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Madeline Baker/Amanda Ashley

Prologue

The Indians came boiling out of the timbered hills like angry ants whose nest had been disturbed. Teressa Bryant stared at them out of the window of the stage coach, her eyes wide with delight. Mama had said they might see Indians on their way to San Francisco, but Teressa hadn’t expected anything like this.

As the Indians drew closer, she saw that they wore pretty feathers in their long black hair. There were streaks of paint smeared on their faces and chests. Some of the Indians carried bows and had quivers filled with arrows slung over their shoulders, some carried long lances with feathers tied to the shaft. A few of them waved rifles in the air. She noticed that the Indians painted their horses, too. One had a red handprint painted on its rump, another had white circles painted around its eyes, still another had zigzaggy lines painted on its legs.
She felt a shiver of unease as some of the Indians drew alongside the coach. She could see their faces now, hear their cries, and they didn’t sound friendly.

As more Indians surrounded the coach, Teressa turned to look at her mama for reassurance, but mama looked as scared as Teressa felt.

“Venuto qui, bambina,” Mama said, and Teressa scooted into her mother’s lap.

Papa patted Teressa on her arm. “Don’t worry, Teressa mia,” he said in his big booming voice. “Everything will be all right.”

She nodded, her heart pounding with fear.

Mama pressed Teressa’s head against her shoulder. She could hear Mama praying, asking the blessed Virgin to protect them, could hear the sound of arrows whizzing around the coach like angry hornets.

Teressa heard the driver shout at the horses, heard the crack of his whip. The coach picked up speed and for a moment, she thought they might get away. And then, to her horror, the coach began to tilt to one side.

With a shriek of fear, Teressa threw her arms around her mother’s neck. The coach balanced precariously on two wheels for what seemed like a very long time before it slowly toppled over on its side.

Teressa cried out as she was thrown off the seat, along with Mama and Papa. Stars exploded in front of her eyes as her head hit the side of the coach. She heard Mama groan softly, heard Papa swear as they tumbled inside the coach, arms and legs flailing. Hearing papa swear scared her almost more than anything else because her Papa never said those words in front of Mama.

The coach skidded to a stop in a choking cloud of dust. Outside, the Indians were shouting to each other.

Moments later, the door, which was now where the roof should have been, was wrenched open and an Indian peered down at them.

“Teressa,” Papa said, “get behind me.”

Teressa stared at the gun in her father’s hand, covered her ears with her hands when he fired at the Indian and missed.

With a low cry, the Indian shot two arrows at Papa. One arrow pierced his right shoulder, the other his left thigh. With a cry of pain, her father fell backward.

Teressa stared in open-mouthed horror at the arrows quivering in her father’s flesh.
Mama screamed Papa’s name as she pulled him into her lap and cradled him in her arms.
Teressa stared up at the Indian, her eyes filling with tears. “I hate you!” she shrieked. “You killed my Papa!”

The Indian looked at her through narrowed eyes, then dropped lightly inside the coach.
Teressa tried to duck out of his way, but he grabbed hold of her with one big hand and pushed her up through the doorway and into the arms of another Indian. She saw three other Indians cutting the horses free of the broken traces and leading them away. The driver lay face down a few yards away. She wondered if he was dead.

“No! No! La non mia ragazza piccola! Non prendere la mia ragazza piccola! Teressa!”
Teressa heard Mama screaming her name as the Indian lifted her onto the back of his horse and vaulted up behind her, one arm settling around her waist.

“Mama! Mama!”

Teressa scratched the Indian’s arm, trying to get free, and when that didn’t work, she bit him as hard as she could, but he only laughed and urged his horse into a trot.
“Mama…”

Sobbing and hiccoughing, she stared over the Indian’s shoulder, crying for Mama and Papa, but the Indian ignored her and kept riding.

With tears rolling down her cheeks, Teressa stared at the coach, watching it get smaller and smaller until it was out of sight.


Chapter 1

Sitting back in his chair, his face impassive, Chance McCloud regarded the cards in his hand. A full house, aces over jacks. He laid his cards face down on the table and tossed five dollars into the pot.

He glanced around the room while he was waiting for the other players to decide whether to stay or fold. The Red Dog Saloon was large and square and pretty much like every other saloon he had ever seen, from the picture of the voluptuous nude hanging behind the bar to the sawdust on the floor and the heavy layer of blue-gray smoke that hung in the air. A wizened old man wearing a black derby hat sat at the piano in the corner, plinking out an off-key tune on the yellowed keys.

Returning his attention to the game at hand, Chance glanced at the men sharing the table with him. Joe Remington sat to his left. Remington published the local newspaper. He was a tall man with thinning gray hair and a thick gray moustache. Pete Wright was one of the local ranchers and a long-time resident of Buffalo Springs. He sat at Chance’s right, his stubby fingers drumming on the tabletop. He was an average looking man in his early twenties, unremarkable except for a shock of white hair. Vince Salazar, the town blacksmith, sat across from Chance, his slouch hat pushed back on his head, his shirt sleeves rolled up, revealing arms as thick as tree trunks.

Remington regarded Chance through narrowed brown eyes, nodded to himself, and tossed five dollars into the pot.

“Did ya’ll see that new rig over to the mortuary?” Wright remarked. He tossed his cards face down into the center of the table. “I hear tell it cost old man Jensen near eight hundred dollars over in Dodge City.”

“Right fancy for our town, I’d say,” Salazar replied. “I’m out.” He tossed his cards onto the table.

“Bought himself a new team to pull it,” Wright added.

Remington grunted softly. “Business must be good. When I’m dead and gone, I don’t imagine I’ll be caring one way or another what they use to carry me away. All right, McCloud, let’s see what you’ve got.”

Chance turned his cards over, one at a time.

Remington muttered an oath as he tossed his own hand onto the table – a pair of kings, a pair of nines, and the fourth ace.

Chance raked in the pot, then sat back while a new hand was dealt. Lady Luck had smiled on him. He figured he was ahead by about three hundred dollars. Another hand or two, and he’d go check on his horse and call it quits for the night.

He was picking up his cards when he felt a shiver down his spine. Someone was watching him. He pushed his chair back from the table and dropped his right hand onto his thigh, close to the butt of his Colt, and casually glanced around the room.

He frowned as his gaze settled on a man standing at the bar. The gent didn’t look like trouble, quite the opposite, actually. He wore a natty blue pinstripe suit, a boiled shirt, and a black bowler hat. A neatly folded white handkerchief peeked out of his jacket pocket; a diamond stickpin winked in his cravat. His hair was brown with a heavy sprinkling of gray in his sideburns, his eyes were a deep, dark blue.

The man’s gaze met his, and then he pushed away from the bar. He leaned heavily on a stout wooden cane as he threaded his way between the tables.

“McCloud, are you in?”

Chance glanced at his cards and tossed five dollars into the pot. “I’m in.”

“Mr. McCloud?”

Chance looked up at the man with the cane and wondered what a gent of such obvious wealth and good breeding was doing in a backwater town like Buffalo Springs. “Who wants to know?”

“My name is Edward Bryant. I would very much like to have a few moments of your time, if I might.” The man’s voice betrayed a slight New York accent.

“I’m busy.”
“Yes,” Bryant said dryly. “I can see that.” He reached into his coat pocket, withdrew five crisp one hundred-dollar bills, and laid them, one by one, on the table in front of Chance. “Do you think that might buy me twenty minutes of your time?”

Chance glanced at the greenbacks spread on the table in front of him, then looked up at Bryant again, wondering who the man wanted him to kill. Chance wasn’t into hiring out his gun but, hell, for five hundred bucks, he was willing to listen to almost anything.

Rising, Chance tossed his cards face down on the table. “Deal me out.” He picked up his winnings and the five one hundred-dollar bills and shoved them into his pants’ pocket. “Let’s talk.”

He followed Edward Bryant across the dusty street and into the plush lobby of the Windsor, the town’s finest hotel.
Bryant gestured at a sofa covered in a dark green damask print. “Please, make yourself comfortable.”

Chance sat down, his gaze moving around the lobby. He didn’t have much call to frequent the place, but it was every bit as fancy as he remembered, with spindly-legged furniture that didn’t look strong enough to hold anyone who weighed more than fifty pounds. There were a dozen or so fancy lamps with fringed shades, and a sparkling crystal chandelier. Potted palms provided a touch of greenery in the corners. There were low tables of shining mahogany in front of the sofas, thick carpets on the floor, and a number of discreetly placed brass spittoons. A clerk in a dark brown coat and starched collar stood behind the desk, idly thumbing through a copy of the local paper.

Chance turned his attention back to Bryant. “So, what’s this all about?”

“I was told that you sometimes go into Indian Territory to search for people, that you…” He ran a finger inside his collar. “That you have a certain…ah…inside track with the Indians.”

Chance lifted one brow. “Is that right?” It was true, but only a few people knew that he occasionally went looking for whites believed to have been captured by the Indians. With distrust and tension running high between the whites and the Indians, it was something he preferred to keep to himself.

“I did not mean to offend you,” Bryant said quickly.

Chance grinned. Apparently Bryant feared he had somehow insulted him by referring to his obvious Indian heritage. “I’m not offended. If I was, I’d be on my way out the door. Let’s cut to the chase. What is it you want?”

Bryant laid his cane aside and pulled a folded piece of paper out of his coat pocket. Unfolding it, he handed it to Chance.

It was a flyer, similar in size and shape to a wanted poster. His gaze skimmed over the words:
Fifteen thousand dollar reward
For the return of
Teressa Elizabeth Bryant
Kidnapped by Indians
The same reward will be paid for
Information that leads to Teressa’s recovery
Teressa, now 17 years old,
has blue eyes and dark brown hair
Contact Edward Bryant c/​o Wells Fargo


Chance grunted softly as he studied the pen and ink drawing above the description. It showed a pretty little girl with large light-colored eyes and long dark curls. But it was the reward that held his attention. Fifteen thousand dollars. That was mighty sweet, and he could sure as hell use the money.

“My family and I were on our way to San Francisco when our coach was attacked by Indians. They left us alive, though I don’t know why. The men who rescued us said the Indians were probably Sioux.” Bryant regarded Chance curiously. “Why didn’t they kill us?”

“Most likely they were just after the horses. If it had been a war party, you’d be dead now.”

“If all they wanted was horses, why did they take my little girl?”

Chance shrugged. “Indians have a soft spot for kids. Any kids. A lot of theirs die young.”

Bryant stared at him a moment, then went on. “Be that as it may, they took my Teressa. I have hired several men to find her over the years. They have all given up.”

“Go on.”

“Teressa was…is our only child. My wife has been understandably heartbroken. We have been told our daughter is most likely dead. If that is true, then I want…” His voice broke and he took a deep, steadying breath. “I want to know. I need to know, one way or the other.”

Chance glanced at the flyer again. “How long has she been missing?”

“Ten years.”

Chance whistled under his breath. “Ten years and no one’s found her? How old was she when they took her?”

“Seven.”

Chance shook his head. “You’re wasting your time and your money.”

“It is my time, Mr. McCloud, and my money. Will you help me?”

“If she’s still alive, she’s one of them by now. You’ll never find her, and if you do, she won’t want to leave.”

“I don’t believe that.”

“Doesn’t much matter what you believe. That’s how it is.”
Bryant started to reply, and then gained his feet, his expression softening.

Chance looked over his shoulder to see a slender woman clad in a modest dark gray dress, a matching hat, and white gloves walking toward them. She had dark brown hair, an olive complexion, and a figure that was slender but well-rounded. But it was her eyes that caught his attention. They were dark brown, fringed with thick dark lashes. And filled with so much sorrow he felt it like an ache in his own soul.

Bryant smiled at the woman. “My dear.”

“Eduardo, I am sorry I am late. The dressmaker…” She made a vague gesture with her hand.

“Mr. McCloud, this is my wife, Rosalia. Rosalia, this is Mr. McCloud.”
She graciously offered Chance her hand. “I am pleased to meet you, Signore McCloud.”

“Ma’am.” She had a thick accent. Italian, perhaps.

Rosalia Bryant sat down, spreading her skirts around her. Edward Bryant sat beside his wife, and Chance took the chair vacated by Bryant.

“I was just telling Mr. McCloud about our problem,” Bryant told his wife. He took her hand in his and held it tight.

Mrs. Bryant turned dark luminous eyes toward Chance. “Will you help us?”

“Does your daughter look like you, Mrs. Bryant?”

“She did as a child, yes, very much, except for her eyes. Teressa has Eduardo’s eyes. Of course, I do not know how she looks now…if the resemblance is still there.” She took a deep breath, her free hand worrying a fold in her skirt. “You will help us, will you not? Please, signore, you must help us.”

Chance stared at the woman. Was it possible? Could he be that lucky? Damn, if he was right, the rest of that fifteen grand was as good as his. “I can’t promise you anything, ma’am,” he said. “But I’ll scout around some and see what I can find out.”
Hope flared in Rosalia Bryant’s eyes, spilling over in a sprinkling of tears. “Grazie! Grazie! Dio Di Elogio.”

“I will draw a bank draft for you in the morning,” Bryant said. “Five thousand dollars now, and another ten thousand when you return with our daughter. Is that acceptable?”
Chance nodded. “Just deposit the money to my account over at the bank.” Five grand would go a long way to keeping that weasel, Harry Conreid, off his back, at least for a little while. He held up the flyer. “Can I keep this?”

“Of course.”

Chance folded the paper and slid it into his back pocket. “Where should I get in touch with you?”

“Right here. My wife and I will be staying in your town until we hear from you.”


“As long as you don’t expect to hear from me right away.”

“I understand, but…do you have any idea how long it might take? We are understandably anxious.”

“I don’t know. Could be a couple of weeks. Could be a couple of months. Depends on how long it takes me to find the Lakota…”

“Excuse me,” Rosalia interrupted, “but who are the Lakota?”

“Sioux is a white man’s term. The Indians call themselves the Lakota. Now, as I was saying, it depends on how long it takes me to find the Indians who’ve got your daughter and whether or not she’s willing to leave.”

“Why should she not want to leave?” Rosalia glanced from her husband to Chance and back again. “Surely she is as anxious to return to us as we are to have her with us once again.”

Bryant patted his wife’s hand. “Mr. McCloud seems to think that Teressa might not want to leave the Indians.”
“Not wish to leave?” Her eyes widened in disbelief. “But that is, how do you say…ridicolo!”

Bryant smiled soothingly at his wife. “Of course it is. I fear we have taken up enough of Mr. McCloud’s time, my dear. No doubt he has business elsewhere.”

Bryant stood up and Chance rose with him.

“We shall expect to hear from you as soon as possible,” Bryant said as he walked Chance to the door. “Godspeed.”

The two men shook hands and Chance left the hotel. Outside, he stretched the kinks out of his back and shoulders. For a moment, he considered returning to the game over at the saloon and then decided against it. He’d be leaving for the Lakota’s summer camp first thing in the morning. Best to turn in early and enjoy sleeping in a real bed while he could.
Stepping off the boardwalk, he headed for the livery to check on his horse.

The stable was dark save for the lantern burning out front.

Chance rapped on one of the big double doors.
A moment later, Burt Sorenson, the owner of the stable, opened the door. “Oh,” he said, scratching under his armpit. “It’s you.”

Chance didn’t reply as he walked past the man toward a stall in the back. His horse, a bay Quarter-Morgan mix, made a soft snuffling sound at his approach. Reaching over the stall door, he scratched the mare’s neck. “Hey, girl. They takin’ good care of you in here?”

The mare rubbed her head against his shoulder, then nosed his coat pocket.
Grinning, Chance reached into his pocket and withdrew an apple. The mare gobbled it down, her head bobbing in approval. Smoke wasn’t the prettiest horse he had ever owned, but she was far and away the best. She was fast and quick, with enough staying power and heart to keep going long after another horse would have folded up and quit. That extra speed and bottom had saved his life on more than one occasion.
Chance gave the mare a final pat, nodded at Sorenson, and left the stable.

Pulling the flyer from his pocket, he read the description again; then, whistling softly, he turned down the street toward the hotel. Bryant’s fifteen thousand dollars would not only pay off the mortgage on the ranch, but also allow him to buy a section of land adjoining the east pasture, repair the roof on the barn, and buy that new bull he had his eye on.
He glanced up and down the darkened street. Bryant’s offer had come at just the right time. Chance ran a hand over his jaw. He’d been filled with an old restlessness lately. Spending some time with his mother’s people might be just what he needed. And if what he suspected was true, it would be time well spent.