One Day My Prince Read online

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  Copyright ©2000 by Linda Winstead Jones

  First E-Reads Edition 2004

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  NOTICE: This work is copyrighted. It is licensed only for use by the original purchaser. Making copies of this work or distributing it to any unauthorized person by any means, including without limit email, floppy disk, file transfer, paper print out, or any other method constitutes a violation of International copyright law and subjects the violator to severe fines or imprisonment.

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  CONTENTS

  1888

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Chapter Twenty-four

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Epilogue

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  1888

  Deacon studied the reflection in the mirror before him, liking what he saw. He didn’t consider himself a vain man, not by any means, but he couldn’t deny that he’d been blessed with good looks; he had his mother’s fair hair and the green eyes of a traveling preacher, a strong jaw and full lips the ladies seemed to like well enough. A thick, well-groomed mustache he’d recently cultivated only made his face more masculine and striking.

  But Deacon Moss was more than a pretty face. Much more. He was a fast gun. The fastest. Feared by many and loved by many more, he lived a good life. The best. At the age of twenty-three he enjoyed a reputation that had been as carefully cultivated as his mustache. What more could he possibly ask for?

  In addition to his handsome face, the mirror reflected a woman sitting on the bed they’d just shared. He watched as she slowly pulled one of her stockings up over a shapely leg, and then straightened her blouse so that the nipple he’d been admiring was tucked, once again, beneath green satin.

  Deacon took a long breath, inhaling and exhaling slowly. By God, he loved women. Each and every one of them. Well, as long as they minded their manners and stayed in their place he loved them. Rosie was a sweet girl, and his favorite lady in at least three states.

  She probably wasn’t even twenty years old, but at times her eyes looked much older. Just her eyes, though, and only on rare occasions that came and went quickly. Sometimes he wondered why, what haunted her, but he never asked. It didn’t matter. What mattered was today, that he could count on her to be pretty and lively and honest, and she was always happy to see him. She never gave him any bullshit, not Honest Rosie.

  Strangely enough, he was always happy to see her, too, though he wrote his happiness off to too many weeks without a woman.

  Deacon smiled as Rosie looked up and caught his eye in the looking glass. She smiled back.

  “Who’s the best, sweetcakes?” he asked, knowing what the answer would be. You, Deacon. You’re the best.

  But the answer didn’t come. Her smile faded a little, and she resumed her lazy efforts at straightening the clothes they’d mussed. She’d undressed him completely, starting at his buttons before he’d even kicked the door closed. By the time she’d finished, he’d been so anxious to get at her he hadn’t even bothered to take all her clothes off; he’d removed just what was necessary.

  “Who’s the best?” he asked again.

  Her clothes straightened, her pale hair spilling over her shoulders and down to the mattress, she sat cross-legged on the bed and looked him square in his reflected eye. “You’re a good man, Deacon,” she said, still not answering his question. “I’m always glad to see you come back to Silver Creek. You’re so much fun.”

  In the past, she’d invariably told him he was the best. The best looking, the best lover … the fastest gun she’d ever seen. “Fun?” It was time to get specific. “Rosie, darlin’, who’s the best-lookin’ man in town?”

  She fidgeted, twiddling her thumbs in her lap. “Right this very minute, you mean?”

  He caught and held the reflection of her eyes. “Yep.”

  She squirmed, but didn’t avert her eyes. “Why, that would be Joe White.”

  Who the hell was Joe White? Deacon took a deep breath and comforted himself by studying his fine profile. “Joe White,” he said flatly.

  “Yeah.” She sighed.

  He caught Rosie’s eye again. “Well, sugar lips, who’s the best lover you’ve ever had?” He was confident that this time she would answer correctly.

  “Joe White,” she answered in a whisper.

  Deacon ignored the fact that his cheeks turned red and a muscle near his eye twitched. “Is that so? I may just have to meet up with this Joe White fella.” His nostrils flared, quite dramatically. And then a deep dread settled in his heart.

  “Rosie, honey?” he asked softly. “Who’s the fastest gun in town?”

  She fidgeted, but then she locked her eyes to his and answered, “That would be Joe White.”

  Deacon jumped up out of the chair and spun to face the whore on the bed, Honest Rosie, who never told a lie, who prided herself on always, always speaking the truth no matter how much it hurt.

  “Who the hell is this Joe White fella?” Still naked, he stood beside the bed and glared down at Rosie.

  But the girl wasn’t just honest, she was fearless. Even though his hands were fisted at his sides, even though he was furious at this new development, Rosie stared up at him clear-eyed and unflinching. “I don’t rightly know. He came into town a few days back. Came in on his own, not on the train or nothing. He’s been asking a lot of questions, about Eddie and Charlie Lockhart and some other fella named Butler.” She lifted her eyes bravely. “Eddie got spooked and called Joe out.”

  “Fast Eddie?” Suddenly, Deacon felt vaguely ill. Eddie was almost as fast as he was.

  “Joe, he beat Eddie’s draw by a mile.” Her face positively glowed, damn her.

  “Eddie’s dead?”

  Rosie nodded. “After that, I kinda got to know Joe a little better,” she admitted.

  “You mean”—Deacon spat—“he came up here to celebrate by buying himself a whore.”

  She didn’t flinch at that, either. “Not exactly I mean, he didn’t exactly buy me.”

  It took Deacon a second to catch her meaning. “You mean to tell me you gave it away? You just … you just…”

  Rosie nodded and tried to leave the bed. Deacon gave her a tender shove and she sat back down with a gentle bounce.

  He paced beside the bed, thinking. This was not a situation he could ignore. Joe White and all his questions were bound to be trouble. Big trouble. Deacon wasn’t above bending the law here and there, and he’d broken it on occasion. A stagecoach robbery here, a small-town bank there. No one got hurt, though. And usually no shots were fired, but for occasional warnings. Deacon didn’t see anything wrong with relieving those who had plenty to fill his pockets when he had nothing.

  Right now, even, he was flush with the takings from his most recent heist. Shoot, the woman whose jewelry and cash he’d taken had been so darn pretty, he’d given her a quick kiss before he made his escape. And she hadn’t seemed to mind, though the men she traveled with had blustered irately.

  If
this Joe White fella was asking after Lockhart and Butler he probably was an outlaw himself, looking for employment or revenge. Deacon had considered hooking up with them himself, a while back. Lockhart didn’t waste his time on stagecoach robberies. He and his gang hit banks and trains; they went after the big hauls. Problem was, the people who worked for Charlie Lockhart had a tendency to wind up dead or missing.

  Deacon Moss prided himself on being a man of action, not a whiner. What he really should do was call this Joe White out and get it over with. But if White could beat Fast Eddie by a mile, that might not be too smart.

  Then an idea came to him, and he knew it was the right thing to do.

  “Sugarplum, what does this Joe White look like?” he asked calmly.

  Rosie smiled, showing him her dimples. “He has black hair, and the bluest eyes you’ve ever seen, and the face of an angel.”

  “How tall is he?”

  “About six-three, I’d guess.”

  A good two inches taller than Deacon. “What does he wear?”

  “Oh, he wears this real nice black hat, and a fine black leather vest, and denims and tall boots with square toes. He’s partial to plain white shirts, but I did see him in a lovely check yesterday, and—”

  “Yep, you noted all the pertinent details,” Deacon interrupted sharply. “What kinda horse does he ride?”

  Rosie’s expression went all dreamy and soft. “A pure white mare, the whitest horse I ever did see.”

  He threw open the door and gave a shout. “Leonard! Isaac! Get your sorry butts up here!”

  A door down the hall opened, and a half-dressed woman stepped into view. Naked as the day he was born, Deacon stared her down until she slipped back inside and closed her door. He heard the bolt slam home.

  Leonard and Isaac scrambled up the stairs, all but tripping over one another to get to the top quickly. Deacon shook his head. Good help was so hard to find.

  When they came to a halt in front of him, they looked him squarely and pointedly in the eye. “Whatchu want, boss?”

  Deacon felt a momentary sliver of doubt work its way into what remained of his conscience. Some might call his plan cowardly. And then he remembered the way Rosie had looked when she’d spoken the newcomer’s name, the way she’d given herself away. For some reason that bothered him mightily. Being a reasonable man, he also remembered that this Joe White was a nosy bastard who had killed Fast Eddie.

  Deacon placed one hand against the door-jamb and leaned into it casually. “I want you to find some new gun in town by the name of Joe White. Tall fella, black hair and hat, pretty face. Rides a white horse. He’s a fast gun, I hear, so you’d best sneak up on him and take him by surprise.”

  “Deacon!” Rosie hissed from her seat in the middle of the bed. “What are you—”

  He turned to glare at her. “You’ll shush, woman, if you know what’s good for you.”

  He returned his attention to Isaac and Leonard. Neither of the brothers was too smart, but they were always eager to please.

  “Take him to the edge of town,” he instructed, “where there won’t be any witnesses, and get rid of him.” Dammit, he couldn’t rest easy until the son of a bitch was dead.

  Leonard looked up expectantly. “Then what, boss?”

  “Come back to town and I’ll buy you a drink.”

  He closed the door and turned to face Rosie, who had come to her feet and acted like she thought she might leave the room. Probably to warn that pretty boy Joe White.

  With a smile, he grabbed her around the waist and tumbled her to the bed. “You ain’t goin’ anywhere, sweetness. Why, we’ve just barely got started.”

  She slapped him lightly on the shoulder. “I can’t believe you’d actually send your dim-witted thugs after Joe just because I said he was better than you.”

  “At every damn thing,” he added in a low voice, so she’d be certain to note his perfectly valid reasoning.

  Rosie stopped struggling, softened in his arms, and Deacon felt a jolt of pleasant surprise when she tilted her head back and smiled. The pleasant sensation didn’t last long.

  “Do you really think those two dunderheads can take on Joe White and win? Why, by tomorrow morning you’ll be looking for a couple of new morons to run with.”

  “You think so?” The idea didn’t particularly worry him. Leonard and Isaac easily could be replaced, if it came to that.

  “I’m sure of it. And then Joe will come after you.”

  He didn’t like that idea quite as much. “We’ll see.” To distract her, he reached beneath her skirt and rolled down one stocking, and then he expertly flicked open a few buttons of her blouse. Yeah, he liked Rosie, he liked her a lot. He maybe liked her more than any other woman he’d ever met. “Right now, I got other things on my mind.”

  She smiled and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Deacon?” she whispered. “We can do whatever you want, but it ain’t gonna be free.”

  She might’ve been trying to rile him; he couldn’t be sure. He didn’t let her little reminder that she’d favored Joe White over him stop him from doing exactly what he wanted. This time he peeled off every stitch of Rosie’s clothing, and they didn’t leave the bed for hours—and by God, she didn’t mention that damn Joe White one time.

  The saloon below had quieted somewhat and Rosie had dozed off when a soft knock sounded on the door. Just to be safe, Deacon grabbed his Colt before slowly opening the door.

  He stepped back to let Leonard and Isaac step into the room, where they were bathed in soft lamplight. Leonard’s lip was swollen and seeping blood, and Isaac limped and grumbled. Dirty, ragged and bleeding, they both looked like they’d been to hell and back.

  “Well?” Deacon prompted.

  The mattress squeaked, and he glanced over his shoulder to watch Rosie wake and pull the sheet up to cover her breasts. She yawned and stretched one arm over her head.

  Leonard smiled crookedly. Isaac said, “How ‘bout that drink, boss?”

  He congratulated Leonard and Isaac on a job well done, and ushered them from the room with a promise to be down shortly to celebrate Joe White’s demise. When he turned around, he was caught off guard when he saw that Rosie was crying. Not sobbing, all hysterical, but leaking slow, fat tears from her big blue eyes.

  Deacon sat before the mirror and grabbed Rosie’s comb to fix his hair before dressing and joining the boys. He could see her reflection, there in the glass, as if she reclined just above his shoulder. She sat up and gathered the sheet to her breasts, and a few more tears fell slowly and silently.

  He’d never seen Rosie cry before. Ever. She was a tough broad, his kind of woman. He wouldn’t let her see that those big, sloppy tears bothered him. He didn’t dare.

  He smiled widely. “Who’s the best, sugar lips?”

  This time she didn’t hesitate. “You are, Deacon Moss. You are.”

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter One

  Cold. Joe wished, for a long, painful moment, that he could just go back to sleep. There was no pain there, in sleep, no relentless wind. The chill breeze kept him from drifting off again, slipping over and around his prone body like icy fingers until he forced himself to lift his head from the grit that pillowed his cheek.

  In a heartbeat he remembered what had happened.

  “Sonofabitch,” he muttered hoarsely as he rolled himself, slowly and carefully, onto his back to stare up at the stars. Those two weasels had come out of nowhere, jumping him from behind in the dark alley beside the boarding house where he’d been staying. He’d put up a good fight, getting in more than his share of solid licks and heading toward victory, until one of the bastards had hit him over the head with something solid and heavy, and then everything had gone black.

  He lifted a hand—it was more of an effort than he wanted to admit—and touched the tender knot on the side of his head.

  The night’s events came back to him in bits and pieces; slow and gradual as he stared at the black sky sp
rinkled with countless stars. He’d come awake on the back of his horse, slung over the saddle like a dead man. They were already far from town when he awoke, lost in darkness and silence. As soon as the horse came to a halt, one of the ruffians tossed him to the ground, and then the other … Joe wracked his brain to remember … and then the other one shot him.

  He put a hand to his side, where his flesh ached and throbbed and burned like hell. “Damn,” he whispered when his exploring fingers fell on damp, sticky fabric.

  Well, this was no fine end for a respected lawman and fast gun. Jumped from behind, taken by two strangers who had appeared, in Joe’s estimation, to be less than ingenious. He moved a hand to his thigh, feeling instinctively for his gun, and cursed again when he found it gone. They’d left him alive—which was most likely a mistake—but they’d taken his weapon and left him out in the middle of nowhere without a horse.

  A soft whicker belied that last supposition, and Joe actually managed to smile. They might’ve tried to scare Snowdrop off, but by God that horse was too well-trained to run far or long.

  “Come here, girl,” he whispered, and she did, lowering her nose to nuzzle his chin. “If I could move, I’d climb up there right now and we’d head back to town and take care of those varmints, wouldn’t we?”

  Snowdrop whickered again in response, and Joe reached up to stroke her nose.

  “Unfortunately I’m not sure I can move at all, much less make it into the saddle.”

  That was the sad truth, but Joe ground his teeth and tried to sit up anyway. Lying here in the dirt and doing nothing but admiring the stars was a sure way to die. Every muscle in his body hurt, and the pain in his side was excruciating. When he had almost reached a sitting position, the world swam and tilted and he was sure he’d pass out. Well, he’d pass out if he was lucky. There were worse possibilities at the moment.