Donal 'Mac' McTiernan is on what he hopes to be his last mission for the U.S. Army. He's tracked the deserters to Brady City, Texas where he decides to operate under cover until he's ready to make his move and arrest the two men. Mac had planned to go home to Dallas and live out his life. He hadn't planned on encountering the green-eyed, red-headed woman who would completely turn his life upside down.
Ada Weathered has only two weeks to pay the mortgage on her land left to her by her father. She is working at the school and cafe to earn the money, but won't make enough by the deadline. Will the handsome stranger, fresh off the trail, be the answer to her prayers?
Excerpt.
Central Texas, Early April 1900
U. S. Army Lt. Donal “Mac” McTiernan stopped beside the creek on the outskirts of Brady City, to let his horse take a cool drink. He scooped a hat-full of water, poured it over his head and neck, and then grabbed his saddlebag and canteen from around the saddle horn. What he wouldn’t give, right now, for a hot bath. He’d been on the trail of a couple of deserters for almost a week and he couldn’t tell who smelled better, him or his horse.
He dumped the warm liquid from his canteen, refilled it with the cooler water. Suddenly, his stomach growled and the thought of a hot home cooked meal from Maude’s Café beat out the need for a bath. He’d eaten there last year on a trip back to Fort Sam Houston and the memory of her cooking made his mouth water. Knowing it would be a while yet before he could fulfill that desire, he sat on a fallen log and dangled his booted feet in the creek, to cool off, enjoy the view, and to eat the last of his venison jerky.
It wouldn’t be long before the temperature, even in the shade, would be uncomfortable. Generally, springtime in the Texas Hill Country ranged from warm to hot and this year was no different. There’d been a shower early this morning, and now, with the temperatures on the climb, this afternoon would be nothing less than a steam bath.
He popped the last bite of the jerky into his mouth, folded the cloth it had been wrapped in, and continued to look out over the gently running water. His last conversation with his commanding officer at Fort Sam Houston, Major Marvin Cole replayed itself in his mind.
Mac, your orders are to find Privates Cole and Bridger and bring them back here for trial and court martial. How you do this is up to you, but should you go ahead with your premise of operating under cover as one of them, you will be subject to all consequences of the law until I can confirm your orders.
On a personal note and as a friend, please find our boy, for Lucy and me, and bring him home, preferably alive, but however it happens, bring him home to us.
Mac remembered young Marvin, Jr. had been nothing but trouble for his parents. On his eighteenth birthday, Marvin Sr. had enlisted him in the Army. The boy seemed to turn things around in the beginning, but being gullible and easily influenced, fell into the wrong group of soldiers. A few months back, he killed a man in a drunken brawl and while awaiting trial, he and another prisoner escaped.
Hoping to find him and talk some sense into him, Mac had come on this journey alone. He felt the situation could go bad quickly if their options were limited. His uncle, Ian Benning, a former Texas Ranger, had taught him that sometimes one man could accomplish as much or more than a posse or company of soldiers.
Suddenly, a loud commotion to his right drew his attention. A short distance north of him, several children shouted and jumped into the creek waving their arms wildly about their heads. He stood on the log, shading his eyes with his hand to see what was going on. The loud buzz that followed told him someone had messed with something they shouldn’t have and, would be on their own until the area was clear. He had found out a long time ago, he would rather face the enemy in battle than a bunch of angry hornets.
After a couple of minutes, the buzzing lessened, and he made his way over to the group. They were oblivious to his approach as most were still fighting off real stragglers, as well as imaginary hornets. He reached down into the creek, swollen from recent rains, and pulled children from the water. The last one floundered amidst skirts and petticoats, and he wondered about the girl who had been dragged into the boys’ mischievousness.
Firmly, he hauled her out of the creek, but quickly realized this was no girl. This was a woman grown and quite pretty despite being drenched and mad as a wet hen or hornet, as the case was. He left her sputtering on the bank and began to check the boys for stings.
Only a couple of them had been hit, as it turned out. But what to put on those places to stop the reaction? He didn’t have vinegar, buttermilk, or baking soda like his mother had used when he was a boy, but he remembered a time or two when she had used plain old mud on other bites he had incurred. Why wouldn’t it work on a hornet sting?
He grabbed the two boys, each by an arm, and headed back to the river. Once there, he pulled off their shirts, scooped mud from the bank, and smeared it on the spots where the hornets had struck. When they stopped squirming from the discomfort, he rinsed his hand in the water.
“There,” he said, giving them another quick once over. “You should begin to feel better soon.”
“Ouch. Ow!”
He turned toward the shrieks of distress to see the woman he’d just rescued twirling around and around attempting to reach something on her back. He ran to her.
“Stop twisting and turning so I can see.” He didn’t see anything but brushed his hand down her back.
“Ow, ow, ow!” she yelped, immediately, scooting away from him.
“Take off your shirt!” he shouted.
“I will not, sir.” It seemed her indignation at his request, momentarily outweighed her dilemma, for she stopped spinning, then started again. “Ow, ow!”
“Trust me, you’ve got nothing I want to see,” he said. “The little bugger is stuck inside your shirt!”
“Oh, ow, ow.” She thought about it a lot longer than he would have, but finally unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to the ground at her feet. Covering her chest with her hands and arms, she turned her back to him and asked, “Is it gone?”
Mac picked up her shirt and shook it. A hornet fell to the ground, where he stomped it with the heel of his boot. “Yes, but he left a couple of wicked places where he stung you. Come with me to the bank and I’ll put some mud on them.”
“Will that help?”
“Do it, Miss Weatheread,” one of the boys encouraged. “It’ll stop it from hurtin’, I promise.”
Mac handed her the shirt and led her the short distance back to the bank. Once there, he scooped up a couple of handfuls of mud and carefully applied the muck to the places on her back. The act, in and of itself, was nothing short of evocative, but for many reasons this was neither the time or the place, so he made short work of it.
“There,” he said, taking a couple of steps back putting distance between them. “Feeling better?”
“Some.” Her knuckles were white from gripping her shirt and holding it close to her chest. “Th-thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” He moved farther away from the group and tipped his hat. “I’ll be on my way, now. You and the boys should get out of the heat as soon as possible.”
She gave him a tentative smile. “We will and thank you again.”
Mac made his way back to his horse, who waited patiently nibbling the tender spring grass. Suddenly, it hit him that he hadn’t asked her name. He didn’t know if she lived in Brady City or on a nearby farm or ranch. How would he ever find her again?
Bio:
Carra Copelin is an award winning and Amazon Best Selling Author in contemporary and historical romances. Unlike so many other authors, though, she didn't write from childhood or read long into the night beneath the covers with a flashlight. She found romance novels as an adult needing to escape from every day stress. After reading a gazillion, she found she was hooked, and her future was clear. She had to try her hand at writing so she could get the voices out of her head. It did take a while for life to settle down so she had time to pen her stories, but it finally happened.
She's a member of Romance Writers of America and Past President of Yellow Rose Romance Writers, plus she regularly contributes to the romance blog, Smart Girls Read Romance. She is a member of The Daughters of the American Revolution and The Daughters of the Republic of Texas.
Carra and her hero live in North Central Texas, in the Dallas-Fort Worth Metroplex where they enjoy family and their three beautiful grandchildren. In addition to writing and researching with her fabulous critique partners, she enjoys playing Bridge, working on crochet projects, and tracking down relatives through genealogy.
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