| Enjoy this excerpt from LUCKY |
Prologue
Virginia City, Nevada. Late May 1877.
Harte Favre grabbed her cousin’s arm, holding him back as he made to pass her in the darkened
upstairs hallway. “Are you mad?” she whispered fiercely at him. “You can’t truly believe going out
tonight is the sane thing to do!”
Yancy Favre flashed her a reckless grin. “Then I’m not in my right mind, am I?” he murmured, lifting her
fingers free of his jacket sleeve. “Have I ever been?”
When it came to games of chance, the answer was simple. No, he never had been.
“But, Yance, tonight of all nights? Aren’t you in enough trouble already?”
His smile thinned to one of mockery. “Apparently not. But then I was under the impression that we were
both doomed to board the train in the morning because we appear to lack sound judgment.”
Her father’s earlier words sounded bitter on Yancy’s lips, but that didn’t make them any less true. At
least in her cousin’s case.
And while she was equally doomed to banishment back East, she hadn’t lost $2,000 on a single turn of a
card as Yancy had. She’d merely been caught indulging in a clandestine hand of poker, something no
proper young lady past her majority would dream of doing. Or so her usually fond parents claimed.
It was unfair to tar her with the exact same brush as her cousin. She had only sat in on the game
because Yancy was one of the players. She’d been protecting him from the sharps. As she always did.
Or at least that’s what she told herself she’d been doing, trying to convince herself there was truth in
the statement. The real truth was Favre gamester blood flowed through her veins as well as Yancy’s and
she was just as susceptible to the Lorelei call of a turned card. However, unlike Yancy, she won more
often than she lost at games of chance. Disgruntled, he called her carefully honed ability luck.
But if she was truly lucky, she wouldn’t be constrained to board the train with him in the morning.
“Yance, please.”
Her hand still rested in his warm clasp. Yancy raised her fingers briefly to brush his lips over her
knuckles with old fashioned gallantry. “Relax, Lucky. Nothing will go wrong. I just have a few farewells
to say.”
“But—“
He silenced her with a finger against her lips. “Shh. Sleep well, coz.”
Then he slipped away, treading softly so as not to wake her parents, and disappeared down the
shadowed stairwell.
Harte closed her bedroom door quietly before hastening across the room. She knew her cousin too well
to believe only farewells would be exchanged. And to watch over his safety this evening she would
need more than just luck.
Opening the top drawer of her dresser, she pushed aside the layer of silk chemises and slid her hand
around the cool steel of a long barreled Schofield pistol.
Chapter One
Richard Thorton left the smoky confines of the Delta Saloon and moved softly along the wooden
walkway. His footsteps were hushed, not from a desire to cloak his movements, but from long standing
habit.
Above him the waning moon hung in a pretty curve, currently unbothered by the dusting of cirrus clouds
in the night sky. It offered little light, but Thorton knew his way. A fellow who had spent time prowling the
hellish cavernous mines in the bowels of Mount Davidson didn’t need much to guide his step.
Fortunately, that phase of his life was over. Unfortunately, he was headed back to the life he’d left. One
that would likely put him toes up in some godforsaken boothill, unmourned and forgotten. Nothing had
changed despite his attempt to change his destiny.
Hell, might as well admit that he was one seriously damned fool and always had been. Considering where
his footsteps were leading him, he had ambled passed damned a long ways back and now had a full head
of steam up set to barrel into trouble. McBride’s telegram had guaranteed that. He was just anticipating
the moment now by strolling south on C Street into Virginia City’s Barbary Coast, the most disreputable
part of town. If trouble was looking for him, he might as well make himself easy to find.
Considering such a philosophical attitude deserved a reward, Thorton retrieved a cheroot from the
inner pocket of his waistcoat, then paused in the shadows to light it, cupping his hands around the
match as it flared. He’d barely inhaled a few times, enjoying the taste of cured tobacco, when he heard a
rustle of fabric and a woman skipped lightly from the shadows a block further on before spinning to
smile coquettishly at the man following her.
Despite the amber glow at the tip of his cheroot, she hadn’t seen him beneath the sheltering porch of
the adjacent board walk, which was reassuring considering he had dressed to blend in with the night.
His landlady had been impressed with his kit, telling him that in the varied shades of gray he was a
“sartorially elegant shadow.” Which was a much kinder phrase than “old Scratch’s spawn,” which others
had named him—as if the naturally arrogant arch of his dark brows marked his origins. Still, all it would
take was one alert lawman to recognize his old calling card—the red feather stuck in the band of his
wide brimmed, low crowned black hat—and a different brand of trouble would find him.
He might have shrugged back into the storm colored shirt and dark satin waistcoat his alter ego fancied,
but he hadn’t worn his gun belt. Hadn’t touched it in months. As if leaving it in the dresser drawer made
much difference. At the slightest noise, his hand still moved as if it could brush against the comforting
feel of cool steel at his hip. Even now he moved differently than men of peace. From habit, he was ever
vigilant, his eyes moving from one group of shadows to the next, watching for the predators who moved
and dressed as he did.
He’d already been antsy when Clement McBride’s telegram had arrived. He might not have enjoyed
living by the gun, but judging by his experience in the mines, he hadn’t enjoyed living by good honest
toil either—if being a human watchdog counted as toil, honest or otherwise.
The moon had totally deserted the street now, the finely drawn sickle shape slipping to hide behind a
chance-met cloud. Its withdrawal kept the shadows murky between the clapboard houses, a quite
appropriate state for this stretch of C Street, Thorton thought, where the bars were dim, the women
were disreputable, and the men were dangerous. Thorton had scrupulously avoided patronizing the
area. Not so much because he disapproved of the inhabitants, but because he felt far too much at home
with them.
The couple up ahead were typical of the area. The woman’s clothing in artistic disarray, the man
oblivious to anything but her displayed charms. And drunk by the uncoordinated way he moved and the
slurred words he uttered.
The fellow was a bit of a dandy, likely an Eastern drummer in town for more than just business. Before
the moon had slunk away, Thorton had noticed the gent sported a derby pushed to the back of his head,
favored plaid suits, and had a stiff celluloid collar beginning to curl free from his shirt.
From the way he appeared to know his way around the female form, he was nothing less than a corset
drummer.
Which meant he wasn’t going to get the type of business he was after on this stretch of C Street. He was
going to get what he probably deserved.
The dove leaned back against a porch post, arching her back, presenting her merchandise. The mark
went into her arms willingly, burying his face against her neck. He never saw the two men who slipped
from a darkened doorway in response to a motion of her hand.
“Come on, handsome,” she purred, linking the drummer’s arm with hers before leading the poor sap into
the narrow passageway between two clapboard buildings. The lurking thugs waited a moment or two
longer, then followed the couple into the alley.
Thorton took a final draw on his cheroot and tossed the remainder into the road. It wasn’t his fight but
his hand dropped automatically to his side for the comforting feel of his gun. It wasn’t there. Damn the
man he kept longing to be. That idiot was going to get his lesser self killed real fast.
The thought alone drew a sardonic grin to his lips. What the hell did he have to lose? Better he get
himself killed being foolhardy in Virginia than let McBride murder him through one of his convoluted
crusades in some other godforsaken place.
Thorton moved in closer.
From the cover of a narrow horse trough across the road, Harte Favre ground her teeth, fighting the
unladylike temptation to swear. Considering she was wearing boys’ clothing and a cloth cap, swearing
would enhance her disguise. But making much sound would also give her position away. While she felt
equal to the task of intimidating one of the city’s drabs, the two men the woman had beckoned to were
another matter.
There was the third man to consider as well. The one who had hung back, nearly a shadow himself
beneath the sheltering storefront porch. If it hadn’t been for the glowing tip of his smoke, she wouldn’t
have even known he was there. Which made him much more dangerous than the shabbily dressed
thugs.
Harte eased her pistol from the pocket of her loose fitting box jacket, thankful that she’d had the
presence of mind to check the magazine before leaving the house. With Yancy’s life possibly in the
balance, having the hammer come down on an empty chamber could well mean the difference between
either of them being able to board the morning train or being the main attraction at burial services read
at St. Mary’s in the Mountains two days hence.
Suddenly the cursed need to be on that train was no longer despised or deplorable.
She nearly cried out when the man from the shadows materialized next to her.
“Who you with, kid?” he asked, his voice low and rough like the pilings that spilled down the
mountainside. “The dove or the spark in the plaid?”
“The spark,” she said.
“Kin?”
She nodded infinitesimally.
He leaned back against the horse trough, and grinned, his teeth glinting briefly as the moon slipped free
of its veil of clouds. “But stupid?”
Harte definitely agreed with that prognosis. “Who you with?”
“Looks like you,” he said, then indicated her gun with a spare lift of his chin. “And put that damn fool
thing away before you kill someone.”
“That’s the idea,” Harte growled, keeping her voice to a boy-like growl. “If need be.”
“Just don’t want it to be me, kid,” he said. “What do you want the outcome to be?”
She didn’t have to think about the answer. “My cousin in one piece. If need be, his pocket can be empty.”
“Teach the damn fool a lesson, that it?” he murmured.
She thought he found the idea humorous for there was a slight lilt in his voice.
“Then stay down and await results,” he advised. “If neither the spark nor I leave the alley, kill whoever
you want.”
She jerked her head in a brief nod.
“Good man,” he said, clapping a hand down on her shoulder. Then he pushed her further down behind
the protecting edge of the trough to sprawl on the hard packed dirt of the street. A moment later he had
materialized at the alley’s mouth.
She’d been right to feel he was the most dangerous of the men prowling this section of C Street that
night. His movements were spare, lithe, and controlled. A human cougar on the prowl. Although their
exchange had been brief, she recognized that this man was far from stupid.
Stupid she could outwit, but a canny man was another thing. She hoped he truly was on her side and not
just a better class of hoodlum preparing to save her cousin so that he could then rob him. If so, she’d
given him the cachet to do so.
Not that she wanted Yancy’s pockets emptied, but it was better than the alternative.
Still, Harte touched the comforting feel of steel, debating whether to tuck the pistol back in her jacket
pocket. She would feel better if the Schofield were holstered to her belt but there had been no time to
do more than scramble into some of Yancy’s old clothing, tug a cloth hat down over her bundled up hair,
shove the pistol in her pocket, and steal from the house quickly in her cousin’s wake. After the trimming
down Yancy had taken from her father over his most recent gaming losses, she’d known he would go
looking for mischief. She’d also known Yancy would be careless about watching his back. It was why she
had followed him—yet again.
Harte peered around the far edge of the trough, watching the stranger as he bided his time.
The path was barely as wide as a man’s arm span. It sloped downward like all the roads that crossed C
Street, following the contour of the mountain as it dipped toward D Street below. he alley was hemmed in
by clapboard buildings on either side with a third rising to meet them at the rear. The second floor
windows looked out on the narrow path but they were shuttered and dark. Mud and refuse coated the
ground. A rain barrel sat near the entrance and it was in the lee of this that the mysterious stranger
crouched.
If she hadn’t seen a flash of pale hair in the moonlight, Harte doubted she would have even seen him.
His dark clothing blended with the unpainted, weathered side of the nearest building and the stained
barrel slats. His fair hair was nearly hidden beneath the jet black of his hat, which was probably why he
had chosen it. Blending as he did with the night, his presence hadn’t been noticed yet by those in the
alley.
Was the man friend or foe, Harte wondered, hesitating. He seemed to be waiting to see what would
happen. Did that mean he was really in league with the other thugs? Or that he was a crusader, a
vigilante, ready to rescue Yancy if it became necessary?
What did she mean if? There was no doubt in Harte’s mind. Her feckless cousin was out for a lark,
wagering his life, gambling on adventure. Relieving his boredom. If not from the men who had followed
him and the woman into the alleyway, then Yancy needed to be rescued from himself.
She could hear voices across the way, but couldn’t discern what was being said. She recognized her
cousin’s lazy tones, his drawl enhanced by a false slurring of syllables, as if he had imbibed too heavily
at one of the many saloons. The woman gave a high pitched screech of surprise before babbling in a
rush, her words tumbling out. She was cut off by a gruff male growl, then the sound of a scuffle.
Harte wished the man in the blind by the rain barrel would make a move. She needed to know what was
going on. Needed to be on hand to rescue Yancy if he wasn’t going to do the job.
She got to her knees, preparing to make a dash for the alleyway despite the watching man’s presence.
Then the shadowy stranger moved further into the alleyway. Harte scuttled across the street, keeping a
low profile until she was in position to flatten her back against the front of the nearest building. Peering
around the corner, she was just in time to see the stranger launch into action.
The rain barrel was nearly overflowing with murky water from the recent spring storms. Crouched in its
lee, Thorton decided that the spark hadn’t a chance on his own. The man appeared not to have heard
the two hooligans approach. He was too busy groping the woman. She saw the newcomers though.
Behind his back she motioned to them again, then turned suddenly on her victim, struggling in his arms.
“This hombre botherin’ ya, Mamie?” one of the men growled. He wasn’t above average in height but his
shoulders were massive. A bull of a man. Not one it would be easy to bring down.
The woman wrenched herself free from her eager mark, causing him to stagger against the clapboard
barricade at the rear of the alley.
“Deke!” she squealed on cue.“I warn’t cheatin’ on ya, lover! I swear! He jest come at me!”
The cuckold grabbed the drunk by his lapels and dragged him upright. Although inches taller than his
assailant, the hapless man sagged a bit in Deke’s grasp, his knees seeming to buckle beneath him, his
bowler tumbling to the alley floor.
“That right?” Deke demanded, his face threateningly close to the other man’s.
The spark flinched away. “Lady ‘vited me in,” he said, his voice confused. “Swear she did.”
Deke flung the drunk into the waiting arms of his partner. The second man was taller, wirier than his
friend. His appearance was deceptive though. He pinned the arms of the drunk as easily as a boy would
the wings of a butterfly.
“Ya callin’ ma woman a liar, mister?” Deke snarled. His fist rammed into the pinioned man’s midriff.
The drunk sagged. “Didn’…mean,” he gasped out.
“’Course, I could ferget this all happened,” Deke said. “Fer a price.”
His friend’s lips stretched in an oily grin. He released the injured man so that he fell heavily to the
ground.
“Money?” the victim mumbled in surprise. “You’d let me buy – ”
“Buy Mamie?” Deke laughed nastily. “Buy ma woman would ya?”
Thorton decided the drunk’s wits were addled. He was actually reaching in the inner pocket of his jacket
for his wallet as he struggled to sit up. “Well,” he said, his tone as calm and patient as if he were
explaining his thought processes to an imbecile, “this is the Barbary Coast.”
The second man gave a bark of laughter.
Deke, however, kicked the downed man in the ribs.
Or rather, he tried to.
The spark displayed amazing agility, moving away at the last moment. He caught at Deke’s leg and thrust
upward, throwing the man off balance. Deke crashed against the woman, knocking her to the muddy
ground, but kept his feet.
Thorton made his move. He came up behind the second man and kicked the back of his knee. The slope
of the alley added to the man’s downfall. He stumbled, off balance. Thorton pulled him back and
smashed his fist into the footpad’s face. As the man sank to his knees, Thorton grabbed him by the back
of his collar and rammed the wiry man’s head into the wall. Without a fight, the thug collapsed at Thorton’
s feet, unconscious.
As the fellow sank to the ground, Thorton bent to disarm him. He hefted the unfamiliar gun in his hand a
moment testing its weight, its balance, then dropped it in the rain barrel in distaste. It barely made a
splash.
At the boxed-in rear of the alley, the spark was sliding down the back wall under an avalanche of blows.
The woman who had lured him into the trap was struggling to her feet, pressing herself tightly against
the building to avoid the combatants.
Thorton jumped forward, slipped on a piece of garbage and slid down the passageway into the drunk’s
assailant. It hadn’t been the move he had intended to make, but it felled the remaining thug. The thickset
man rolled away and was on his feet within seconds.
This time his hands weren’t knotted for a fight. Even in the shadows, the blade of his knife flashed with
murderous intent.
The drunk lay half curled in the mud, in a stance that protected his head and torso from further blows.
Thorton had lost his hat in his slide down the slope. When the capricious moon decided to bathe him in
light, he knew his pale hair made him an easy target.
Ignoring the vulnerability, Thorton kept his eyes on his adversary and the knife in Deke’s hand. The
hooligan grinned in anticipation.
Thorton got to his feet slowly and grinned back at Deke. He bent his knees, spread his arms slightly.
Fear prickled along his nerves. But fear wasn’t the only feeling that filled him. It never had been. When
faced with death it was life that seemed to flow through his veins. It surged through them now,
heightening his senses, making him aware of every flicker of movement his enemy made.
Deke lunged but Thorton moved effortlessly out of his way. The big man swiped again, the knife cutting
the air. Thorton circled, baring his teeth in a predator’s snarl.
There wasn’t much room to maneuver in the alley, especially with the drunken spark on the ground.
Thorton worked his way up the slope, away from the downed man only to find himself handicapped by the
unconscious form of Deke’s accomplice. For a moment he felt cornered.
Recognizing his position, Deke chuckled with deadly elation and lunged. Thorton sidestepped at the last
minute. The blade slid across the fabric of his waistcoat, but didn’t penetrate. Both men swung back face-
to-face.
“Whatsa’ matter, mister?” Deke taunted, his grin more pronounced than ever. “Don’t want a share of
what I was gonna give this fancy man?”
Thorton stayed on the move. “Actually,” he said almost conversationally. “I was more interested in you.”
“Me, huh?” Deke took another swipe with the knife, playing with his victim.
Thorton sidestepped the impotent trust of the blade easily. “You needed to be taught a lesson.”
“An’ ya thought ya could do it, did ya?”
“Absolutely.” Thorton’s wolfish smile widened. Then he charged, grabbing Deke’s wrist and forcing it
upward.
Together they stumbled back against the building with a crash. The hand holding the knife smacked into
the weathered wooden wall twice before Deke dropped his weapon. Thorton kicked it away.
Nearly forgotten where she huddled in a corner, the woman made a break, dashing past the men to the
mouth of the alley. Deke threw a hate filled look at her departing form. Thorton poised for the heavier
man’s renewed attack. Her bolt toward the street above ended in a slide as a boy—the spark’s diligent
cousin, Thorton realized—barreled into her from the boardwalk, sending both of them tumbling to the
muddy ground.
Taking advantage of the unexpected distraction, Deke rushed up the slope, set on escape. He nearly
tripped over the downed and weeping woman and the boy who lay gasping for breath by her side.
The sudden bark of a pistol was loud in the narrow passageway, tainting the air with the strong, acid
scent of spent gunpowder.
Deke stumbled, then fell, nearly landing on his fallen sweetheart. As if unaware of the blood that had
begun to stain his trousers, the thug struggled to his feet and surged forward again.
“Oh no you don’t,” the boy howled and launched himself from the ground, grabbing Deke’s ankle and
holding on.
Thorton heard the warning sound of a hammer being drawn back on a firearm. “Leave him be, Lucky,”
the muddy drummer ordered, his tone calm, his gun hand steady. All signs of intoxication had vanished.
The man was cold sober, though rather the worst for wear from the beating and contact with the muddy
ground.
“But, Yance—” the boy sputtered.
“He won’t get away,” the drummer insisted. “Will he, Thorton?”
Yance. Thorton recognized the voice if not the man in the drummer’s suit now. That lazy drawl could
belong to only one man—Yancy Favre, the man whose poor poker playing abilities had enhanced his
own wallet.
“Doubtful,” Thorton answered.
“Then shall we let this bucko live or send him to the devil now?” Favre asked.
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