Saving a Heiress in Distress (Preview)

Prologue

The sun hung high in the Arizona sky, a relentless ball of fire that seemed to sear everything beneath it. Abraham Crow felt the heat like a physical weight pressing down on him. His dark skin glistened with sweat, each drop trickling down his face and neck, soaking into the collar of his rawhide shirt. Even so, he enjoyed getting away from the homestead to hunt rabbits.

Pop! Pop!

Abe stopped and cocked his head to the side. He heard the faint popping sound again. 

Pistol shots.

He turned and jogged back toward the homestead carrying his double-barrel 12-gauge shotgun. He jogged instead of sprinting because the distance back to the homestead was over two miles. He had to thread his way carefully across the Arizona desert, the terrain a maze of prickly pear cactus, jumping cholla, and crucifix thorn bushes. Brushing against any of the thorny plants would cause serious injury.

He jogged fast, like a trained athlete, his long strides eating up ground at the pace of a cantering horse. The homestead lay on the edge of the San Carlos Apache Reservation. Since his father, Talking Crow, was a full-blooded Apache, his family didn’t fear raids from the reservation Apache. They feared an attack from the white ranchers who hated sheep grazing on the open range.

It didn’t help that Abe’s mother was a former black slave from Alabama who had escaped a few months after the Civil War broke out. She had made it to Arizona and reached the San Carlos Reservation half dead from starvation, her feet bloody from walking for months barefoot.

Talking Crow had discovered her in the desert, taken her back to the village, and nursed her to health. Later, he’d made Martha his wife. They had moved off the reservation and filed for a homestead. 

For over eighteen years, his family had lived in peace with both the cattle ranchers and the Apache until several months ago. A wealthy land baron from Germany, Dieter Schmitt, had arrived and bought up the ranches and homesteads bordering the Spirit River. He had offered market value for the land. However, strange things had befallen them when ranchers or homesteads balked at selling. Either their barns caught fire or their livestock, both cattle and sheep, suddenly died under mysterious circumstances.

Schmitt had visited the Crow homestead with an offer to buy Abe’s father out, but Martha had been adamant that she and Talking Crow wouldn’t sell under any circumstances. The tactics that the baron and his range riders had used to drive the other ranchers and homesteaders off hadn’t worked against the Crow homestead. 

Talking Crow, ever diligent, had scared off anyone trespassing on the homestead before they could make any mischief. He had wounded three riders attempting to poison their flock of sheep. Gunfire signaled a raid on the homestead. Abe’s father had told him and his mother that the baron would mount a raid to slaughter the sheep and burn the cabin. They had to be ready to defend the homestead.

However, after two months without further attempts to trespass on their property, they had let down their guard. Today, Abe had taken the shotgun and gone rabbit hunting.

Now, fearing the worst, he raced across the desert with the sun’s rays beating down mercilessly, turning the desert into a shimmering expanse of heat waves. The shotgun in his hands felt heavier with each step, the metal barrel almost too hot to touch. Though protected by sturdy, high-topped moccasins, his feet still felt the heat radiating from the ground.

Now and then, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, only to find it instantly wet again. The sun was unforgiving, but Abe had grown up under this harsh Arizona sun, which had toughened him and made him resilient. The sun’s heat sapped his energy as he jogged, but he couldn’t stop. The homestead was in danger, and he had to get there in time to help.

Abe’s rawhide shirt was darkened with sweat, clinging to his skin like a second layer. Each movement caused the shirt to chafe against his skin, but Abe barely noticed. His focus was solely on reaching the homestead.

As he crested a small hill, his heart plummeted. A thick column of smoke spiraled into the sky from the direction of the homestead. With a fierce cry that echoed the spirit of his Apache ancestors, he pushed himself to run faster, his legs burning with the effort.

The heat was oppressive, each breath a struggle as he forced himself to keep running. The acrid scent of burning wood filled the air, stinging his nostrils. As he drew closer, the sight of flames leaping from the cabin’s windows and door made his stomach churn. The fire roared, consuming the wooden structure with a ferocity that matched Abe’s rising panic. Just as he stumbled into the yard, the roof collapsed in a shower of sparks and embers.

“No!” His voice cracked with despair, but Abe forced himself to keep moving. He dropped to his knees in front of the burning cabin, eyes wide with horror. There, sprawled on the ground in front of the cabin, lay his parents. Their bodies were riddled with bullet holes, a raging inferno behind them.

Abe’s grief became a cold, steely resolve. He stood and began to circle the yard, eyes scanning the ground for clues. The trampled earth told a story of chaos and violence. His father had taught him well; every track, every broken twig spoke volumes. He could see the raiders’ path, the number of horses, and the direction they had fled.

After an hour of meticulous tracking, he knew how many men had attacked and where they had gone. The raiders had taken all the horses from the corral but had neglected to burn the small lean-to shed.

“They made a mistake,” Abe muttered, his voice a low growl. He strode purposefully into the lean-to. Inside, he grabbed his short horn bow and a quiver of arrows specially made to fit the bow. He dug under a hay bale, retrieving the gun belt and Army Colt he had bought in secret two years ago. He had worked tirelessly for Mister Jenkins, the owner of the next homestead, herding sheep and doing chores to earn enough money for the revolver. 

Strapping on the gun belt, he placed the Colt in its holster, its weight a comforting presence at his side. He grabbed a shovel and returned to where his parents lay. Their clothes were soaked with blood, their faces peaceful in death.

“I’m going to bury you where you died,” Abe whispered, his voice thick with emotion. He began to dig, the sun beating down on him mercilessly. Sweat poured down his face, replacing the tears he refused to shed. He worked tirelessly until the graves were dug and his parents were laid to rest, the earth covering them like a final, protective blanket.

Abe picked up the shotgun from the ground, his fingers trembling with rage and sorrow. He checked his pockets, finding ten shells. With the Army Colt loaded and the gun belt filled with .45 caliber cartridges, he felt a grim sense of readiness. He had all the ammo he needed to confront the men who had raided the homestead and killed his parents.

Abe started jogging, following the horse tracks left by the raiders. The heat was still intense, but he pushed all thoughts of fatigue out of his mind. A burning desire for vengeance fueled each step, his heart pounding with the rhythm of the anger he felt.

The desert stretched out before him, a vast expanse of sand and scrub. The tracks were clear and easy to follow in the sand. The sun’s descent painted the sky in orange and red hues while a killing rage grew in Abe’s heart.

After an hour of relentless tracking, he knew where the raiders were headed: Dieter Schmitt’s ranch. He remembered the blond-haired, middle-aged man who had visited the homestead with an offer to buy the land. The baron had been arrogant and dismissive, ignoring Talking Crow’s objections. Abe recalled the baron’s chilling words: he would get the homestead one way or another, and selling was in his father’s best interest.

The memory fueled Abe’s determination. He could see the ranch in the distance now, a sprawling two-story building of ponderosa pines with a wraparound porch beside a spring-fed lake. The sight of it filled him with a cold, stern resolve.

Abe slowed as he approached the ranch, moving with the stealth and precision his father had taught him. He scanned the area, noting the guards’ positions and the buildings’ layout. The baron’s men were scattered, some tending to the horses, others lounging near the main house. They were unaware of the storm that was about to descend upon them. When darkness fell, Abe would be ready to launch his attack.

He took a deep breath, steadying himself. He checked his weapons one last time, ensuring everything was in place. The sun had almost set, and he waited for darkness to hide his movements. His thoughts were on killing the men who had killed his parents and not on his safety or the aftermath he would face for killing Dieter Schmitt and his men. Nothing mattered but justice for his mother and father.

Darkness finally blanketed the ranch.

It’s time.

With a final, silent prayer to his father’s Apache spirits, Abe moved forward, a shadow in the night, his bow in one hand and the shotgun in the other.

The two range riders guarding the gate on the lane leading to the big ranch house were oblivious to the danger lurking in the shadows. Hidden in the darkness, Abe drew his bowstring back with practiced ease. The first arrow flew silently through the night, striking the nearest guard in the heart. He crumpled to the ground without a sound. Before the second guard could react, another arrow pierced his chest, sending him to the dirt with a muted thud. Abe took his time to pull the dead men off the lane and into the jojoba bushes after checking to make sure they were dead.

He moved like a wraith with a new arrow notched in his bow, slipping from shadow to shadow as he approached the ranch house. The night was his ally, concealing his movements as he crept closer. A lantern hung in the barn’s doorway, illuminating the figures inside. He could hear the men talking and laughing, their voices carrying on the night air as he sneaked past the barn and knelt beside a corral where a black stallion stood watching him.

They’re saddling their horses, he thought. Probably heading to the saloon in Globe.

A man led a palomino gelding out of the barn. The horse’s golden coat gleamed in the lantern light, its mane and tail neatly groomed. The man wore a dusty brown hat, a worn leather vest, and chaps over his dungarees. His boots clinked with spurs as he walked.

The stallion in the corral nickered.

Abe put his finger to his lips and made a shushing sound, which the horse ignored, tossing his head. 

“Did you see the look on that tall Apache’s face when we shot him?” one of the men inside the barn said, his voice filled with cruel amusement. “He didn’t move a muscle.”

“Yeah, but that black woman screamed like a stuck pig,” another man replied, leading a chestnut mare out of the barn. The horse’s coat was sleek, and it pawed at the ground impatiently. The rider wore a red bandana around his neck and a faded blue shirt.

“What about their boy?” a third man asked, adjusting the saddle on a bay horse. The horse snorted and flicked its tail. The man wore a black hat pulled low over his eyes and a long duster coat. “He wasn’t there during the attack.”

“Who cares?” The first man shrugged. “Probably ran off scared. Good riddance.”

Abe’s blood boiled as he listened to their callous words. His grip tightened on his bow, his anger simmering below the surface. He watched as the men mounted their horses, their laughter grating on his nerves.

“Let’s get to the saloon,” the man on the palomino said, swinging into the saddle. “You boys did good during the raid. The drinks are on me tonight.”

The men trotted their horses away from the barn, their attention focused on each other. Abe remained hidden, his fury growing with each passing second. As the riders disappeared into the night, he heard one say, “Where are Chat and Bert?”

“Probably in the bushes taking a piss together,” the man riding the palomino replied. 

The other riders laughed as they rode toward Globe.

The black horse nickered, momentarily distracting Abe from his anger. He reached through the corral post and patted the horse’s forehead. 

“I’m taking you when I leave,” he promised.

 With the range riders gone, Abe moved toward the ranch house. He spotted a guard on the porch, lazily leaning against a support post. Drawing his bow, he aimed and released. The arrow struck true, and the guard slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Abe rested his bow and quiver of arrows against the wall, then drew his shotgun. He opened the door cautiously, leading with the barrel. The foyer was dimly lit by only the flickering light from a nearby lantern. He moved through the space with the stealth of a predator, his senses heightened.

Voices drifted from the next room, casual and unguarded. Abe edged closer, peering inside. Two men sat at a long table, eating from fancy chinaware, laughing and talking and oblivious to the danger lurking nearby. The table was laden with roasted meats, fresh bread, and various vegetables, all laid out on fine porcelain plates. A bottle of wine stood uncorked, its deep red contents glistening in the candlelight.

 Dieter Schmitt, a stout man with long blond hair, wore a tailored suit that seemed out of place in the rugged setting. His wiry, red-haired foreman wore a simple shirt and vest, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“That Apache and his woman didn’t stand a chance,” the foreman said, chuckling as he took a bite of roast beef. “We took them by surprise.”

The baron nodded, a smug smile on his face. “Good. They were a thorn in my side. Now, the land and water rights are ours for the taking.”

“Didn’t they have a boy? What about him?” the foreman asked. He reached for the wine and poured himself a glass. “He wasn’t there during the raid.”

The baron shrugged, dismissing the concern with a wave of his hand. “He’s just a boy. Probably ran off scared. He won’t be a problem.”

Abe’s blood boiled as he listened to their callous words. His grip tightened on his shotgun as he stepped into the room, his presence sudden and commanding. The men looked up, startled, their expressions shifting from confusion to fear.

“I am Abe, son of Talking Crow and Martha Crow, who you and your men killed this morning,” he announced, his voice cold and steady.

The baron’s face paled at the sight of the shotgun. He raised his hands in a futile gesture of surrender. “Wait! I have a box of twenty-dollar gold coins on my desk in the study. We can talk about this. You can have all the coins—”

Before he could finish, Abe raised the shotgun and fired. The blast echoed through the room, taking off most of the baron’s face. The blast from the second barrel made mincemeat of the foreman’s chest, knocking his chair backward. Abe turned and walked out of the room, his steps measured and unhurried, but then he stopped. The gold coins! The baron had taken his parents and the homestead from him. He was owed that money. 

It didn’t take him long to find the study and the tin box on top of an ornate desk. He opened it. The baron hadn’t lied. The box was filled to the brim with twenty-dollar gold coins. “Well, he can’t spend it in Hell,” Abe said as he closed the box and put it under his arm before heading for the door.

As he passed through the threshold on his way out of the house, a woman’s scream pierced the silence. She hadn’t seen his face and would only claim that an Apache had killed the baron, so he would let her live.

Outside, the night was still and quiet, the stars indifferent to the violence that had just unfolded. Abe retrieved his bow and quiver, loaded his shotgun, and then, carrying the tin box, made his way to the corral. He placed the items next to the fence post before he opened the corral and walked inside to approach a black stallion, its sleek coat shimmering in the moonlight. The stallion snorted and pawed the ground as Abe advanced toward him, speaking in a soft, calming voice. When the stallion finally stood still, Abe grabbed his halter and, whispering to him, led the animal into the barn.

It didn’t take much effort to locate the tack. Abe saddled the stallion, spotting a large pannier and placing it behind the saddle. He led the stallion back to where he had left his shotgun, bow and quiver, and the box of gold coins. He placed the bow and quiver and tin box in the pannier.

“You ain’t going to toss me on the ground, are you, Midnight? Yeah, that’s what I’m going to call you, Midnight. And I must admit, I ain’t never seen such a long-legged horse before. I reckon you must be one of those thoroughbreds I saw racing in Globe once.”

 As Abe put his foot in the stirrup and sprung onto the saddle, Midnight shuddered and pawed the ground, but when Abe leaned forward and patted him on the shoulder, he quietened down. 

“Ready?” Abe asked, pushing his heels to the stallion’s sides. Like a coiled spring suddenly released, the stallion shot forward, reaching a full gallop in only a few strides. With a final glance at the ranch house, Abe rode into the night.

Chapter One

Abe stopped Midnight on the summit of a hill along the wagon trail to Bisbee. He had ridden for a week to put some distance between him and Baron Dieter Schmitt’s ranch. He had no regrets about killing the baron; his only regret was that he allowed so many of the baron’s range riders to escape the justice they deserved.

“An Apache never looks back. What is done cannot be undone,” Talking Crow had told him more than once.

Midnight nickered and tossed his head.

“You don’t like standing still, do you?” Abe said as he reached down and patted the black stallion on the shoulders.

Abe and the horse had bounded in the week since he had stolen the stallion. He just hated that it had taken the death of his parents and the destruction of their homestead to unite him with the animal. Never had Abe dreamed that a horse could run so fast.

Abe didn’t look much like an Apache, except for his long hair. He had stolen clothes from a homesteader’s clothesline and wore a blue plaid shirt and dungarees instead of his old buckskins, and a crumpled black felt hat with the side rolled upward. With his gun belt and Army Colt, he could be mistaken for a ranch hand. The only things that stood out were his facial structure and the mahogany color of his skin. If someone studied him, they would be hard-pressed to name his race. Most would say he was a dark Mexican.

That suited Abe. Word would get out about the attack on Baron Dieter Schmitt’s ranch and his murder. The lawmen would be looking for an Apache, based on what the witness would report. Abe figured that until he put some distance between him and the ranch, it would be best if he didn’t look like an Apache from a distance.

As he stared at the wagon trail, a stagecoach appeared around an outcropping of boulders. A burly man with a gray beard slapped the reins against the team of four horses and yelled at them, urging them to go faster. The shotgun messenger, a small clean-shaven fellow, had his rifle resting against the top of the stagecoach, its barrel pointing behind them.

Looking past the coach, Abe saw a cloud of dust rapidly approaching. His eyes narrowed as he made out the figures of eight riders emerging from the dust.

Outlaws or Apache. They mean to rob the stagecoach!

His parents had taught Abe not to meddle in the white man’s business. But as the mounted men gained on the fleeing stagecoach, firing their pistols, something snapped in Abe. Without thinking, he pressed his heels into Midnight’s sides. The big stallion responded immediately.

Like a black shadow, the thoroughbred raced down the hill, trailing a cloud of dust. His speed was unmatched, and he closed the distance between himself and the stagecoach faster than the outlaws chasing it. The driver spotted Abe and motioned to the shotgun messenger, who turned and brought his rifle to bear on Abe.

But Abe shook his head and waved the shotgun messenger off. The man must have believed that Abe wasn’t a member of the gang of outlaws because he turned back, aimed at the group of riders gaining on the stagecoach, and fired. To Abe’s surprise, one of the trailing riders fell off his horse.

But the good fortune was short-lived as the gang opened fire on the guard. On the third shot, the shotgun messenger abruptly stood and fell over the side of the seat.

As Midnight bore down on the stagecoach, Abe leaned over and pulled the shotgun from its sheath and shells from his pocket, then held two shells in his mouth while pointing the gun at the riders behind the stagecoach. He raced by it, directly toward the outlaws.

He fired first one barrel, then the second. Before the blasts of the shotgun echoed off the nearby rocks, two of the horses were suddenly riderless. It took only three seconds for Abe to pull the shells from his mouth, shove them into the shotgun’s barrels, and snap it closed. The moment the barrel shut, Abe lifted it and fired twice more. Again, the blasts knocked two riders off their horses. 

In a panic at suddenly losing half of their members, the rest of the gang broke off its pursuit, some veering right and others veering left. However, Abe’s anger was not completely satisfied. In a fluid motion, he stuck the shotgun back into its sheath, drew his Army Colt, and fired at the two riders who had veered left. Both riders fell off their horses.

Seeing the danger past, Abe wheeled Midnight around and brought him to a trot alongside the stagecoach that had started to slow down. Dust swirled around them like a cloak as he peered up at the weathered face of the driver.

“Thanks, stranger. I thought I was off to meet my maker for sure,” the driver called down through his thick beard, which was thick with dust. His eyes held a spark of gratitude.

Abe tipped his black felt hat with an easy motion. “No need for thanks,” he replied coolly. “Can’t stand by while gunmen prey on easy targets.”

The driver chuckled, though it was a sound devoid of genuine humor. “Say, you’re awful young, aren’t you? What’s your name?”

“Yes, sir, twenty,” Abe replied. “But I know my way around guns. My name is Abe Crow.”

The driver squinted, studying him more closely. “You look Mexican, but your name implies you are Apache?”

Before Abe could confirm or deny, an interruption came from within the coach—a sharp rap on wood followed by an imperious voice cutting through their exchange like a knife through butter.

“Driver! Are we out of harm’s way? They shot holes in the back of the stagecoach. I could have been hit!” demanded a woman whose face was pinched tight with disapproval. Her bonnet was askew as her gloved hands clutched the doorframe like a lifeline.

“Yes, ma’am, the young fellow took care of the bandits. You and your charge can step outside to stretch if’n you wish,” the driver called down to her.

The woman in the stagecoach seemed to relax slightly, though her eyes still darted around nervously. “Lord knows I never wanted to venture out West in this lawless land!” she exclaimed, her voice trembling with residual fear.

Abe nodded in agreement, remembering the raid on the homestead.

“Miss Michelle, is everything alright?” a young woman asked in a voice as clear as a church bell.

“Yes, Miss Rebecca. It appears that some gun-toting cowboy came to our rescue. That is if he doesn’t mean to rob us, too,” Miss Michelle said as she stepped out of the stagecoach, her stern face softening slightly with relief.

Abe shook his head vigorously at being called a cowboy as he stared at the fancy-dressed horse-faced woman.

“May I stretch my legs, Miss Michelle?” the woman inside asked, her voice tinged with hope.

“Yes, I reckon you should. It’s a while before we reach Bisbee, isn’t it, Charley?” Miss Michelle said, glancing up at the driver.

“Yes, ma’am, and I’ve got to retrieve the body of Buddy, the shotgun messenger. He took a bullet in the chest,” Charley replied, his voice heavy with sorrow.

“I’ll catch one of the dead outlaws’ horses and fetch him,” Abe offered. He paused when he saw the blond woman emerge from the stagecoach. Her beauty took his breath away. Their eyes locked, her blue eyes meeting his brown ones.

“Hello,” Rebecca said, her accent light and Eastern.

Abe snatched his hat off and rolled it in his hands, feeling a sudden rush of shyness. “Howdy, ma’am.”

“Are you the one that drove off the bandits?” Rebecca asked, her eyes wide with curiosity.

“I did kill a few. The rest skedaddled,” Abe replied.

The woman put her hand on her chest. “Oh, my. You killed some of the men chasing us? Couldn’t you just scare them away, firing your revolver in the air?”

“Miss Rebecca,” the driver interjected, his tone serious. “They killed Buddy. They meant to kill me and maybe worse to you and Miss Michelle. I praise the Lord that Mister Abe Crow happened along when he did.”

Rebecca’s eyes softened as she looked at Abe. “Thank you.”

Abe nodded. “Just doing what’s right, ma’am.”

Miss Michelle stiffened. “Abe Crow? What kind of name is that? It sounds like the name of some savage Indian.”

“Nana, don’t be disrespectful,” Rebecca said. “He just saved our lives.”

“Hmm,” the older woman said.

“I’m half Apache. My mother was a runaway slave from Alabama,” Abe said.

“A slave! Oh my!” Miss Michelle exclaimed and looked as though she might pass out.

“Hush, Nana!” Rebecca admonished. She turned to face Abe. “Mister Crow, please don’t mind my nana. Thank you very much.” 

Abe acknowledged her thanks with a nod. “You are welcome. Now I reckon I should catch a horse and fetch the guard’s body so you all can get to Bisbee.” 

“Ah, son, do you think you could follow us to Bisbee with Buddy’s body across one of the outlaws’ horses?” Charley asked.

“Yes, sir. That’s where I’m heading anyway,” Abe said, a faint smile spreading across his stoic face.

“Good, I’ll get the stagecoach moving. You ladies board up. We’re already late getting into Bisbee, and folks’ll be worried,” Charley said from the wagon seat.

As the driver slapped the reins against the backs of the horses, Abe led Midnight back to where a red roan gelding rested his back right foot. He grabbed the reins and led the horse to the guard’s body. Luckily, the shotgun messenger wasn’t heavy, and Abe placed him across the saddle. Looking for something to secure the man’s hands to his feet, he glanced in the red roan’s saddle bags and found some pigging strings to use. When he finished securing the dead man across the roan’s saddle, the stagecoach had disappeared over the horizon.

That was one pretty girl, Abe thought, shaking his head as he mounted Midnight. Too bad she ain’t Apache.