze unwavering from his adversary, he went slowly toward the cowboy’s prostrate, groaning form and stood over him, the smoking pistol still held level in his lean hand. His eyes, to the spectators, were frightening in their unblinking blue glitter.

“Are you finished, or do you want to try again?” he asked, without a breath of sympathy. His index finger was still on the trigger, the pistol aimed at the downed man. It was evident to everyone that if the cowboy had reached for the pistol lying near his uninjured side, Jared would have sent a second bullet right into the man without hesitation.

The white-faced cowboy looked up at death in a business suit. “Say,” he managed in a rough whisper, “don’t I know you?”

“I doubt it.”

The cowboy shuddered at the force of the pain. “But I do,” he insisted. “I saw you…in Dodge. I was in Dodge City, back in the…early 80s. There was a Texas gunman. Killed another gunman…Never saw his hand move, never even saw it coming, like just now…” He was barely conscious as loss of blood weakened him, while around him people were rushing in search of a doctor for the wounded men.