The Loner

Logan branded her with his mouth, pouring every bit of talent and technique he'd developed over the years into the act.

He tempted them both by lingering over her lips, ravishing her with his teeth, his tongue. He wanted her boneless and aching and aware of all he had to offer.

When his control stuttered, he knew it was time to pull back. He nipped her bottom lip as he lifted his head away, then spoke in a deep-throated, gravelly tone. "You are the most intoxicating woman, Caroline. You make me lose my wits. We are going to be so good together."

"That's manipulation."

"No, darlin'. That's seduction, and you're as guilty of it as I am." He touched her soft cheek and smiled into those sea-blue eyes. "Maybe I really am the Luckiest Man in Texas...."

For my sister, Mary Lou Jarrell. Thanks for "getting" my deadlines and for always being there to listen to me vent.

He had a rocking horse named Racer.

On the front porch of his family's dogtrot cabin deep in the Piney Woods, he and Racer would ride, ride, ride. He wore his prized red cowboy boots emblazoned with a white Lone Star, a gift from his mama and papa for his fifth birthday two months ago. His brothers Alex and Sam had tanned the leather of the vest he wore, and his sister, Sarah, sewed it up in just his size. Nana Grey had sniffled a little when she gave him his white felt hat with its bright red string tie, but Nana cried at everything so that didn't much bother him. The tin sheriff's badge pinned to his vest was supposed to have been a present from Baby Joe—but he knew it really came from his parents. Baby Joe couldn't actually buy presents because he was only two.

He had a pistol, too. It was the prettiest thing. Papa had carved it out of a single hunk of oak and he'd stained it a golden brown and burned an
L
for Logan on the grip. It might be made all of wood, but in his hands it shot deadeye straight.

Today he and Racer followed a dusty trail chasing outlaws who had just robbed a stagecoach of its strongbox. Faster and faster he rode. "We're gaining on them, Racer. Keep going. We're gaining on them!"

The front door opened and Sarah stepped outside. She wore a traveling dress because the family was going to Louisiana to attend a wedding. She looked real pretty, but he didn't say so out loud. He was mad at her. At breakfast this morning, Papa had agreed it was time to get Sarah her very own pony.

"So where are you going, cowboy?"

He snarled at her. "Black Shadow Canyon. And there ain't no girls allowed."

"Oh, really?"

"Yeah. It's where the Apache live and outlaws go to hide."

"I see." Her lips twitched. "Hmm.. .that sounds like a scary place. Guess I'm glad I'm not allowed. So why are you going to Black Shadow Canyon? Are you an outlaw?"

"No, dummy." He stopped rocking long enough to point to his hat. "I have a white hat. I'm a lawman going to catch the villains and make 'em pay for their evil deeds."

His mother's voice sounded from the kitchen window. "You use that ugly word toward your sister again and you won't be able to sit down long enough to ride Racer. You'll have to wait until tomorrow to go kill villains, son. It's time to come in and change your clothes. Papa and the boys are almost through patching the fence, so we'll be leaving soon."

"Aw, Ma—"

"Don't 'Aw, Ma' me, young man. Rein in Racer right now."

"Yes'um."

Half an hour later, the entire family loaded up in the wagon and rode out. The road was muddy from all the rain they'd had in the past couple of days and the going slow. Papa drove the wagon with Nana sitting next to him. Sarah and Mama occupied the seats behind Papa with Mama holding the baby in her lap. His brothers sat in back with him playing cards. Mama, Nana and Sarah fretted on about getting to town in time enough to repair their hair before the wedding.

He couldn't see how it was broken, but he didn't care enough to ask because he was busy watching the trees for trouble. There were outlaws out there—he could tell. He had that black and dark and heavy feeling that let him know ahead of time that something bad was about to happen. He'd felt it right before his grandfather died. He'd felt it when Alex broke his leg. Every time he tried to tell his parents about it, but they never believed him—not even after the bad things happened. Papa called it coincidence and ruffled his hair.

So instead of trying to warn them, he pulled his pistol out of his pocket and watched the trees hard. It was silly to hold the pistol since it was really a toy, but having a gun in his hand made him feel better.

He was scared.

Time passed. The darkness grew stronger. Someone or something was out there. He knew it.

Finally, he had to try. "Papa? Something is wrong. I think you'd better stop."

"You sick, boy?" his father asked as his mother turned a worried look in his direction.

"Don't be throwing up on me, squirt," Sam said.

"I'm not sick. But I'm having my feeling..."

His mother's expression eased. "Oh, sweetheart. I know we've been traveling a long time, and you need to get down and run around, but we're running late. We don't have time to stop. Hear that thunder in the distance? We need to beat the storm to town." Addressing the other boys, she added, "Y'all keep your little brother occupied."

"But that's not it, Mama. I really do know that something bad is gonna happen."

No one listened and the feeling grew and grew and grew. His chest hurt and he wanted to cry and he had to blink away tears so that he could watch the trees for the outlaws. Maybe if he saw them soon enough, Papa would be able to shoot them first. Papa was a really, really good shot.

He stared at the forest, his gaze shifting from side to side to side. So intent was he on seeing the threat emerge from the trees that he didn't spot the one rising from beneath.

It happened in an instant. One minute the wagon was fording a shallow offshoot of Brushy Creek, and the next it was floating. Being swept away.

"Flash flood," called his father above the awful, horrible sound of rushing water. "Hang on, everyone. Dear God, hang on!"

The wagon spun, then began to tip. The women screamed.

He held his wooden pistol in a death grip and stood up tall in the back of the wagon. "I tried to tell you, Daddy. I tried to tell you."

He wet his pants right before he went flying. Something snagged his shirt. "Hold on, son," his father called.

He watched his father jump toward him into the rushing water, then something hit his head. After that, he knew no more.

Bodies were still being recovered from the Sabine River a week after the horrific flash flood that had decimated parts of East Texas. No one knew exactly how many people had lost their lives in the event, though estimates numbered in the dozens.

Ten days following the flood, a traveler spied a bruised and bedraggled boy sitting on a fallen log, constantly rocking back and forth, a wooden pistol clutched in his hand.

Try as he might, the traveler couldn't get the boy to speak more than two words. "Run, Racer, run. Run, Racer, run."

Aware of recent events in the region and mindful of the state of the boy's clothing, he surmised the youngster had survived the flood. In a hurry to continue his travels, but unwilling to leave the boy all alone in the middle of the woods, the man lifted him onto his horse and took him with him. They traveled for two days before reaching the home of old friends, the Jenningses, who had recently decided to open their home to orphans. Not once in all that time had he been able to coax a word out of the boy.

The traveler explained to his friends how he'd found the boy and his suspicions regarding the flood. Mrs. Jennings recognized emotional trauma when she saw it, and she promised her old friend that the boy would find a safe haven with them until his identity, and hopefully some family, could be discovered.

Her husband said, "That's a fine-looking pistol you have there, son. What's that on the grip?"

Without turning loose of it, the boy showed him. "Hmm, an
L.
Does your name begin with an
L?"

When the boy didn't respond, Mrs. Jennings smiled kindly and placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. "He's alive. He's relatively uninjured. He's here safe and sound with people who are ready to care for him, ready to love him. I think that
L
might just stand for Lucky."

Her husband nodded. "Lucky. I like it. C'mon, Lucky, let's go raid my Nellie's cookie jar, shall we?"

Three months passed and though he never spoke, Lucky made friends with the other boys who'd come to live with Reverend and Nellie Jennings. One Saturday morning as Nellie made piecrusts, Lucky walked into her kitchen and said, "I had a rocking horse named Racer."

"They say he's lucky," whispered a barrel-bellied man. "The luckiest man in Texas."

"If he's so lucky then how come he's caught in the middle of a bank robbery?" questioned a fellow sporting a red handlebar mustache.