The Man From Stone Creek (Stone Creek Series Book 1) by Linda Lael Miller

Author:Linda Lael Miller [Miller, Linda Lael]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Literature & Fiction, United States, Romance, Historical, Western, Historical Romance, Westerns
Amazon: B00A9V24YK
Publisher: Harlequin HQN
Published: 2013-03-01T16:00:00+00:00

VIERRA LIT a tallow candle at the feet of the Virgin, in the little chapel at Refugio, and looked up at the statue’s placidly beautiful face. I am a sinner, he told her in silent Spanish. I do not ask your grace for myself, but for the innocent ones. Let us get there in time, please, the Americano and me.

“I didn’t reckon you for a man of prayer,” observed a familiar voice from somewhere behind him.

He turned, saw the Ranger framed in the arch of the doorway. O’Ballivan took off his hat, perhaps in deference to the Holy Mother, though if Vierra had had to venture a guess, he’d have said the man was not inclined toward religious devotion.

“I am a great many things you haven’t reckoned on,” Vierra answered. He turned again to the Lady, bowed his head as he made the sign of the cross, and reclaimed his hat from the front pew. It was really only a bench, with no rail to support the weary backs of the faithful, but then, worship was not meant to be a comfortable enterprise, was it?

“That,” O’Ballivan said, “is what worries me.”

Vierra grinned as he approached, but his spirit was heavy. He rarely offered a prayer to the Virgin, for he was the most unworthy of men, but there were times when only the indulgence of the Mother Herself would serve, and this was one of those times. “Where is your faith?” he asked.

The Ranger stepped aside to let him pass into the coolness of the star-scattered night. Music seeped from the nearby cantina, the plaintive thrum of guitar strings, ripe with some soft, inexpressible yearning.

Vierra thought of Pilar and felt ambushed. Her image always came to him in the most unexpected moments.

“I was beginning to think you’d gone to meet that train without me,” O’Ballivan said, neatly sidestepping the philosophical question. His gelding stood at the water trough across the street, reins dangling, drinking noisily.

Vierra donned his hat. He’d left his own mount in front of the chapel, which was surely how the Ranger had known to look for him inside instead of in the cemetery, where he’d planned to wait. “And reserve all the bandito’s bullets for myself? That would have been selfish of me, not to mention foolish.”

O’Ballivan’s horse came to him, at some silent signal, and Vierra took note of the fact, to consider later. He’d learned long ago that such things defined a man more truthfully than anything he said.

They both took the saddle.

“Awful quiet around this town,” the Ranger said. “Nobody’s seen the Donagher brothers since the old man killed his eldest.”

Vierra adjusted his hat, reined his horse toward the south. “And you thought they would be here, in Refugio? Perhaps in the cantina, swilling whiskey?”

“It crossed my mind,” O’Ballivan admitted, spurring his mount to an easy trot alongside Vierra’s.

“That is what troubles me,” Vierra said. “Our friends, the Donaghers, are regular visitors, however unwelcome. There is one very obvious reason why they might be elsewhere.

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