Chapter One

Colorado, September 1884

The rider paused at the top of the hill and tipped his hat forward to cut the sun’s glare. Yeah, it was a majestic sight. The broad valley stretched green and gold clear to the Sangres. White-faced cattle plodded and browsed the far hills.

A breeze fanned his cheeks. The stink of cow shit, the stink of money.

And on a near hill lording over it all, a big house built of timber and stone basked in the afternoon sun, its many windows flaming topaz mirrors. King Midas’s castle.

Only time he’d ever seen it, he was a kid of ten on a damn cold night in midwinter. He remembered the fancy house, oozing warmth and light. But not for him. Or Pa.

Outside the stable a slim youth in a black Stetson yanked off his gloves and smacked dust from his breeches, then dragged his feet over a patch of grass. As if sensing someone watched him, the youth stared up the hill.

The rider saluted. The youth straightened. Nose in the air, he marched a well-worn path up the slope to the house.

Long blonde hair streamed down the youth’s back. So it was a princess, not a prince.

Made no difference. Wait ’til we meet, kid. You’ll lose the snooty attitude fast.

****

The sound of contentious voices seeped through the door. Someone was arguing. Diana Rennie kicked her grimy riding clothes off the carpet and jerked the door open.

She stopped at the top of the stairs and edged along the narrow gallery. Late afternoon sunshine bathed the air in the big room with shimmering golden light. Owen stood behind a chair, hands clamped on the upholstered back. His flaxen hair formed unruly windrows as if he’d dragged his fingers through it, his glacial blue gaze focused on someone in the room.

The other man had his back to her. A fringed buckskin jacket stretched over shoulders squared for combat. Brown breeches and knee-high moccasins encased legs planted in defiance. A loose plait of black hair hung from beneath his hat.

Cold prickles danced up her spine. She’d seen him earlier on the hill, watching, thinking, maybe plotting. She’d felt uneasy then; doubly so now.

“My father forgave you with his final breath.” The stranger’s voice pulsed with controlled anger. “Don’t you have anything to say to me? No remorse, no regret? No ‘I’m sorry’?”

Mouth compressed, Owen seemed a stone statue, so still a trio of porcelain horses on the étagère behind him seemed to cavort across the glass shelf.

He blew out a long breath. “Don’t blame me for your father’s failings.” The bronze glow on his cheeks intensified, a pulse twitched in his neck. “I’ll tell you this once, Russell—you don’t want me as an enemy.” He gestured with his chin to the door. “Get the hell out of my house.”

A hay-scented breeze whispered through an open window; sheer curtains shivered.

“Yeah, I’ll go. But not far. I rented a place at the edge of town, nice and close.”

Owen reared, nostrils flaring. “What do you want? Revenge, money—what?”

“Maybe I want to find my father’s bones and give him a proper burial. Or maybe”—he paused and the moment stretched, attended by the breeze rustling through the room—“maybe I want to kill you.”

Diana gathered her skirts in a fist and stormed down the stairs. “Who do you think you are, talking to my father like that?”

The stranger whirled. She had a quick impression of beard shadow on a sun-browned face, but his surprised silvery eyes beneath a fan of black lashes stopped her in her tracks. Their gazes locked and held. Unable to find her voice or the words she meant to fling at him, she could only stare back in fascinated dread.

Owen, mouth half-open, stepped toward her. The stranger glared at her, cast a sweeping look about the room, and stalked out.

The front door slammed. Owen rubbed his jaw. “I wish you hadn’t heard that.”

“Who was he? Why was he here?” Her heart pounded, a storm brewed in her mind—anger at the stranger jumbled with fear for Owen.

He closed his eyes. “Something happened years ago.” His voice was rough. “I can’t go into it now.” He turned, muttered, “I need a drink,” and strode to the sideboard where he poured whiskey into a glass and bolted it in one quick swallow.

If only she could do the same. A bracing drink might dissolve the anxiety growing in the pit of her stomach. Owen poured himself another drink. She had a flashing vision—Mother, wearing her woe-is-me face, flouncing about the New York townhouse with a glass of wine, fishing headache tablets out of a silk pouch tied to her wrist.

Mother. How many years had she spent trying to form Diana into her own image? A sophisticated socialite with nothing on her mind but attending the next gala. How many men had she paraded Diana past, hoping she would choose a wealthy, older one? Vain hopes, for Diana had bigger plans. Her goal to become a concert pianist saw her through those times.

And now, living with her father on this incredible ranch, she was free to regain those lost years of her youth.

Golden light faded, replaced by rosy dusk. Soft voices at the other end of the room caught Diana’s attention. Teresa was lighting candles on the long table while her thirteen-year-old daughter Nita followed, rolling a cart laden with chittering china and silver.

Owen set down his empty glass and turned, eyes weary, to Diana. “I can’t join you for dinner tonight.” Fatigue textured his voice. “It’s been a long day. I’m sure I’ll feel better tomorrow.”

Diana nodded. Dining alone was not a new experience. In New York she had often eaten alone, even when Mother appeared at the table, self-absorbed, swilling wine. This was different. The stranger’s visit had upset Owen, dragged him into a past event he wanted to forget. Surely the man named Russell posed no true threat.

Yet as she sat and unfolded her napkin, as the square of candlelit table shrank before encroaching shadows, she recalled his face, his eyes, in amazing detail.

She needed to know his story. Tomorrow. Owen would tell her tomorrow.