Blind Faith, page 1
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PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
COPYRIGHT © Alexa Aston
Published by Oliver-Heber Books
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Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Also by Alexa Aston
About the Author
Prologue
California 1854
Sunday.
Supposedly a day of rest. At least that’s what a preacher man would think.
Jeb Foster’s only concession to Sundays was he didn’t take a drink until noon. Or a quarter of, at the earliest. Living in hell gave a man a powerful thirst.
He laughed aloud as he cast his line into the still waters of Lake Margarita. At least that’s what he called the body of crystal blue water. The sun reflecting off it blinded him with its brightness, much as Margarita’s beauty had the first time he saw her.
Hell. Any time he saw her.
Jeb shifted on the bank. When had he started down his path to meet the devil? He’d been a right stinker from the start. Sticking fingers into freshly made pies. Swiping an apple or piece of sweetmeat from a neighborhood kid. Slipping a penny from the collection box at church. A thousand things Mama told him he’d done. That is, before she up and left.
He couldn’t blame her. She’d lost a husband and had two little mouths to feed when she hooked up with that Black Irish charmer. Married him when Jeb must have been three or four. He had no memories of his real father— only ones of that whoring drunk who’d made all their lives miserable. Mama finally cleared out one day. Her eyes stayed blackened more often than not. Her body had become a rainbow of bruises piled one atop the other, all hidden under layers of tattered petticoats and cheap gowns.
But did she have to run off and leave Anthony and him with the whoremonger?
That started him on his descent into hell— and his sins piled up over the years.
The pole almost shot out of his hands. Jeb tightened his grip and stood, drawing the line from the water. The fish hooked on the other end put up a strong fight. He watched it struggle, whipping its body from side to side. Finally, the hook tore and the fish flopped onto the ground, straining to reach the water.
With a swift motion, Jeb speared it to the ground with his dagger. Instantly, the impaled fish went still. Its eyes, cold and dead, stared back at him.
Reminded him of his charming stepfather’s.
But that was a long time ago. Jeb had moved on. He’d killed other men. Done things no man should be a party to. Lost Anthony along the way in a barroom brawl. A bit more of him had died each day.
Until he’d met Margarita.
He smiled. Just the thought of her beauty could bring a grown man to his knees.
Suddenly, the quiet of the day was interrupted. Something thrashed through the forest. A wild animal being chased? In flight for its life?
Jeb knew better than to mess with a bear in the midst of his kill but the thought of fresh bear meat made his mouth water. He raced to the nearby tree and reached for his rifle, propped against the trunk.
Whatever it was would be here any moment. Jeb cocked the rifle, ready for what would spring from the dense woods. He was a decent shot, and at this close range he couldn’t miss.
“Jeb!”
The anguished cry tore through the air. He lowered his gun and placed it on the ground as Alena shot out from the trees. He met her halfway. She flung herself into his arms.
“Jeb, Jeb, Jeb,” she cried over and over, tears streaming down her cheeks.
He cuddled the small child and rocked her like a baby, whispering calming nonsense as he stroked the raven hair.
Alena raised violet eyes to his, brimming with tears. Her bottom lip trembled. Jeb saw confusion and sadness in her face. And he knew who put it there.
Kevin McClaine. Her sorry excuse for a father.
“Don’t talk, Sweetie Pie. You’re safe with old Jeb.”
Gradually, Alena’s trembling ceased. Her breathing slowed and the tears dried from her cheeks. Jeb vowed this time he would do it. He’d wring McClaine’s neck and throw him in the lake. No, he’d stake him to the ground and let the buzzards gnaw him to death. Jeb wouldn’t let Margarita talk him out of it.
This time, he would kill Kevin McClaine. They could rot in hell together as long as the Black Irishman kept to a different side of the eternal fire.
Alena touched her small hand to his face. “Jeb?” she whispered. “You need to help. Mama said to come find you if we ever needed help.”
He smiled gently at the beautiful child in his arms. Oh, she was Margarita’s, all right. The smooth, satin skin. Large eyes. Delicate chin. Long, straight hair that hung to her waist. This one would grow up to be as breathtaking as her mother. Maybe more so.
“Well, here I am.” He stood and gave her a slight, reassuring squeeze before placing her on her feet. “Let’s go see what your mama needs help with.”
Alena swallowed. Her mouth turned down and then her face crinkled up again.
“Don’t cry, Sweetie Pie. Jeb’ll fix it, whatever it is. You know that.”
Over the years, he had painted the McClaine barn. Birthed their cows. Fixed the plow. Repaired the fence. Sharpened knives. Whatever Kevin McClaine left undone before he disappeared on one of his frequent benders, Jeb Foster completed.
“You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you or your mama. Come on, little girl. Let’s go.”
He took the child’s hand. They set out for the neighboring homestead. The land had been Kevin McClaine’s payoff after his service in the Mexican War. Jeb was used to having next to nothing, but he shuddered every time he saw the McClaine place.
Margarita came from fine stock, one of the landed ranchero families of California. Her family disowned her after she fell for the dashing American cavalry officer. Now she lived in abject poverty, with only little Alena as the single bright spot in her life.
As they came closer, Jeb determined to settle things, once and for all. He’d wanted to possess Margarita from the moment he met her. Only Kevin McClaine stood in his way. Funny, he’d killed in anger. Dispassionately. For money. For revenge. Yet in his thirty years, he’d never killed for love. Maybe he’d waited because he knew the love Margarita had for him would die if he shot her husband. He’d stood by and watched that bastard chisel away at Margarita long enough. Now, Alena was terrified. He’d give McClaine a chance to go peacefully.
If he didn’t, Jeb would do what needed to be done. Either Margarita would forgive him— or she wouldn’t. He was ready to take the risk. Whatever the outcome, her life would be better with Kevin McClaine gone from it.
The ramshackle cabin appeared in the distance. A trail of smoke rose from its chimney. Jeb hoped he could find McClaine and make it happen fast. He would force Margarita to realize she couldn’t go on living the way she had for the last seven years. He could save her from her husband’s acid tongue and heavy hand. They would be a family, as he’d dreamed of time and time again. Maybe they’d even have a child or two of their own, playmates for Alena.
Alena drew up sharply as they entered the clearing.
“What’s wrong, Pumpkin?”
Her grip on his hand tightened. She looked around, shy as a doe. Jeb knew she was looking for her father.
“Daddy kept hitting Mama, harder and harder. She cried and cried.” Alena looked up at him. “Daddy’s so mean to her. He kicked her. Mama just crumpled up in a heap. Daddy yelled for me to get out. I ran and hid in the barn.”
His gut tightened. McClaine had always mistreated Margarita. Jeb had seen the telltale bruises from the time they arrived. At first, she’d lied and made excuses for how they’d happened. But Jeb knew. He’d seen it before and heard every story, chapter and verse, in his own mother’s book. Finally, Margarita admitted the truth to him.
“Then I’m glad you came to get me, Sweetie Pie. That was the right thing to do.”
“I couldn’t fix things this time .” Alena sniffed. “Mama lets me brush her hair when Daddy’s been mean to her. She says it makes her feel better. But she wouldn’t wake up. That’s why I came to get you.”
Jeb clamped down on the panic that surged through him. He ruffled the girl’s hair. “Why don’t you go wait in the barn, sweet girl? I’ll check on your mama. Leave it to Jeb. I’ll fix things.”
Alena skittered off, pausing to look at him somberly before closing the barn door behind her. Jeb waited until she was out of sight before starting toward the house. He had a bad feeling.
The fire burned low. A pot of stew simmered in the grate. Margarita had been a terrible cook when she’d first married, servants having prepared every meal for her in the past. She was a quick learner, though. Now her apple pie and biscuits ranked with the best of them.
The stillness caused his heart to race. It didn’t feel right, not at all. Alena’s words echoed in his head.
She wouldn’t wake up this time…
He moved past the simple furniture, some of it overturned. An empty whiskey bottle lay on the floor. Jeb kicked it out of the way. He might enjoy a nip every day, but he never drank to the depths Kevin McClaine did. McClaine was a mean drunk.
He moved toward the bedroom. He’d imagined himself and Margarita in there a thousand times, making sweet love in the late afternoon light. Or when moonlight spilled into the room. Jeb set his jaw. That would be a reality soon. He was bound and determined to remove McClaine from their sight. It was time to take a stand.
For love.
Jeb entered the small bedroom and squinted. The curtains were drawn tight. Only dim light peered over his shoulder from the fire and window in the other room.
Then his foot hit something soft. He knelt. Margarita lay before him. He rushed to the window and tore the curtains down. Light spilled in bright waves across the room. He returned to her side. A blanket covered her, and a pillow was partly under her head. Alena’s work. Margarita’s lip was split. Dried blood ran from her mouth in a jagged line. One eye was swollen shut and yet she still looked beautiful to him in her sleep, so peaceful.
Jeb cradled her cheek with his palm and stiffened.
Cold.
His mind screamed as he gently lifted the blanket. She was nude beneath it. The perfect flesh marred with bruises of various shapes and sizes. Some weeks old. Others much more recent. He stroked the swanlike neck, held the tiny, perfect hand in his.
Lifeless.
The bastard had finally killed her. Jeb warned her this would happen. She had laughed, that musical tinkling that gave him the good kind of shivers, and assured him Kevin would never go that far. That his Catholic conscience was even stronger than hers. Beat her, yes. Kill her? Never.
Now, it was too late. Too late for holding her in his arms. Knowing she was finally his. Drinking her intoxicating kisses. Joining their bodies as one.
Jeb pressed his lips to hers, in their first and only kiss. He had loved her from afar. Now, he would mourn her in the only way he knew how. It came easily to him. Maybe it had been born with him.
“Goodbye, my love,” he murmured softly and raised the blanket over his Margarita.
Then he went out to find that no good, wife-killing whoreson.
In the end, it took only a moment. McClaine’s eyes showed the fear Jeb needed to see. He’d buried the body and then returned for Alena. She was his responsibility now.
And no one would ever come between them.
Chapter 1
California 1868
“Let’s get out of here!” Dingus shouted, alerting his band of outlaws it was time to depart.
He scrambled from the stopped train as the others scurried after him, their hostages in hand.
Quickly he leaped upon the back of his horse, securing the payroll bag to the saddle horn before looking up to make certain every man had made it out safely. Several mounted their horses in order to make a swift getaway as Jimbo Simon appeared, the last to step outside the car. Jimbo had to be the dumbest man Dingus had ever encountered. The fool clumsily jumped from the train to the ground and landed on his ankle wrong. The three hundred-plus pounds he carried likely contributed to his being off-balance.
A bad feeling rippled through Dingus as Jimbo hobbled to his horse and swung into the saddle.
Sure enough, a bespectacled man poked his head from the train and fired a wild shot, disappearing again inside the train as several gang members returned fire at him.
He watched as Jimbo fell like a ton of bricks to the ground. A bloodstain appeared instantly in his upper back. Dingus made the decision not to wait around. If Jimbo was still alive by some miracle, he would never survive the rough ride to the canyon hideaway, the gang’s base of operations for years. If the criminal did live, he wouldn’t talk. Jimbo Simon might be as dumb as dirt, but he wasn’t stupid. No one from the Marker brothers’ gang had ever talked.
“Sammy! Put the senator on Jimbo’s horse,” he called out, watching as Sammy quickly bound the man’s wrists together and tied them to the saddle horn.
Sammy slapped the horse and Jimbo’s paint took off at a gallop, Senator Braden Reynolds hanging on for dear life.
Before Dingus could issue another order, Cletus swept up the boy with him. The bookish little fellow— small, pale, his eyes huge and round behind wire-framed glasses— made nary a peep. No one ventured a backward glance at Jimbo as the gang hightailed it away.
They rode for several hours, first at a breakneck pace and then slowing some in order not to tire their mounts. As they rode, melancholy invaded his soul.
How had he ever wound up in charge of such rabble?
Dingus cursed the day the last of the Marker brothers and their various cousins were jailed, shot, or hanged. The remaining gang members should have had the good sense to call it quits with the brains of the group dead or locked up. But this bunch of crazy outlaws lacked common sense.
His eyes darted toward Cletus, the nominal leader when Dingus wasn’t around. Cletus ruled the roost by intimidation. If the others weren’t so stupid, they would plot to overthrow the idiot and bury the bones the buzzards left behind.
Dingus realized he was tired of them all. Weariness blanketed him. His desire for the life the gang provided died long ago. His own life had been a rough one and he’d fallen in with the Marker brothers at a time when he needed companionship. They’d offered it and he’d been grateful for it.
He and Jacob Marker got along especially well, but nothing had been the same since the demise of the blood Markers. Dingus wondered if he might ever escape this association. He was getting old and tired of robbing innocent victims and sitting around in the middle of nowhere with dirty, bedraggled men bragging on their exploits.
That’s why, over the years, he spent more and more time away. Jacob Marker had seemed to understand Dingus’ need for solitude. In fact, Jacob even encouraged it. Dingus wished now that when Jacob was arrested and hanged that he had abandoned the gang for good instead of foolishly sticking around.
But now, sitting before him, might be his golden goose. The opportunity to make the break he so desperately desired. Americans everywhere knew the name Braden Reynolds as one of the most powerful politicians in Washington. A self-made man who had acquired a fortune to accompany the power he wielded. Surely Reynolds’ wife would pay dearly for the return of her husband and only son.
He looked over his shoulder again. The key to everything he wanted rode behind him. It would take cunning— but he intended to walk away with every dime from this kidnapping. No sharing. No splitting the ransom.
In the end, it was every man for himself.
* * *
They rode the rest of the day and most of the night. No complaints voiced. Dingus learned long ago to give an order and stick to it. The men surrounding him weren’t thinkers; they were followers. Only Cletus questioned him now and then. Sometimes with a glance, sometimes pulling him aside. But even Cletus knew of the treasure they held. He saw the greed in Cletus’s eyes and wondered if it mirrored his own.
