The
Rebel's Secret
Ride Hard - Book 3
By Zoe Blake
Publication
Date: July 2017
This is
book three in the Ride Hard Western trilogy but can be read as a stand-alone.
She was
determined to claim her revenge. He was determined to claim her.
Michaela
Armistead had only revenge in mind when she stepped into that frontier saloon.
Disguised as a boy, she had been on her father’s murderer’s trail since the end
of the war-between-the-states.
What
she hadn’t counted on was Major John Thomas Brice, commanding officer of the
nearby fort, taking her prisoner!
One
look at those flashing violet eyes and Major Brice knew this was one little
rebel who needed to be taken in hand. He would be damned if he allowed her to
continue on her dangerous quest for revenge. She needed to learn, in this part
of Texas, his word was law. If that lesson came at the end of a leather strap
then so be it.
Problem
was, his feisty Rebel was not going to give in without a fight!
Chapter One
A lone
rider scanned the horizon. The fiery orange sunset bathed the desert valley in
a rosy glow. Blotches of desert scrub and tiny bursts of honey yellow flowers
from the greasewood plant the only other hint of color across the brown barren
stretch of stone, sand and jagged rock. In the far distance, just to the south,
were the low mudbrick and wooden structures of Fort McIntosh. The stranger’s
destination.
Easing
the horse forward, the stranger kept a wary eye on the surroundings. The
distinctive grayish-brown coat and black-tipped ears of a bobcat appeared from
behind a mesquite bush only a few arm’s lengths away. The stranger pulled on
the reins. Although not its natural prey, it didn’t pay to take chances. The
bobcat darted east after a black-tailed jackrabbit.
As the
fort neared, so did the wide expanse of the Rio Grande as it cut through the
valley like a blue ribbon. The dirty canvas tents, tumbledown shacks and
brightly, painted clapboard buildings of the rowdy town which sprung up between
the banks of the river and the wooden spiked picket fence of the fort also came
into view. Shouts of drunken laughter, the tinny sound of a saloon piano and
the occasional crack of a gun harshly replacing the calming sound of rushing
wind and the call of a mockingbird from the trail.
Wrapping
the leather reins around a wooden hitching post, the stranger sucked in a
bracing breath before pushing open the frosted glass doors of the Imperial
Saloon.
The acrid
scent of tobacco smoke and warm, unwashed bodies blended with the cadence of
low conversation, clinking glasses and the discordant shrieks of a saloon girl
on stage attempting a rendition of When This Cruel War Is Over. The
gaudy oil paintings, polished brass lamps, felt tables and mahogany bar of the
interior gave an air of tawdry luxury to the saloon that ran counter to the
run-down appearance of the town itself.
Eyes
averted, the stranger stepped up to the bar. Tossing a bright, double-eagle,
gold coin on its grubby surface, their voice scratched out, “I’ll take a flip
and some information.”
The
barkeep cast a disparaging glance over the floppy, black-felt hat which
obscured the stranger’s face. With a shrug of shoulders, the barkeep pocketed
the coin and grabbed a bottle of champagne and one fresh, farm egg.
Cracking
the egg into a tin cup, the barkeep asked, “What do you want to know?” The town
was a popular trade route and the last stop before the Mexican Territories.
Folks came and went all the time. Some respectable, most not. It wasn’t
uncommon for lawmen, gunfighters, jilted lovers and the like to pass through
asking for information. It made for some extra coin in his pocket.
“Looking
for a man who goes by the name Black Jack Doolin who might have passed through
with a woman not too long ago.”
The
caterwauling stopped. The piano music ended with a crash on one long chord. In
the sudden silence, the scraping of several chairs along the unpolished,
wood-planked floor rent the air.
“Can’t
say we like some Johnny Reb strolling into town asking questions,” groused one
man as he wiped chewed tobacco spittle from his beard.
After the
Northern Aggression, many Southerners abandoned their burnt out farms and
headed west for a fresh start. Large swaths of western territory were filled
with former Southern belles and Confederate soldiers looking to cash in on the
skills they learned during the war.
“I’m
talkin to you, Gray Back!”
Apparently
this wasn’t one of those territories.
The once
bluish-gray shell jacket was now faded to a ragged, brown butternut complete
with tarnished brass buttons and frayed black piping. But even through the
years of war, the dust of the trail and the ravages of castile soap and the
scrub board, the Confederate Cavalry uniform coat was unmistakable.
Resting a
hand on the butt of an army-issued Colt, the stranger refused to turn around.
“I’m not looking for any trouble. Just trying to track someone down.” The voice
was a low, gruff whisper.
“Yeah,
well you just found trouble, Johnny Reb. Apparently we didn’t whup your ass
enough in the war,” cackled the man. “You still need to learn your place.”
The
stranger took a slow sip of the recently poured drink, fingers flexing over the
warm, smooth butt of the Colt resting against a hip. In a lot of respects, the
war would never be over. “If I’m not mistaken. We’re near Laredo. Didn’t a
couple of Rebs fight back over two-hundred Yanks three times at the Battle of
Laredo before the Yanks finally left, tails tucked between their legs, crying
for their mamas?”
There was
a cry of outrage and the shuffling of feet before one beefy hand fell on the
shoulder of the stranger, spinning them about. “You’re going to pay for that,”
spat out the furious Yankee.
The
polished Colt cleared the holster before the Yank had even finished his threat.
Taking a step back, the stranger aimed left handed as the edge of their right
palm slashed down on the greased trigger. Firing off three shots in rapid
succession. Effortlessly turning one man’s shot of whiskey into bits of wet
glass, another’s hand of cards into an ace in the hole, and shooting clear
through the disagreeable Yank’s kepi cap, knocking it off his damn fool head.
There was
the distinctive shrill shout of the Confederate Rebel Yell, an infamous battle
cry, before all hell broke loose.
Apparently
there were actually a few Southerners in the saloon after all.
The
stranger adroitly swung both legs over the bar, taking up a secure position
behind its solid wooden base. Grabbing an earthenware jug in each hand, the
figure swung out at anyone who dared come within an arm’s length.
The
sounds of rough men enjoying rough entertainment was replaced by a cacophony of
splintering wood, shattering glass, grunts and groans and high-pitched
screams…from both the men and saloon girls as the entire room broke into
fisticuffs.
It didn’t
take long, before the piercing screech of whistles could be heard as men in
blue cavalry uniforms burst into the saloon. It was a patrol from Fort
McIntosh. The commanding officer viewed keeping the peace in the nearby town as
an extension of the fort’s responsibilities.
The
federal soldiers quickly subdued the drunk and unruly crowd. Lining them up
against a far wall to assess the situation. The stranger included, whose head
never lifted, hidden beneath the wide-brim, felt hat.
“Each of
you will be fined twenty-five cents for breaking the lord’s peace,” shouted the
corporal in charge.
“Attention!”
called a nearby private raising a flat hand to his forehead in salute.
All the
soldiers clicked their heels, threw back their shoulders and pushed their
chests out.
The
stranger listened as a heavy boot trod across the boards.
Major
John Thomas Brice, commanding officer of Fort McIntosh had arrived.
An
imposing man of six feet four inches, he wasn’t just an officer in the United
States Cavalry…he was the cavalry.
His
family had been serving in the cavalry back since they were called the
dragoons. In The War of Southern Aggression, he served under Union Major
General Pleasonton, who commanded the Cavalry Corp of the Army of the Potomac.
Major Brice was the key strategist behind the Battle of Brandy Station. The
largest cavalry engagement during the war, right at the beginning of the
Gettysburg campaign. Major Brice launched a dawn attack against the Rebel
General Stuart. It was the first time the Union Cavalry managed to beat the
superior Confederate Cavalry. The Johnny Reb cavalry never recovered.
Many
considered him a hero of the war…others a legend.
No one
questioned his authority.
Brice
surveyed the room. The damage was minimal. This time. A few broken chairs. A
smashed bottle or two. More bruised egos than blackened eyes. At least the
expensive saloon mirror and front windows were spared. He scrutinized the
ragtag bunch slouching against the wall.
Similar
to the army, society out in the west had its own hierarchy and accompanying
uniform. There were the homesteaders, easily recognizable in their blue flannel
shirts and woolen pants. The hide hunters, covered head to toe in buckskin,
always smelling faintly of sweat and death. The prospectors who pitched widely
between threadbare, dusty overalls and oil-soaked hats to ruffled shirts and
tailored suits depending on their fortunes.
Each
stratagem was represented in equal measure as they stood, hunched shouldered
and long-faced, shuffling their feet as they avoided eye contact with the
imposing commanding officer.
Of
course, there were also the soldiers, former and current.
“Report,
corporal.” The command was given in a crisp, clipped tone.
“Bar
fight, sir.”
Brice
spared an annoyed glance for the young corporal.
“What I
meant to say, sir, was mostly civilians. One sergeant and two privates of ours.”
“Men,”
barked Brice.
It was
only one word…that was all Major Brice needed.
Three men
stepped forward out of the rag tag bunch. The stranger recognized one of them
as the man who started the trouble and stiffened.
“Sergeant
Cleave Stinger, Private Gene Covey and Private Reuben Warnock, sir,” offered
the corporal.
“It
weren’t our fault, Major!” whined Sergeant Stinger as he worried the brim of
his hat in his hand. “That dirty Johnny Reb came in shootin his mouth and his
gun off!”
Brice’s
hard gaze landed on the slight figure of the former Confederate soldier. Back pressed
against the wall, one foot propped up, head bowed, the figure looked tired and
uninterested. Brice knew better. He could see the tightening in the shoulders.
The subtle twitch of the left hand over the Colt.
Something
was not right.
The
former soldier presented a slight figure. Narrow shoulders and hips. Shorter
than the average man. Young. Malnourished. That wasn’t especially surprising;
Brice had heard rumors of a desperate Confederacy taking boys as young as
twelve to fight for their lost cause toward the end.
Still,
something pricked at his instincts about the man.
Brice
scrutinized the man’s worn uniform. The patch was faded and dirty but still
visible, he was cavalry. No rank. A horse man was a horse man no matter what
side you fought on. His gaze fell on the boots. The boots. The boots were all
wrong. Too slim and narrow. They certainly were not cavalry boots. Despite the
dirt and mud, they looked almost…elegant.
His gaze
flew to the lowered head. I’ll be damned, he thought.
“Corporal,
take the men to the Guardhouse. Thirty days fatigue duty,” he ordered.
The
sergeant and two privates were escorted out of the saloon. It was a harsh
punishment but they knew Major Brice did not tolerate his soldiers setting a
bad example in town.
“The town
marshal has finally arrived. I will turn the rest over to him.” The corporal
did little to keep the disdain from his voice. The town marshal was a
dissipated, corrupt drunkard with no discipline or morals. He was the very
reason why the soldiers were forced to patrol the town, breaking up fights and
keeping the peace.
“All but
him,” ordered Brice, motioning to the Confederate with a jut of his chin.
“Him, but
he started….” The corporal immediately stopped, knowing better than to question
his commanding officer.
Keeping
their head lowered, the stranger listened to the sounds of grunts, protests and
dragging feet as the men to either side were pulled away one by one.
A moment
passed.
Then he
stepped close.
A pair of
polished cavalry boots. A glimpse of bright, blue wool pants with a canary
yellow stripe. The clean smell of soap.
Brice
crossed his arms over his wide chest and stared down at the black, felt hat.
The brim so wide it almost spanned the width of the slight figure’s shoulders.
Even at full height, he doubted if the top of their head would reach his
shoulder.
“Time to
sound the recall. You’re beaten.” Even through the harsh command, his voice
held a hint of amusement.
The
stranger didn’t move.
Brice
whipped the black felt hat off the Confederate’s head. Even having his
suspicions affirmed, nothing prepared him for the sight of the startlingly,
beautiful, violet eyes which rose in shock to clash with his curious gaze.
Michaela
Armistead pulled her Colt.
Baring
her teeth, she threated the imposing man, “Stay away from me.”
There was
a slight Southern lilt to her voice. He would guess Georgia. What was once, he
was sure, a proper head of waist-length hair, had been chopped to the
shoulders. What would have looked like a scandalous mess on any other well-bred
woman gave this feisty baggage an irresistible appeal, as if she had just
emerged from bed after being good and tumbled by a man. The golden honey locks
only highlighted the unusual purple color of her eyes, which at this moment
flashed brimstone and fire at him.
The
corner of Brice’s lips rose on a seductive smile, “Not a chance.”
For a man
who had a gun drawn on him, he seemed remarkably unaffected.
He didn’t
know what had brought the little beauty to the far corner of the country, alone
and unprotected, but he would be damned if he was going to let her just stroll
out those saloon doors.
“You have
no right to keep me here. Those men started the fight. I didn’t hurt anyone,”
rattled off Michaela.
He made
her nervous. She had spent the last several years surrounded by men in the
cavalry. Men of all shapes and sizes. Of all temperament. Some good. Some bad.
But none like him. There was something about him. The way he held himself. A
reined energy, like a powerful horse only barely held in check.
“You just
violated the Uniform Code of Military Justice by drawing a weapon on a superior
officer,” quipped Brice. His voice a low, dark threat.
Michaela
lowered her brow in confusion. “But…I’m not even in the army!”
“That is
a matter for the commanding officer to sort out. Till then, you’re my
prisoner,” said Brice as he took one step forward. The barrel of her Colt
pressing into the tight muscle of his stomach.
“You’re
the commanding officer!” accused an exasperated Michaela.
“I know,”
grinned Brice.
Without
thought, Michaela squeezed the trigger. The hammer fell with a hollow empty
click.
Brice
wrapped one large hand around her slight wrist and snatched her close. “Dammit
woman,” he growled.
Just
because he had seen the glint of light through the empty bullet chamber didn’t
mean he would excuse her trying to fill his gut with lead. If ever there was a
woman who needed to be taken in hand, it was this little, feral spitfire.
Tearing
the gun from her grasp, he put a shoulder to Michaela’s middle and easily
lifted her slight weight high. Ignoring her indignant screams and shouts, Brice
walked with a determined step out of the saloon, tossing a final command to the
corporal over his shoulder.
“See that
her horse and things are sent to the fort.”
“Yes,
sir. Where should I have them brought?” asked the somewhat stunned corporal.
“My
quarters,” answered Major Brice without hesitation as he carried an angry
Michaela out into the night.
USA Today and International Best Selling Author
in Dark Romance. We are all attracted to the forbidden. Addicted to the rush we
get from reading something naughty...something kinky. We love to lose ourselves
in the fantasy. The powerful lord who sweeps the lady away to his remote estate
to ravish her. The cowboy who takes the sassy city girl over his knee to teach
her a lesson. The devilishly charming pirate who seduces his beautiful captive.
I write those erotic fantasies.
Dark Romance Historical Titles
The Submission of Little Emmie
Disciplining the Maid
Penelope’s Punishment
Chosen to be His Little Angeline
The Duke’s Possession
Captive
Papa’s Little Pain Princess
His Dark Obsession
The Dark Forest Anthology
Contemporary Titles
Worth
Fighting For
Ride Hard Historical Western Series
The Cowboy’s Revenge, Book One
The Gunfighter’s Pursuit, Book Two
The Rebel’s Secret, Book Three
Box Sets
Little Victorian Ladies
A Little Submission
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