Every Little Thing About You (Yellow Rose Trilogy 1)

Every Little Thing About You

(The Yellow Rose Trilogy #1)

Lori Wick

What a time it's been. This book has been with me for literally

years. I was ready to begin writing in 1992, but the Kensington

Chronicles came along. They in turn led to other works,

so Texas was shelved for a time. But because of that, the Yellow

Rose Trilogy has taken on better form and dimension, and I think

the books might be better man the first drafts in my mind.

All this to say, I'm so excited to finally put this first book

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down on paper. The people I need to acknowledge have patiently

helped me come to this point. A huge thank-you goes to:

Phil Caminiti. Your wisdom as we walk through the book of

Mark has been invaluable to me. Thank you for your insight, love

of the Word, and humble desire to be more like Jesus Christ.

Thank you for teaching the student, not the lesson. My world is a

bigger place because of you.

Denise Caminiti. The time in your Bible study has been a joy

and a delight I love your honest approach and easy agenda.

Thank you for your patience with me and for never failing to

show me love and acceptance. I consider you a friend so dear.

The women from Bible study. If I try to name all of you, I will be

sure to miss someone. Please allow me to thank all of you for your

love and kindness. I learn so much from you and Thursday mornings

are a highlight of the week for me.

The elders' wives at BECC. Thank you for what you've shared

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and taught me. I am privileged beyond measure to know and fellowship

with you. Thank you for your hunger and humility and

the way you bring glory to God.

My own precious Bob. You hung in there, Wickie! This book

was put on the back burner so many times, and still you waited

in silence. Thank you for being patient and for cheering the

loudest along the way.

Did I laugh before you were born?

Not quite so often, I'm sure.

Did I know about a mother's love before you?

Not by half.

Keep growing, keep trusting,

and never forget that I love you.

For my Tin Man.

September 1881

Austin, Texas

the midafternoon sun beat down unmercifully as the

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cowboy, a Texas Ranger, rode into town. Heat waves shimmered

on the horizon, and the blowing dust caused the

horse's eyes to squint as Slater Rawlings tethered the dark

roan animal to the hitching post. Other than seeing that the

horse could reach the water trough, Slater gave little heed

to Arrow's comfort. For weeks the rider had been working

on the courage to tell his boss about his decision, and now

it was time to do the job. It was a relief to arrive at the

Austin office and walk in the door.

#"

"Why can't you do both, Slate?" Marty Bracewell asked

one of his best rangers just 15 minutes later. "Why does this

faith thing mean you have to leave?"

'It's not my faith--just as it is, Brace," the younger man

tried to explain. "And it's not the job itself. If s the travel.

I'm tired of tracking and being out on the trail. I want to

settle in someplace for the winter, possibly longer." What

Slater Rawlings didn't try to explain was the need to get to

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church on Sundays--die ache inside of him for fellowship.

Brace, whose life was the Rangers, would never have

understood.

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"You'll be back," Brace said with confidence, the desk

chair creaking as he leaned back with ease. "It's in your

blood, just like it's in Dakota's. You'll be back."

Slater didn't even reply. He stood, lifting his hat to his

head.

"Take care, Brace."

"I'll do that. You do the same. I want you coming back

fit."

Not only did Slater not reply to this, he didn't even look

back as he placed his badge on the desk. With a hand to the

doorknob, he quietly let himself out. Just moments later he

was back astride Arrow and headed out of town. With a

thought of how cool the hills would be, he headed west.

//^

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October 1881

Shotgun, Texas

friday afternoons were normally quiet. Saturday nights

were a little more rambunctious, but most days and evenings

in Shotgun were peaceful It was for this reason that Liberty

Drake was surprised to be needed. Being called out of the

sheriff's office to one of the saloons was the last thing she

expected, but Shotgun had laws about carrying firearms into

the saloons or after sunset, so she had a job to do. She

strapped on her holster and followed Jep, the saloon

owner's 11-year-old son, down the street. The boy ran, but

Liberty walked, not apathetic, but not certain she needed to

be out of breath when she arrived.

And indeed, things were quiet when she pushed

through the swinging doors of the Brass Spittoon. Jep's

father, Gordie, nodded his head to a table in the corner. Liberty

took in three men. Two were daytime regulars, but the

blond was a stranger. There wasn't even a drink in front of

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him, but Liberty had no choice.

"Excuse me," Liberty began politely, waiting for the

man to look at her. "I need you to surrender your firearm

to me. Shotgun has outlawed firearms in the saloons and

after dark."

Slater looked up at the woman beside him. She was

dressed in baggy men's clothes, which did nothing to hide

her gender, and he could only stare. Was that really a sheriff's

badge on her vest? His hesitation cost him. With a move so

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fast and smooth that Slater blinked, the woman's gun

cleared leather as swiftly as she lifted his own gun from the

holster at his hip.

"You'll need to come with me, sir," Liberty said calmly.

"What?" Slater returned, finally uttering his first word.

Liberty gestured with the gun and moved so he could

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stand. "This way, please," she ordered congenially but

watching every move as he slowly rose. One of the other

men handed saddlebags to Liberty, and after she'd thanked

him and draped them over her arm, she moved Slater

again with the motion of her gun.

As though he'd been frozen from the cold, Slater

moved very slowly as he walked through the saloon. At the

table he had stopped just short of reaching for his pocket to

show his Ranger's badge when he remembered it wasn't

there. He also remembered what such a move would look

like. He didn't want to run the risk of having this woman

shoot him. She had cleared leather very smoothly, but that

didn't mean she could shoot straight. Barely managing to

keep his amazement concealed, he walked ahead of her

and out onto the street. He made the mistake of turning to

her as soon as he was outside and felt cold steel press into his ribs.

"Just turn back around," she said evenly, "and lead the

way straight up the walk."

Now seething inside, Slater turned and obeyed. He

didn't know when he'd been so angry. At six foot, he was

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not a huge man, but this small woman with the badge,

clearly too full of herself, had him at her mercy. With a

prayer for calm that was slow in coming, Slater did as he

was told. They hadn't walked for a minute when she

spoke.

"In here," she directed, and Slater, already aware of the

location, went through the door of the sheriff's office. He

heard the door shut behind him and turned.

Every little Thing About You 11

"Empty your pockets onto the desk, please," Liberty

ordered, all business, as she put the saddlebags out of reach

on the floor. "Nice and slow will do fine."

Slater did so without ever taking his eyes from her,

which meant he couldn't miss the way she watched him in

return. She was calm; he had to give her that. As he looked

into her eyes, he knew with a bone-chilling certainty that

she would shoot if she felt she had to.

"Now your boots," she instructed.

Slater hesitated and heard the gun cock.

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"All right," he said smoothly. "I'll just tell you, though,

I do have a knife in my boot. I won't use it--I just wanted

you to know."

"Put the knife on the desk," Liberty said, taking a

second to eye the Bowie knife that appeared. Not a heartbeat

later her eyes were back on her prisoner, who was

removing his boots with slow, measured movements.

"Your belt now," Liberty said as soon as he stood back

to full height. He was a taller man than she liked to deal

with, but she didn't think he was going to threaten her. She

couldn't, however, take any chances.

"Turn around," was the next order, once all of Slater's

belongings were on the desk. "Head into the cell"

Slater did so, the feeling of unreality washing over him

again. He turned as soon as he was inside and watched as

the door was shut and locked. He also watched as Liberty

holstered her gun, set his on the desk, and began to speak.

"Dinner comes at 6:00 this evening, and breakfast

tomorrow at 7:00. You're expected to be neat and quiet.

Unless you're wanted for something, the charge to get out

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is ten dollars."

"Ten dollars!" Slater growled in outrage. "You can't be

serious."

Liberty shrugged. "We need a new jail, and this seems

like the most obvious way to come up with the money."

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Slater's mouth fell open. He couldn't believe what he

had just heard. How in the world had he thought this was

a nice little town?

"I don't suppose you have it/' Liberty said now, her

voice resigned as she studied him.

"Why would you say that?" Slater was just irritated

enough to ask.

Liberty's brows rose. "You can't even afford a haircut

and a shave." There was no censure in her voice, only calm

reason. Slater swallowed his rage as she turned away. He

turned his back on the bars. The cell was standard fare, but

he saw what she meant--repairs were needed.

With a sigh that he made no attempt to hide, Slater

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walked to the bed and collapsed on the straw mattress,

which sent up a musty odor. He leaned against the wall

and tried to stay calm. Nothing worked. Wrong as it was,

he was furious, and for right now he was going to stay that

way.

Ten dollars, he thought once again. That'll be the day.

*3r

"How'd it go?" Griffin Drake asked the moment he

stepped into the sheriff's office--his office.

"Just a newcomer in town. He wouldn't give up his