Unbridled Vengeance

Prologue

PrologueNew Year’s Eve, December 31 1869

As soon as he stepped into Rancho Del Oro’s tiled courtyard, the smells of his childhood assailed him with a force that froze him where he stood. He could hear and smell it; the echo of the vaqueros’ laughter as they stood around the oven pits out back; the aroma of old smoke and char-grilled beef. And the strangely comforting yeasty dampness of Fergus Stewart’s deerhounds. His fingers twitched to stroke their smooth necks.

Rory Mackinnon had not been in this house since he was ten years old, but the memories still grabbed him by the throat. It had been a house of plenty: abundant food, overflowing laughter, brotherly love. And life after his father’s breach with Fergus Stewart had been empty of all those things.

Maybe that was why he’d been dreaming of asking for Josefa’s hand in marriage. And why he had such a keen sense of anticipation for this coming meeting with Caleb Stewart. Their fathers were long dead, the feud that erupted between them never reconciled. It was up to the next generation to make peace.

But something isn’t right.

There was no sound of echoing footsteps on the tiled hallway. Just the click of restless paws on terracotta — it sounded as though Caleb’s dogs were shut inside. He tried the handle and the door opened soundlessly.

He paused at the entry, called. “Caleb? Miguel?”

He halted again as the familiar velvety sense of comfort folded around him. The room looked just the same as it had the last time he’d been here: high-raftered, wood-paneled ceilings, a long communal dining table, empty except for a scattering of eating utensils and a pottle of dark violet flowers. The energy radiating from the red coals in the big fireplace that stretched along one adobe wall reached out to him from across the room. The wrought-iron screens set in place before the glowing coals indicated no one was home.

He strode across the main room to a door in the back corner, and gingerly opened it, hoping the dogs were friendly. Two handsome hounds — nearly as tall as miniature ponies — skittered across the room and stood by the door through which he’d just entered, ears flat against their heads, quivering to be let out. Fergus Stewart’s deerhounds used to hunt for venison when elk and antelope were plentiful in the early years. It gave him a warm surge to see Caleb still had their offspring.

“You want to go out? I’m not sure that’s such a good idea if no one’s home.”

He peered into the small study the dogs had vacated. Caleb wasn’t sitting at the desk, but the room was not empty. A man lay sprawled face upward, his mouth stretched in painful rictus, a dark purple stain pooling onto the rug under him. The coppery smell of blood — Miguel’s blood — rose in his nostrils, filling the room.

In two quick steps he squatted down beside the old retainer’s body, holding his wrist between forefinger and thumb, but he already knew he wouldn’t feel the flicker of a pulse.

As he rose unsteadily, the front door opened. A gust of cold air whooshed in and the dogs’ paws made a sand papery rustle on the tiles as they rushed out.

“Caleb? Is that you?”

Rory waited, hand on his gun belt. His throat was prickly, his chest so tight he could barely breathe.

He tensed as a shadow fell across the doorway, and a large male form loomed in the gap. It wasn’t Caleb, but he knew the face. A second man shadowed the first.

“What the blazes are you doing here?” Rory’s question sounded like a bark.

“Me? I’m here for our meeting of course,” the man sneered. “What did you think I was here for?”

Rory glanced down. Miguel’s blood was inching towards the toe of his right boot. He wrenched his foot away, and remembered he had a gun. But hold it, man. Not yet . . . Not yet.

“I understood I was meeting Caleb. No one else. Just Caleb.”

“Caleb is otherwise engaged. We don’t need him to complete our business anyway. This is all we need.” The man pulled out a swatch of paper. “The sales agreement for two thirds of Del Oro.”

Despite the heat from the fire, cold beads of sweat broke out on Rory’s forehead. “Two thirds of Del Oro? Are you mad? Caleb will never agree to that.”

The man eyed him coldly. “Caleb won’t have any choice.”

“What do you mean he won’t have any choice? He’s the recognized owner.”

“Ah yes, but your father staked a claim on behalf of his heirs before he died. You know that. And it’s not difficult to revitalize that claim. All it takes is your signature.”

Rory jerked back. “I’m not doing that. That’s tantamount to fraud. It was all lies when my father first made the claim years ago, and nothing’s changed since.”

The second man, who’d been standing to one side like a silent black vulture, swooped. A cold metallic tube pressed against the side of Rory’s head.

“You most certainly will, Mr. Mackinnon. We haven’t come all this way to have you play hard to get.”