Stranger from Medina (West Texas Sunrise Book #3) , livre ebook

Baker Publishing Group - Paul Bagdon

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81 pages

English

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A new preacher arrives at the West Texas town of Burnt Rock to lead the eager flock of a burgeoning frontier church. Handsome and sophisticated, Reverend Warner soon wins the love and respect of the entire congregation, but seems particularly drawn to lady horse rancher Lee Morgan. Town marshall Ben Flood is annoyed by the preacher's attentions to Lee. But more than that, he can't shake the feeling that something is amiss with the minister himself. Flood's suspicions drive a wedge of misunderstanding between him and Lee, who is already feeling frustrated that her relationship with the lawman isn't leading to something more romantic. The marshall worries that he might lose Lee to the new minister-until a web of intrigue is uncovered that could change everything. The Stranger from Medina is the third book in a masterfully written western romance series marked by memorable characters and vivid, historically accurate detail. The author, an experienced horseman, portrays strong Christian values amidst thrilling action in the Old West.

Sujets

Western

Western (genre)

Westerns

Informations

Publié par	Baker Publishing Group
Date de parution	01 mai 2003
Nombre de lectures	0
EAN13	9781441239518
Langue	English
Poids de l'ouvrage	1 Mo

Informations légales : prix de location à la page 0,0202€. Cette information est donnée uniquement à titre indicatif conformément à la législation en vigueur.

Extrait

© 2003 by Paul Bagdon
Published by Revell a division of Baker Publishing Group P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287 www.revell.com
Ebook edition created 2011
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means for example, electronic, photocopy, recording without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3951-8
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This novel is dedicated to a grand group of people who are not only accomplished writers, but treasured friends: Bonnie Frankenberger Carole Young Willow Kirchner Louise Whitney Art Maurer Sid O’Connor Linda Pepe Margaret Swann Emily Altmann Roz Pullara Linda Terra Loren Adams Joe Callan Ginny Miller
CONTENTS

Cover
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
1

Lee Morgan leaned forward in her saddle, asking for yet more speed from the coal black stallion she was riding at a full gallop. Tears streamed from her eyes both from fear and from slashing through the oppressive prairie air at the speed of Slick’s fastest gait and were whipped from her face before they reached halfway down her cheeks.
There was another report, this one closer. And then another. The next shot she heard was much louder. Through her tears and the waves of heat rising from the prairie floor, she saw a colored banner. It seemed impossibly far ahead.
She whispered to Slick, the finest horse she had owned in her forty-two years. He was, in fact, the foundation stud horse at her horse-breeding and training operation, the Busted Thumb. Now she feared she was asking Slick for more than he could give.
Her voice transmitted her fear, and in response, the stallion stretched his impossibly long stride even farther. His hooves seemed barely to touch the prairie floor as he coursed over it, his body extended, his head lowered so that it was barely higher than his massive chest. He ran like a greyhound pursuing its prey.
Slick swung sharply to his left without slowing, sliding his body to the side rather than turning it, to avoid a series of prairie dog holes Lee couldn’t see in her tear-obscured vision. She barely noticed Slick’s maneuver she merely moved with the animal as if she were a part of him.
Slick’s body was covered with sweat, glistening like a polished black diamond. Lee could feel his lungs expand as he drew in great draughts of air, and the rhythm, she realized, was too rapid she was pushing Slick too hard, for too long.
She applied leg pressure, begging the animal for more speed.
The sight she had seen a half hour ago the blood, the pallor of the man’s face, the tiny throb of pulse like that of a wounded bird flashed before her. Then the rolling boom of a heavy-gauge rifle reached her ears over the pounding of Slick’s hooves. “A little more,” she gasped to her horse. “Just a little more, Slick!”
But Slick’s gait was less steady. He weaved slightly as he threw himself, sucking air. She felt his pain and cried out to him, thanking him for what he was doing, for his courage, his stamina.
“Just a bit longer, Slick. . . . Just a little bit farther!”
She fervently wished she wasn’t wearing the confining, long-hemmed dress she had donned for the celebration. The stiff petticoats under her gave little of the leg contact she was so accustomed to as she rode, and the fabric around her flapped crazily in the wind. What I wouldn’t give for my culottes and a man’s work shirt!
She leaned forward the slightest bit more. “Please, Slick . . .”
2

Marshall Ben Flood held his Sharp’s rifle at his right side, the barrel pointing at the ground, the polished cherry-wood stock glinting in the bright July sunlight. He stood casually, but his posture was straight, almost military, and he felt the tension in his body as he squinted at the wooden slab with a black circle painted in its center, 350 yards away.
The noisy music of the festival behind him and the man who stood six feet to his right had faded from his consciousness, as had the acrid stink of burned gunpowder in the hot air. In his peripheral vision, he caught the smooth motion of his opponent raising his rifle, but he didn’t move his eyes from the black circle. He could feel the pulsing of a blood vessel at his right temple. He didn’t like to lose at anything, and he was a bull’s-eye down in the shooting match, with a round yet to be fired.
Monte Krupp, his opponent, was a buffalo hunter one of the best remaining in the West. He was a small man in a field dominated by giants, a dapper man in a world of crude hunters who shunned bathing and clean clothing. At a lean, wiry 5'4" he was a full eight inches under Ben’s height, and he was clean shaven with his hair worn short and well combed, while Ben wore his hair long, the sheen of its blackness threaded with gray. He and Monte had served together in the War Between the States, and the bond between them remained strong.
The group of fifty or so watchers standing twenty feet behind the contestants was as quiet as the inside of an abandoned mine shaft. Coins and folded bills had changed hands surreptitiously before the match had started, and now most of the wagering cowhands and shopkeepers were focused on the target. Out of the corner of his eye, Ben saw one cowboy poke a friend with an unlabelled pint bottle. The second wrangler accepted, checked around to make sure he was unobserved, and took a quick pull of corn liquor. Being caught drinking at a festival put on to raise money to build a church wouldn’t do a man’s reputation much good with the ladies.
Ben heard a soft, sibilant intake of a breath from Monte, and then the concussion of the rifle report struck him like a hot blast of wind. The strident crash of the discharge softened to thunder as it echoed through the plains on which the town of Burnt Rock rested.
At the target, the town banker, Sam Turner, raised a red flag meaning a bull’s-eye and dabbed the black ring with white paint where the bullet had struck, then stepped back.
“Nice,” Ben commented.
“Not bad,” Monte allowed. “Could have been tighter to the middle. Seems like I mighta caught a little breeze on the way.”
Ben nodded and crouched, tugging a few strands of grass free from the soil at his feet. He tossed the blades into the air and watched as they drifted cleanly to the earth. Then he raised his rifle. Drawing in a breath, he fixed his sights on the black circle. He began a gentle pressure against the trigger and then felt the slightest bit of coolness on the left side of his face, where a bead of sweat had left a damp trail down his cheek. He eased the barrel of his Sharp’s the tiniest bit to the left and fired. The banker raised the red flag and dabbed red paint on the hole in the center of the bull’s-eye.
Monte brought his rifle to his shoulder and fired quickly this time, playing the same breeze Ben had counted on. It was a gamble and a gamble that Monte lost. The breeze had died.
Sam Turner raised the white flag. The score was tied. “All right, fellas,” he said. “Let’s look at whose bullets struck closest to the center of the bull’s-eye.”
The men went over to look at the target. “You got it, Ben,” Monte said. “That last shot of yours was dead center.” He held out his hand. “Nice shooting.”
“I got lucky. Air touched me as I was squeezin’ off that round. You did some great shooting, Monte.”
The buffalo hunter turned to the crowd and pointed toward Ben. Applause broke out, along with some cheering and some groans. No one needed the banker to haul the target back for official measurement the eyes of the two shooters were all anyone needed for verification as to who won the contest.
“I’ll tell you what,” Monte said with a grin. “If you buy me a glass of lemonade and a piece of Missy Joplin’s carrot cake, I won’t hold a grudge about today’s match.”
Ben returned the smile. “You got a deal, Monte. Let’s ”
Three quick shots stopped his sentence. Ten seconds passed, and then three more shots sounded. Ben was already in motion, running to where he’d tied his horse, Snorty, in the shade of a few trees near the bandstand.
A black horse, stretched and running hard, pounded toward the festival site, a finger of brown dust trailing behind. The rider was sliding a carbine back into the saddle scabbard.
“Ain’t that Miss Lee?” a cowhand shouted. “She’s really burnin’ up the ground with ol’ Slick it must be somethin’ powerful important!”
Lee was leaning forward in her saddle. Ben threw Snorty into a gallop toward her, the muscular legs of the tall horse taking large bites out of the distance between them. Almost as if they’d choreographed it, their horses slid to a stop, placing Lee and Ben side by side.
“Where’s Doc?” Lee shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. “Rev Tucker is hurt bad shot several times. He’s bleeding terribly! He . . .” A rush of tears choked her voice.
Ben put his hand on her arm. “Where is he?”
She swallowed hard and drew a breath. “About halfway to the Thumb. I couldn’t lift him onto Slick, and I was afraid to move him, anyway. He’s gutshot, Ben, and he’s bleeding real bad!”
Ben looked back at the festival. “There’s Doc’s surrey, so he’s here. Find him and send him out. I’ll go on ahead and see what I can do for Rev.”
“I . . . I couldn’t lift him, Ben. He’s such a big man. His horse was gone, and I . . .”
“You did the right thing. Now go, Lee find Doc!”
Ben wheeled Snorty around, pointed him in the direction from which Lee had come, and banged his spurless heels against the animal’s sides. Snorty wasn’t the type of horse that needed spurring; he was in a full gallop within ten yards.
Lee dragged a sleeve across her face and cued her horse toward the cr