Prologue

Texas , 1896

     "La-adies and gentlemen!  What a singular pleasure it is to bring to your fair city the most dazzling, the most thrilling, the most renowned extravaganza this side of the Missouri!  Doc Charlie's Medicine Sho-o-w-w!"

     The audience packing the wooden benches inside the canvas tent whooped and clapped, their enthusiasm as palpable as the sawdust beneath their feet.  Men whistled.  Women and children cheered.  The calliope player banged the keys in a chaotic medley of ear-splitting notes, all to perpetuate the excitement and anticipation of the entertainment to come.

     As always, Elena Malone was filled with her own excitement of yet another performance to a crowd who traveled from miles around to watch.

     A crowd with money in their pockets, of course.

     The medicine show was her father's production.  Doc Charlie Malone carried the responsibility of the entire troupe on his shoulders.  As pitchman for his own elixir, Doc Charlie's Miraculous Herbal Compound, it was up to him to sell enough bottles after every performance to support them all. 

     And there wasn't a better pitchman than Pop.

     Oh, but she never tired of watching him.  He always dressed impeccably in a smart suit and crisp white shirt, kept his moustache trimmed neat and his graying goatee combed and stylish.  He had eyes that were sharp and straightforward.  His booming voice inspired confidence.  Honesty.  Doc Charlie Malone was the picture of professionalism.

     A medicine man the crowd could trust.

     And why not?  He touted his elixir with pride, and while the results he claimed didn't always happen to everyone, most times they did.  Elena was shrewd enough to know there wasn't a cure around that could single-handedly conquer the world's ills.

     But Pop's elixir came close.

     She roused herself from her musings and realized that Jake, the show's blackface comedian, had finished his opening routine.  The crowd's laughter attested to their enjoyment of his jokes and his success in delivering them.  He was still taking his bow when a trio of jugglers appeared in the ring, plates spinning in the air as they ran.

     Elena’s gaze swept the crowd and noted the rapt expressions on the people's faces, their happiness and delight.  On cue, the performers abandoned the plates and switched to fiery torches.  Everyone seemed to wait with bated breath at the jugglers' dexterity, at the danger, fearful they might be burned and fascinated by the possibility.

     Everyone except one.

     Her gaze snagged upon a man openly staring at her.  A Mexican with jet-black hair that cascaded down to his shoulders in gleaming waves and who possessed eyes as dark, as glittering, as polished onyx.

     Elena pulled her own gaze away.  She was accustomed to men staring at her—women and children, too, of all ages.  It was part of performing in front of a curious public.  She had learned to distance herself from it.

     "Your cape, Elena."

     She turned and glanced at Toby, the freckle-faced young man who worked behind the scenes to help keep the show going smoothly and on schedule.  A ventriloquist and a song-and-dance team would perform after the jugglers.  She had some time yet before she'd take her turn in the ring.

     She smiled as he settled the satin fabric around her shoulders.  She was inexplicably glad for the covering—not that she was shy wearing her red-spangled costume, which conformed to the shape of her body like a second skin, enabling her to move freely during her trick-riding routine.  She still had the uncanny feeling the Mexican watched her.  "Thanks."

     "Good crowd tonight," Toby commented.  He removed his cap, ran his shirtsleeve over his sweaty forehead.  He always labored hard for the show.  Pop was lucky to have him.

     "Yes.  The take will be high, I think."

     "High enough for Doc?"  He grinned, his expression teasing, but knowing.

     Her mouth softened.  "Is it ever?"

     Pop's obsession to sell his precious elixir, cases of it, was common knowledge amongst the troupe.  The more money they took in, the happier Pop would be. 

     But then, everyone knew their expenses were formidable.  If Doc Charlie's Miraculous Herbal Compound didn't sell, the troupe didn't eat.  Their debts always came first. 

     "Be careful out there, Elena."  Serious again, Toby pulled his cap back on to his head.

     She gave him a confident wink.  "I always am."

     He moved away from her, to the next chore that awaited him.  Elena turned back to the ring, her fingers fastening the cape's clasp.  Only minutes to go.

     The first wave of apprehension went through her, as it always did before she performed.  Even though she was only eighteen years of age, Pop considered her the show's top act--the final one before his pitch.  He depended on her to leave the audience so thrilled, so awestruck, they were compelled to buy his elixir out of sheer gratitude for the pleasurable entertainment he'd given them.

     At last, it was time.  Toby led a pair of white horses into the ring, each unsaddled and wearing a red-feathered ornament on their heads.  Elena swept off her cape with a flourish, bowed, then bounded onto the lead horse’s back.  With an ease she’d earned from countless hours of practice, she performed her routine of splits and cartwheels, tail and shoulder stands, until the crowd cheered in delight.  She slid into the grand finale—a breath-taking choreography of somersaults and back flips on a half-dozen matching white horses.

     When the routine was complete, she dismounted in one fluid leap.  The applause increased to an even higher crescendo.  Exhilarated, she sank into a long, deep bow of acknowledgement.

     “Yes-sir-ree, ladies and gentlemen!”  Pop’s booming voice soared over the applause.  “An extravaganza the likes you’ll never see again!  Doc Charlie’s Medicine Sho-o-w-w!”

     After another rise of cheers, the clapping gradually quieted.  The audience knew the show hadn’t ended yet, that there was more to come.  No one understood better than Pop that the townspeople had gathered under the tent not only to be entertained, but to be cured of their ills, real or imagined.

     “Now, you fine folks realize that Doc Charlie’s Medicine Show has to move on.  By dawn’s first light, we’ll be on the road west.  So tonight is your one and only chance to be healed.”

     Cheers erupted again.  Clearly, Pop held the crowd transfixed.

     “I don’t claim that my elixir is a cure-all for everything.  But I’m telling you true, Doc Charlie's Miraculous Herbal Compound is made right from the secrets of the ancients.”  He held up a bottle for them to see.  “This elixir is good for three things.  The kidneys, the stomach, and the liver.  And any singular disease rising therefrom!”

     Elena had slipped from the ring with the horses to allow her father the audience’s complete attention.  From her vantage point near one of the tent’s entrances, she watched him.  She was proud of his honesty, his forthrightness.  The people looked to him for hope.  And health.

     Pop couldn’t afford the national advertising many of the patent medicine companies used to sell their products.  He had only himself—and the herbal compound he had created—to draw in customers.  Thus, his pitch had to be sterling and straightforward.

     Riveting.

     The audience was indeed riveted to his oratory about a man cured of tapeworms from Doc Charlie's Miraculous Herbal Compound.  Pop always gave specifics.  He revealed the man’s name, his occupation, his hometown.  Even the number of children he had. 

     And the crowd believed.

     “Again, I tell you true, ladies and gentlemen.  There is not a greater pain remedy on earth than my herbal compound.  There is no sore it will not heal, no ache it will not subdue.  Why, you can even use it to treat your horses and cattle!”

     A collective murmur of surprise rippled through the tent.

     “Yes-sir-ree!  One dollar for a bottle.  That’s all, ladies and gentlemen.  One dollar.  Isn’t that a sweet price to pay for an elixir this miraculous?”

     Men dipped into their pockets.  Women reached for their handbags.

     “You won’t have a chance to buy this wonderful cure ever again.  No-sir-ree!  We’ll be gone by dawn, so stock up now!  Buy two bottles.  Three or four, if you please.”

     Along with the show’s other performers, Elena took her place at a tent entrance, cases of Doc Charlie's Miraculous Herbal Compound stacked at her feet.

     “Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!  One dollar a bottle!  That’s right.  Just one dollar!”

     The rush of footsteps drowned out Pop’s voice.  The wooden benches cleared and the aisles filled with people eager to buy their own supply of elixir.  Elena had all she could do to keep up with the stream of customers, each waving dollar bills in her face.

     Pop had done it again.

*  *  *

     Toby dropped the last of the leather bags into the heap piled in Elena’s arms.  Her muscles strained with the weight of the night’s take, but it was a strain she gladly endured.

     “Sure you don’t need some help, Elena?” Toby asked, picking up scattered crates once filled with elixir.

     “No, thanks.  The show ran long tonight, and you have plenty of chores to do yet.”

     “All right, then.  See you in the morning.”

     Giving him an answering smile, Elena stepped from beneath the canvas into the night.  Pop was busy with the crew as they labored to take down the tent; he wouldn’t be free to count their money for another couple of hours yet.

     The crowd had long since headed for home.  The field where they’d staged the show was empty except for the pieces of trash strewn amongst the weeds, trampled flat from the evening’s activities.  Except for the low drone of the generator keeping the tent’s lights glowing, the night was quiet.

     Elena’s costume provided little warmth from the night’s chill, and she hurried toward the gaily-painted, high-wheeled wagon she shared with her father—and the safe he’d bolted securely inside.  Tomorrow, they would deposit the money into the nearest bank.  Pop would be pleased to know the week’s bills would be paid in full with enough left over for some much needed extras.

     Upon reaching the wagon, she propped one foot on the bottom step and eased the cumbersome bags onto her thigh while she struggled to turn the knob.

     A man’s hand suddenly covered hers.  “Senorita.” 

     She froze at the heavily-accented voice harsh in her ear, at the tequila on his breath.

     At the menace in his presence.

     She jerked her hand away and pushed against him to flee, but the cold metal of a knife’s blade at her throat stopped her.

     Her breathing quickened in fear.  In horror.  The low nicker of unseen horses nearby indicated the Mexican wasn’t alone.

     And she didn’t have a chance with any of them.

     “You want the money, don’t you?” she whispered shakily, a sickening sensation coiling faster and faster inside her at the impending loss.

     “Ah, Senorita.  That is not all I want.”

     Abruptly, he spun her about, and she scrambled to keep her balance, her arms automatically tightening around the money.  He plucked one of the bags from the heap and tossed it into the darkness, to the men mounted behind them.  He did the same with another, and then another.

     Until Elena’s arms were empty.

     Dismay welled up inside her.  “No!  You can’t do this!  You can’t!”

     The Mexican barked an order.  Horses’ hooves pounded deeper into the darkness, then died away.

     She was alone with him.  Her chest heaved; she didn’t dare take her eyes off him; she wanted to claw him, to kick and scream at the unfairness of what he’d done.

     Of what he was going to do.

     But the knife’s blade appeared again and prevented her.  The flash of metal in the moonlight left her vulnerable and defenseless.  Terrified.  His long, wavy hair framed the cruel planes of his face.

     Never would she forget that face. 

     Raw, burning fear surged up inside her.  She took a step back, but he was too quick; she turned to flee him, but before she could manage it, he had her in his grip again.

     Beneath the blade, the straps of her costume gave way.  Elena cried out and clutched the fabric to her breasts.  He snarled and pushed her to the ground; a savage yank on the red spangles ripped the garment in two.  He clamped a grimy palm over her mouth, smothering her scream. 

     “Silencio!”  He straddled her, his weight rendering her immobile.  He unbuckled his belt with his free hand.  “I will kill you if you make a sound, Senorita.  And not even the good doctor’s medicine will help you, then, eh?”

     His head lowered; long, wavy hair fell across her cheek.  With his mouth and tongue upon her, the stench of his lust, his greed, filled and sickened her.

     Afterward, when he left her cold and alone, Elena curled into a tight, miserable ball.  And wept.

Chapter 1

Laredo , Two Years Later

     Jeb Carson wanted a night of hard drinking, wild whoring, and a plate full of hot, American food.  He didn’t care in what order he got them, just that he did.  There were times in a man’s life when his needs overrode all else. 

Now was one of those times.

     He’d ridden hard through northern Mexico toward the Texas border for days.  The anticipation drove him hour after long, dusty hour.  He didn’t analyze this need to get back to his homeland.  That being in America was where he should be.  Now that he was back on her soil, he couldn’t wait to have what he’d always taken for granted.

     He swept an assessing glance around him.  Laredo ’s streets bustled with commerce and evening activity, signs that the place had grown since he’d been here last.  No one seemed to notice a couple of strangers riding in. 

     “That belly of yours growls any louder, the whole damn town will know we’re here.”

     Jeb glanced at Credence Sherman, the only person he trusted enough to call friend.  “Can’t help it.  Got a strong hankering for a big, thick steak.”

     “Sizzlin’ in its own juices.”  Creed grunted.  “Me, too.”

     They pulled up at a small saloon at the edge of the plaza and dismounted.  The interior was cool, dim, and unexpectedly crowded. 

     Jeb preferred crowds.  Easier for a man to go unnoticed.

     “What’ll it be, boys?  A place at the bar?  Or your own table?”

     He glanced at the first bona fide American woman he’d seen since he left the country six years earlier.  She wore an apron around her waist, and she was older than he was by a decade or so, but she was clean, and her features were pretty enough to warrant looking at twice.  Jeb guessed by the way she was looking back, she was available, too.

     “A table,” he said, letting his gaze linger.  “We’re staying a while.”

     “Glad to hear it.”  She tossed him a provocative smile and led them toward the last empty table, wedged in a dark corner at the back of the saloon and hidden from view by anyone walking in.  By the sway of her hips, she knew what he was thinking.

     And wanting.

     After seating them, she left with a promise to bring back a couple of stiff whiskeys.  Jeb watched her go, his blood warming just looking at those hips.

     “Keep your pants fastened, compadre,” Creed said.  “She’s practically old enough to be your mother.”

     Jeb allowed a small smile.  He hadn’t thought of his mother in years, and he stifled the thought of her now.  “Doesn’t matter.  She’s warm, breathing, and female.”

     “You’ve always been able to get any woman you want.  Take your time.  You’ve got all night.”

     “I’m not feeling choosy at the moment.  Or patient.”

     Creed’s amusement deepened.  “Damn, but you’re jaded.”   

     Jeb hadn’t had a woman since . . . when?  Havana .  A little Cuban beauty who’d betrayed him the next morning to her Spanish-loyalist lover. 

     The incident had nearly cost Jeb his life.  But with a fair share of determination and guts, he escaped the Spanish soldiers holding him prisoner.  Within hours, a riot erupted, and both the woman and her lover were killed.

     Jeb felt no remorse from his part in it.  She had double-crossed him—and the United States , who sent him there to help her people.  She paid the price for her treason.

     As if he, too, remembered, Creed fell silent, and Jeb knew what he was thinking.

     War was pure hell.  And it was good to be back home.

     Creed possessed skin as sun-darkened as Jeb’s, his build as tall, as muscular.  Fast friends from their days at West Point Military Academy , they’d formed a partnership based on mutual trust, equal skills.

And a shared passion for rebellion against rules.

     Jeb had been born with nerves of steel.  Few could match his thirst for risk, that ever-present flirtation with danger he found exhilarating.  Only Creed was cut from the same cloth.  They’d saved each other’s necks more often than Jeb cared to count.

     But there, their similarities ended.  Creed was headed home to a large, loving family, to his childhood sweetheart he hoped was still waiting for him.

     Jeb had no one.  At least, no one who cared if he came back or not. 

     The barmaid returned with their drinks, and without sparing her a glance, Jeb threw back a quick swallow.  The whiskey burned the bitterness that flared inside him.  A second swallow buried it altogether.  He reached inside his coat pocket for a rolled cigarette, then tucked it unlit at the corner of his mouth.

     “We’ll head for San Antonio in the morning,” he said and rooted for a match.  “I figure you can take the Southern Pacific to Los Angeles .  I’ll send word you’re arriving, and--.”

     “Come with me, Jeb.” 

     “No.”  His mood souring again, he found the box he was looking for.

     “You can find work out there.  You--.”

     “We’ve had this discussion already, Creed.”

     “Then what the hell are you going to do?”

     “I’ll think of something.  I always do, don’t I?”

     Suddenly, near his left ear, a match struck flint.  He stilled.  Creed’s attention jumped upward to whoever stood in the shadows beside him.

     “Allow me, Mr. Carson.”

     The sharp scent of sulfur reached his nostrils.  An arm appeared.  Jeb dared to dip the end of his cigarette into the flame.  He drew in deep.  Only then, did he look to see who held the match.

     A tall, burly-chested man, well into his thirties.  He wore a military uniform signifying him as a field officer in the United States Army. 

     Jeb leaned back in his chair.  He narrowed an eye.  “Have we met?”

     “No, sir.”

     “But you know who I am.”

     The officer glanced over his shoulder, as if wary someone was listening.  “I’d like to join you, if you don’t mind.”

     Jeb’s instincts warned he wouldn’t want any part of why this man sought him out.  But before he could refuse, Creed pulled out a chair, and the officer seated himself.

     “My name is Lieutenant Colonel Eugene Kingston.”  He kept his voice low.  “I’m here on direct orders from Mr. Alger.”

     Jeb put the cigarette to his lips again.  He’d been gone a long time, but he made it a point to keep up with the happenings in Washington .  Warning bells clamored in his brain.  “Russel A. Alger?”

     “Yes, sir.  Secretary of War for the United States .”

     Jeb exchanged a grim glance with Creed.

     “We need your help,” Kingston said.

     “I’m not interested.”

     The officer’s lips thinned.  “You don’t know what I’m asking.”

     “Doesn’t matter.  I’m not interested.”

     “Mr. Carson.”  Desperation threaded through the words, and Jeb recognized the officer’s restraint to keep from showing it.  “Perhaps this will convince you of the seriousness of my request.”

     Jeb didn’t bother to look at the paper Kingston slid toward him.  “How did you find me?”

     The officer met his hard gaze squarely.  “We’ve made a point of keeping track of you.”  His glance touched on Creed before returning to Jeb.  “Both of you.”

     “I’ve been out of the country for--.”

     “—five years and eleven months.” 

     “Where exactly have I been, Lieutenant Colonel?” he asked softly.

     “ South America .  Madrid .  Havana .  Manilla.  Puerto Rico .  Santiago .  In that order.”

     A slow fury simmered inside him.  Suspicions surfaced.  “How could you have known I’d be here at this saloon?  Tonight?”

     The officer’s gaze never wavered.  “We have sentries out watching for you at the border towns.  We knew you’d arrived in Mexico on--.”

     Jeb’s arm snaked out, and he grabbed the man’s shirt hard, yanking him half out of his seat.  “My father sent you, didn’t he?”

     A sheen of perspiration formed on the officer’s upper lip.  For the first time, his gaze wavered.  But only for a moment.  “I told you.  I received my orders to contact you from Mr. Alger.”

     “Bullshit.”  Disgusted, Jeb shoved him away.

     Kingston righted himself in his chair and cleared his throat.  “It is, er, possible that General Carson would be aware of”—he drew in a breath, clearly uncomfortable with the information he was about to impart—“of Mr. Alger’s intent.”

     Jeb glared at him.  “Tell the General he can go to hell.”

     “I don’t think I’ll do that, sir.”

     “And don’t call me ‘sir’!” Jeb snapped.

     He downed the rest of the whiskey in one savage gulp, then raked a harsh glance around the crowded saloon.  Where was that damn barmaid?  He caught her eye, gestured for another drink.  She nodded and winked.  Jeb ignored her.

     “The document looks legitimate,” Creed said, his low voice penetrating the storm raging inside Jeb.  Creed slid the paper closer.

     Because Creed wanted him to, Jeb looked at it.  He recognized the presidential seal in the letter head, the signature scrawled at the bottom.

     “It’s a copy,” Jeb snarled.  “Could be forged.”

     “Maybe not,” Creed said, but he dragged his gaze to the lieutenant colonel.  “And then again, maybe it is.”

     Kingston shook his head emphatically.  “President McKinley wrote the letter to the Secretary, Mr. Carson, but it’s about you.  Mr. Alger has the original.  For obvious reasons, of course.  He didn’t want to risk the information falling into the wrong hands.”

     The barmaid appeared, and the conversation halted.  Jeb snatched the bottle of whiskey from her and re-filled his glass himself. 

     “And whose hands might that be?” he demanded after she left.

     “Mexican rebels.”

     Jeb breathed an oath.  He didn’t want to know.  Or feel.

     “There have been reports of revolutionary activities against the government of President Porfirio Diaz,” Kingston said quickly before Jeb could stop him.  “The people are angry at his tyranny.  The government is getting rich off them.  Diaz is taking their land, and they’ve found hope in a young upstart named Emiliano Zapata.”

     “Zapata.”  Jeb recognized the name of the man who was fast acquiring a reputation as a fierce fighter. 

     “Yes.  But the United States has refused to support him, and to retaliate, Zapata’s men have been robbing Americans on both sides of the border to fund their activities.  One man in particular has shown himself to be unusually dangerous.  His name is Ramon de la Vega.”

“So?”  But the name branded itself into Jeb’s memory.

“We’ve cut off the flow of arms into Mexico , and he and his rebels aren’t happy with us.  Last week, they stopped a train just outside of Eagle Pass northwest of here, robbed it and killed a dozen people.  The month before, they raided a small village and killed another twenty.”

     Jeb’s fingers tightened around the glass.  “How do I fit into all this?”

     “President McKinley fears a major revolution is forthcoming if Zapata and De la Vega are not stopped.”

     “And?”

     “And we feel that, with your expertise--.”

     “Find someone else.”

     “There’s none other.  I mean, you’re highly recommended, sir.”

     Jeb snorted.  Again, he thought of his father.  “I’ll bet.”

     “By Colonel Theodore Roosevelt.  Among others.”

     He stilled.

     Roosevelt .

     Jeb had ridden with the man and his troops during an attack on San Juan Hill in Santiago .  It’d been a privilege to be part of the initiative with them.  But Jeb refused to be swayed by Roosevelt ’s influence, even in a matter as serious as this one.

     “There are thousands of American forces who can do a hell of a lot more effective job than I can,” he said.  “Enlist them instead.”

     “Mr. Carson.”  Kingston slid another uneasy glance at Creed, as if imploring his help in convincing Jeb to his way of thinking.  But Creed merely leaned back and crossed his arms over his chest, keeping the discussion on Jeb’s terms.  “Let me be frank here.  Your skills as a soldier--.”

     “I’m not a soldier in the truest sense of the word, am I, Lieutenant Colonel?  My father saw to that years ago.”

     “A mercenary, then.”

     A cold smile curved Jeb’s lips.  For the first time since Kingston arrived, some of the tension eased.  “That’s more like it.”

     The officer withdrew a thick packet from inside his uniform.  “Mr. Alger promises generous payment for your services and has instructed me to give you the first installment.”

     Jeb snorted.  “And what happens to the rest of the money if I end up dead?” 

     “We certainly hope that isn’t the case, sir.”

     “Let me explain something to you.”  He took one last drag on the cigarette, exhaled slowly and crushed the ashes in a small bowl.  “I’ve been gone a long time.  In fact, Creed and I have been back only a couple of hours.  As you know.”  His mouth quirked.  “I’ve spent nights in muddy trenches, sweated days in mosquito-infested jungles.  I’ve been shot at, knifed, beaten to within an inch of my life.  I’ve been taken prisoner, and I’ve escaped.  All in the name of my country.”   

Once, he thought nothing of leaving the United States behind.  A foreign country—it didn’t matter which one—offered danger and adventure.  An opportunity to slake the hurt and rebellion gnawing inside him.  

     Not anymore.

     He’d come full circle.  He traveled the world.  Saw some things no man should see.  Did some things no man should do.  He’d evolved into a man who made his own rules and lived by them. 

He was a patriot.  Pure and simple. 

But he’d had enough.

“Find someone else,” Jeb said again and took another swig of whiskey.

“Mr. Carson.”  The Lieutenant Colonel appeared crestfallen at the finality in Jeb’s tone.  “You’re the best for the job.  Your reputation to accomplish where others have failed is—is legendary.”

Jeb smirked.  Legendary?  Would the great and mighty General William Carson think as much of his son?

Never.

“Jeb has plans, Lieutenant Colonel,” Creed said, speaking up for the first time.  “Chasing after Mexican revolutionaries doesn’t fit into them.”

“Plans?”  The officer frowned.

“That’s right.”  Jeb grabbed onto the line Creed tossed him.  “Heading west first thing in the morning.”

Going to California wouldn’t be a bad idea, after all, he decided.  Creed’s family would accept him for the man he was.  No questions asked.  Something his own father had never been able to do.

“Is there anything I can offer you to make you change your mind?” Kingston asked.  “More money, perhaps.  I’m sure Mr. Alger would understand.”

“No.”  He slid the packet back to the officer, who reluctantly returned it to the pocket inside his uniform.  Jeb stood, and Kingston did the same.  “Now, if you’ll excuse us.  Creed and I plan to celebrate our return to this fine country.”

Jeb watched the officer go.  He steeled himself against thoughts of revolutionaries.  Of war and death. 

Of being needed.

Instead, he forced his thoughts ahead to the pleasures that awaited him.  Plenty of whiskey.  A willing woman.  And that thick, juicy steak.

For the first time in a hell of a long time, life was good.