Eighteen months earlier
Central California
Matthew Sterling rode into Madera and dismounted in front of Moore’s General Store—which housed the post office—thirsty enough to drain a well. It was over a hundred degrees in the shade, and there was no shade on the ten miles between town and Matt’s Diamond S Ranch. Just flat land, dry grass, and a glimpse of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada in the distance, so far away and hazy in the shimmering late September air that the mountains looked like a mirage.
With a practiced flick of his wrist Matt led his favorite buckskin gelding, Chase, to the well-filled horse trough in the middle of town, being careful not to let him drink his fill. “Whoa there,” he ordered. “You don’t want to founder.” He raised his canteen to his own parched lips and grimaced when the lukewarm water poured down his throat.
Matt forced the reluctant horse away from the trough and secured the reins around a nearby hitching rail before giving Chase an affectionate slap on the chest. “Won’t be more than a minute, old boy. Gotta pick up the mail, swap a quick ‘howdy’ with the captain, then it’s back to the ranch for a cool drink and some shade.” He chuckled as he always did when he thought about stopping by the hotel to greet the captain. He’d known Captain Russell Perry Mace ever since he was a small child, but Matt had never heard the stocky adventurer called anything but the captain. I guess once a captain, always a captain. Even if the Mexican War’s been over for ages, Matt thought. Between his title and his ever-present top hat, Captain Mace was an easily recognized figure anywhere in Madera.
Chase shook his dark mane and snorted as if to hurry his master along. He stamped a hoof, and a swirl of pale yellow dust rose up and billowed around the young man.
“Hey!” Matt admonished with a laugh. “None of that. I won’t be long.” He glanced down at his dust-caked shirt and chaps. What was a little extra dust at this point? He’d been out on the range all day and had built up a good supply of dirt long before Chase showered him.
“Howdy, Matt. Haven’t seen you around town for a spell. How’re things on the Diamond S?”
Matt turned. Evan Moore, Madera’s portly postmaster stood in the doorway of his store grinning. His bald head glistened in the hot afternoon sun. Matt smiled back. “Busy, Evan. Fall roundup’s just around the corner.”
“Got a full crew?”
“Pretty much. Wish I didn’t have to hire on drifters.” Matt shook his head and joined the postmaster on the wooden sidewalk. “They’re nothing but trouble, but if I don’t snatch ’em up, Chapman over at the Redding Ranch is likely to hire ’em. I don’t want to be caught shorthanded this year.”
“I don’t blame you.” Evan motioned the young rancher to follow him inside the store. “Don’t worry about the dust,” he said when Matt removed his wide-brimmed felt hat and slapped it against his chaps before entering. “Can’t seem to escape the dust, no matter how hard a body tries. Just like this infernal heat.” Evan wiped the sweat from his shining head and strolled to the small cubicle behind the counter that served as the Madera Post Office. He reached into a pigeonhole and withdrew a fistful of envelopes addressed to Matthew Sterling, c/o Diamond S Ranch. “Sorry, Matt. Nothing from Dolores.”
“Drat that girl,” Matt muttered, swiping at the stubborn hank of black hair that hung over his eyes like a horse’s forelock. He replaced his Stetson and sorted through the letters with a scowl. “Don’t they teach young ladies to write at that fancy finishing school back east? You’d think Dori could send word to her only brother that she’s alive and happy.”
The postmaster made no comment.
Matt sighed. He missed little Dori. He missed her chatter. He even missed the silly, affected airs she put on when she wasn’t happy with the way things were going out at the ranch. Sending her to school in Boston had been Solita’s idea, not his. “Senor Mateo, you must let the senorita finish her education,” the diminutive Mexican housekeeper had insisted. “She is unhappy here. Your mama and papa would have allowed it, had they lived. Since they are no longer with us, you must decide what is best for her, not what is best for you.”
Matt had agreed, but he wasn’t pleased about it. The white stucco, Spanish-style hacienda seemed huge and empty with the only remaining member of his family gone. He enjoyed these rare visits to Madera. Picking up the mail—a task easily done by any greenhorn ranch hand—was Matt’s excuse to mingle with the friendly people of the small valley town.
Madera—lumber in Spanish—was the perfect name for the thriving little village that had sprung up all at once a few years back. The California Lumber Company had chosen this site along the Southern Pacific Railroad line as the terminus for their timber flume back in 1876. Six months later the town had been laid out, and building had commenced at a lively rate. Matt often paused in the middle of the wide main street to take in the three hotels, three general stores, the drugstore, butcher shop, blacksmith shop, and livery. He thanked God each and every time for timber, flumes, and lumber companies. No longer isolated on his ranch ten miles east of nowhere, the rancher and his hands benefited from the influx of new businesses and the people who ran them. All in all, Madera was—in Matt’s opinion—just about the prettiest and most wide-awake town in the entire San Joaquin Valley.
Matt gave Evan a curt good-bye and left the post office in ill humor. It rankled him that Dori, as usual, was probably caught up in her own affairs and wouldn’t get around to writing her brother until Christmas. He stuffed the handful of envelopes into his saddlebag and sighed. “Sometimes I wonder why the good Lord made girls in the first place,” he muttered. “Trouble. Nothing but trouble.”
Matt shook himself free of musings. Thinking about Dori and her irresponsibility invariably made him remember Lydia Hensley. Forget about her, he ordered himself, clenching his jaw. That’s over. I’m free of her, and I won’t waste the rest of a perfectly good afternoon reflecting on what went wrong between us.
“Let’s get on home, Chase,” Matt mumbled to his horse. His trip to town, which he’d looked forward to all day, had turned into a disappointment. Now all he wanted was a bath, a clean set of clothes, and a tall, cool glass of Solita’s lemonade—in that order. He untied Chase and glanced toward the elegant, two-story hotel that occupied the best lot in town. “I’ll catch the captain later, I guess, though he’ll probably give me what for for not stopping by.”
Before he could mount up, the swinging doors to Dunlap’s Saloon flew open. A wizened, bewhiskered man tore down the wooden sidewalk bellowing, “Somebody get the sheriff!”
Matt gave the old man a disgusted look when he stumbled across the street to where Matt stood beside his horse. The one blight on this town was the saloons that kept cropping up. He’d been glad when Captain Mace turned his saloon into a hotel a few years back, but another saloon just sprang up in its place—and another, and another, until there were more saloons than churches in Matt’s beloved town.
“What’s the trouble, Dan?” he asked the wheezing, wide-eyed man. “Can’t Dunlap keep control of his customers?”
Dan Doyle reached out to steady himself against Matt’s horse. “It’s bad, Matt. Some wild-eyed, greenhorn kid came tearin’ into the saloon yellin’ that a two-legged skunk stole his horse. Like t’near started tearin’ the place apart.”
“Sounds like the usual scuffle. What’s got you so fired up?”
Dan was breathing hard. “ ’Cause he’s just a kid, and it’s Red Fallon he’s accusin’.”
Matt caught his breath. It sounded like this wasn’t the usual fray that went on behind barroom doors. Red had a mean streak. He was an excellent cowhand, but the fiery redhead couldn’t control his temper or hold his liquor—facts that kept him drifting from job to job. Against his better judgment Matt had hired Red on for the fall roundup. Now it already looked like he was going to regret it.
“I can’t stay and jaw with you, Matt,” Dan burst out. “I gotta get the sheriff quick, or there’s gonna be a killin’. You oughta go over there and see if you can step in. Red’s one of yer hands.”
“I suppose you’re right.” Matt grimaced, set his jaw, and stepped into the street.
“Watch yourself, Matt.” Dan gave a final warning. “Red’s got a knife.”
Matt grunted and hitched Chase to the rail again. A few long strides across the street and a mighty shove of the swinging doors put Matt inside the saloon—a place he only entered when he was obliged to round up some of his Diamond S hands after an occasional Saturday-night binge. The scene before him was one of wild confusion—just as Dan had described. Red Fallon towered over a stripling lad, knife in one hand, his other fist upraised. His steel gray eyes gleamed; a dangerous smile showed through his unkempt red beard.
The kid, who looked to be eighteen or nineteen, shook as he lay on the sawdust-covered floor. Matt sensed it was from rage, not fear. Blood poured from his nose. One eye was nearly swollen shut, and he was gasping for breath. His hand clutched his other arm, which told Matt that Red’s knife had probably been busy. Clearly undaunted, the kid glowered at the hulking cowhand.
In spite of himself, Matt grinned. Although the kid was roughed up pretty bad, he didn’t look beaten. Matt expected the boy to go after Red again at any moment. He could see it in the flashing blue eyes. Down but not out. Thinks he can take on a grizzly bear! Just like Robbie. In a flash the memory of Matt’s little brother—much younger—going after Matt came to mind. His grin widened. A pair of cubs, neither of whom would admit defeat no matter what.
Matt was right. Uttering a shriek reminiscent of an Indian war cry, the youth sprang to his feet and lurched at Red, ramming his head into the big man’s belly. With a surprised oof, Red reeled back, right into Matt’s arms.