Darlin' Druid Read online

  Praise for

  Lyn Horner

  And Her Award Winning Novel

  Darlin’ Druid

  “It blends a compelling romantic story line . . . with a coming-of-age story line for the heroine, Jessie . . . Fans of historical romance and possibly even those who are into westerns, sans romance, should find much to like in Darlin’ Druid.” ―BigAl’s Books and Pals

  “I'll admit I was completely thrown by the title of this book. If for some reason you are as well, "fuhgeddaboudit"! This is an engaging, page turning, can't put it down, don't know where the time went, read.” ―Todd Fonseca, Reviewer

  “A touch of the Irish in the Old West is the best description of this story. I really enjoyed the book. . . . I would definitely recommend this book to everyone.” ―Laura Wallace, Paranormal Romance Guild

  DARLIN' DRUID by Lyn Horner should be made into a movie! It has all the right ingredients: wild west setting, lots of fast-pace action, a feisty heroine, a truly nasty villain and a hero-to-die-for. It's a real page-turning tale, historically accurate, beautifully written and lots of romance to make your heart race.” ―Tori Phillips, Harlequin Historical Author

  Other Books by Lyn Horner

  Dashing Druid

  Six Cats In My Kitchen

  White Witch (a novella)

  Darlin’ Druid

  Lyn Horner

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Darlin’ Druid

  Copyright © 2010 by Lyn Horner

  All rights reserved.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Review Excerpts

  Other Books by Lyn Horner

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  Epilogue

  Dashing Druid Excerpt

  Dedicated to my husband Ken

  for years of encouragement, and

  to Dan and Carrie for putting up with

  their writing obsessed mother.

  PROLOGUE

  Chicago; April, 1872

  “Saints above! Where is it?” Jessie muttered, slowly making her way across the dark, fog-shrouded field. She couldn’t see one blessed thing.

  The moon had shown brightly when she left the boarding house, but this irksome blanket of white had rolled in off Lake Michigan when she was halfway here. She’d thought of turning back, but her errand was too urgent.

  She shivered in the chilly, moist air. Tugging her shawl tighter about her throat, she stepped cautiously, afraid of slipping on the wet grass or tripping over a snag. Encased in worn leather high-tops, her feet ached with the cold. Not for the first time, the wooden bucket she carried whacked the side of her knee, drawing a pained gasp from her lips.

  After blindly crisscrossing the field twice, she was growing frantic when, suddenly, the bucket struck a hard, immovable object. Stopping short, Jessie reached out and touched rough stone beneath her questing fingertips.

  “At last!” She’d found the artesian well. Situated within this small clearing on Chicago’s West Side, the well was surrounded by wooden cottages inhabited by working class families much like her own, but she doubted she would meet any of the occupants. Unlike her, they weren’t mad enough to risk their necks in this fog, not for a mere bucket of water. Still, she cautiously listened for any rustle of footsteps in the grass, but heard only the croaking of frogs and the wild hammering of her own heart.

  She expelled an uneven breath, wondering if she truly was mad for coming here. This well had never been blessed like those in the old country; surely it held no power. Yet, instinct had driven her here tonight, compelling her to honor the old ways in this, her desperate undertaking.

  And why not? Wasn’t she living proof that her mam’s tales of ancient magic were true? Besides, she didn’t dare attempt this at the boardinghouse. Da’s temper would explode like a firecracker if he caught her at it, especially after the row they’d had over supper.

  As always, their quarrel concerned her lack of a husband. She had spurned another “foin Irish lad” – the latest in a long line of prospective beaus Da had cajoled into meeting her. Furious over her choosiness, he’d threatened to arrange a marriage for her. It was an old threat, to be sure, but from his determined tone, she’d known he meant it this time. She’d decided then and there that she must act before it was too late. However, now that the moment was upon her, she dreaded what she might learn.

  She gnawed her bottom lip. Never before had she deliberately sought one of her visions. They had simply taken hold of her, always as she gazed upon flickering water. She shuddered, recalling one ghastly vision – Chicago engulfed in flames. To her horror, her premonition had proven true last October. Shying away from that terrible memory, she prayed her gift would be kinder tonight. She had to know if he, the man in her nightmarish dreams, truly existed.

  “Get on with it then,” she whispered, impatient with her fear.

  Trusting the fog to conceal her, she set her bucket down and drew a stubby candle and a lucifer from her skirt pocket. It required three tries before she managed to strike the match on the well and light the candle. Grateful for the light, she placed the candle atop the low wellhead then bent to lift a small bunch of lilacs from the bucket. Drinking in the flowers’ fragrance, she gently laid them aside and set to work pumping water into the bucket. When it was nearly full she positioned it at the base of the well so that the candle flame reflected in the pail’s glistening contents. Finally, she knelt and propped her flower offering against the well.

  The cold dew swiftly soaked through her skirt and petticoat, chilling her legs and making her shiver once again, but the lilacs’ sweet scent calmed her. Breathing deep, she gazed at the flickering light in the water and chanted softly,

  “Water, water, tell me truly,

  Who is the man I shall love duly?

  Under the sky, upon the sod,

  Show him to me, in the name of God.”

  Jessie repeated the incantation in Gaelic, and something shifted inside her, like a hidden door opening. Eyes focused on the candle’s reflection, she gradually lost touch with her surroundings. She no longer felt the cold or smelled the lilacs or heard the frogs. Sight was the only sense left to her, sight that reached out, searching.

  The water grew hazy and a pair of gray-green eyes topped by dark, rakishly slanted brows appeared. It was him, the man who always saved her in fiery nightmares. As usual, his other features remained a blur, but she knew those gentle, caressing eyes.

  “Where shall I find you?” she asked, her voice an entranced whisper. At first no answer came, but she waited and was soon rewarded.

  “Look west,” a ghostly voice replied in her head.

  She had but a moment to register the words. Then those familiar eyes faded away; from the dark depths emerged a second pair of eyes. Flame-orange, they glared at her with maniacal hatred. A black, clawed hand reached out for her.

  Jessie screamed and recoiled, tumbling backward onto the wet grass. Trance broken, she huddled there, trembling with fear for several moments be
fore she could bring herself to peek at the water again. Much to her relief, she saw only the candle flame and her own terrified image.

  Scrambling to her feet, she emptied the bucket, doused the candle and stumbled across the field to the road. Then she hurried homeward, thoughts consumed by the twin messages she had received. The first was easy to decipher. To find the man of her dreams, the man she believed she was destined to love, she must travel west with her brother Tye, who intended to embark on the latest silver rush in far off Utah Territory.

  The second message was less clear. Did it mean the owner of those mad, burning eyes also awaited her somewhere beyond the western horizon? Dear God, she hoped not.

  CHAPTER ONE

  Outside Omaha’s Union Pacific Station, Captain David Taylor awaited the westbound train. Tired of the wait, he paced to a corner of the building, crossed his arms and leaned back against the yellow frame wall. This new depot was a far cry from the rickety old Riverside Station he’d passed through some years ago, he mused. Built on landfill, the new structure stood near the Missouri RiverBridge, which had recently replaced the slow ferry service David recalled with distaste.

  Admiring the bridge, he did his best to ignore the passengers and baggage crowding the station platform. He loosened his collar and tugged his campaign hat lower against the hot noonday sun. Barely June but summer was already here, meaning Indian trouble and long days in the saddle. Even so, he’d be glad to get back to his Wyoming post. He wasn’t cut out for city life. Not that he regretted his trip to Cincinnati. He should have gone sooner, a lot sooner.

  He scowled, recalling his Cousin Susan’s telegram. Mother failing.Asking for you. Come before too late. If you care.

  If he cared? Aunt Martha was like a mother to him. Of course he cared. Still, he understood Susan’s rancor; he hadn’t visited his aunt since right after the war. He’d been trying to put his life back together, but that was no excuse.

  Unlike her daughter, Aunt Martha hadn’t reproached him for staying away so long. That wasn’t her way.

  Pain ripped through him when he pictured her lying frail and helpless in her bed. Then he smiled. Inside, she was as iron-willed as the day she had arrived on the River T twenty years ago. A widow with grown children even then, she had left behind a comfortable life and traveled alone to the remote Texas ranch, all in order to see him, her motherless eight-year-old nephew, brought up decent. And then she’d been told by her stiff-necked brother to go back where she belonged. Not that she’d listened, of course.

  Aunt Martha had turned the River T into a real home, something his mother had never done, David bitterly reflected. Unlike that selfish hothouse flower, Aunt Martha had loved the ranch and the broad Texas prairie. If not for the war, he suspected she never would have left, but she’d refused to live under a Secessionist’s roof. Her adamant stand had led him to join the Union Army, an unforgivable sin in his father’s eyes.

  Now, to please his aunt, David had promised to consider going home. But he doubted his father would accept his help, no matter how stove up the stubborn old mossy horn might be. Fresh guilt stabbed him. If he had been there to help run the ranch, maybe Pa’s accident never . . . .

  A woman’s shriek rent the air, interrupting his ruminations and jerking him to attention. The sound had come from inside the depot.

  “What the devil?” he muttered. Cutting a path between startled travelers, he shoved open the door and stepped into the building. The stuffy interior reeked of tobacco and sweaty bodies. Finding a gap in the crowd, David caught sight of a red-faced young corporal. The trooper bobbed and weaved, arms raised to fend off blows being rained upon him by a woman in a brown poke bonnet. Her weapon was a heavy looking black reticule.

  “Scoundrel! I’ll teach ye some manners, I will!” she vowed in a furious Irish brogue. Swinging wildly, she sent the corporal’s blue cap flying.

  “Take it easy, lady!” he cried. “I didn’t mean no harm.”

  Wondering what offense the man had committed, David shouldered his way through the crowd until he stood directly behind the woman. Slim and a head shorter than himself, she wore a calico gown, the same drab color as her bonnet. Some settler’s wife, he assumed. But where was her husband?

  “No harm, indeed! Stand still, ye heathen, and take what’s comin’ to ye,” she ranted. As she spoke, the yellow-haired corporal spotted David’s uniform and threw him a desperate look.

  Feeling duty-bound to step in, David cleared his throat loudly and said, “Excuse me, ma’am, but perhaps that’s enough. The corporal might be needed in one piece when he gets back to his post.” His remark drew laughter from several bystanders.

  The woman snorted angrily. “Indeed? Well, I don’t give a fig whether the lout is in one piece or twenty!” So saying, she landed a solid whack on the corporal’s noggin that made him yelp.

  “Get ’im, darlin’!” a man in the crowd shouted, egging her on.

  Afraid the young soldier might retaliate, David reached out to grasp the woman’s arms, stopping her in mid-swing. “Ma’am, if you’ll just settle down . . . .”

  “Let me go!” she shrilled, attempting to wrench free.

  He should have complied with her demand, but some primitive instinct made him slip an arm around her and haul her back against him. A sweet scent of lilacs and woman washed over him, and he instantly grew aware of her feminine curves.

  She gasped indignantly. “How dare ye? Bithiúnach! Muclach! Take your filthy hands off me.”

  Glad he didn’t understand Irish, David cursed under his breath when she rammed her heel into his shin. It didn’t hurt much thanks to his leather boots; nor did the small fists pounding on his arms. But her frantic twisting sent the wrong signal to his male parts.

  “Calm down, you little wildcat!” he growled. Releasing her, he stepped back before he humiliated himself.

  Whirling around, the woman drew back her arm as if to slap him, only to freeze when their eyes met. A choked sound escaped her lips and the angry color drained from her cheeks. Seeing her sway, David grasped her shoulders to steady her. Her hands clutched his forearms as he returned her wide-eyed stare.

  Her eyes were sapphire blue, so dazzling that he had trouble breaking their hold upon him. When he did, he noticed how young she looked – eighteen or twenty, he guessed – and what a beauty she was.

  His gaze wandered over her smooth, creamy cheeks and dainty nose then lingered on her pink parted lips. Forcing himself to look elsewhere, he noted the dark auburn curls framing her brow. Her ugly bonnet hid the rest of her hair, but he bet it would look like silk when she let it down.

  Then he noticed how rapidly her breasts rose and fell, and desire surged through him, swift and strong. He felt a loco urge to pull her into his arms and kiss her. Reluctantly dragging his gaze back to her sapphire eyes, he wondered what had come over her. A moment ago, she’d been mad as a hornet. Now she stared at him as if she were seeing a ghost.

  Dazed by the sight of him, Jessie wondered vaguely if she was having one of her visions. Her gaze kept returning to his gray-green eyes. Crowned by dark brows with an eerily familiar slant, they matched those she’d so often seen in her dreams. Could this tall, uniformed stranger be the man she had left home to find? She hadn’t expected her quest to bear fruit so soon. And the longer she studied his sun-bronzed, square-jawed face, arrow-straight nose and unyielding mouth, the more she doubted he was the one.

  Those rakish features were hard, not gentle, and his hauntingly familiar eyes did not caress her like the ones in her dreams. Instead, they devoured her, making her stomach flutter and her heart race. When he boldly stared at her breasts, they tingled as if he were actually touching them. Stunned by her reaction, she inhaled sharply, catching the scent of shaving soap and virile male. She wondered if he would kiss her.

  Sweet heaven! What was she thinking? She didn’t want him to kiss her. This fierce looking stranger could not be the man she was seeking. Surely his eye color and slanted brows were me
rely a coincidence.

  Laughter from the crowd edged into her consciousness. Her antagonist glanced from side to side, scowled darkly and released her. She let go of his arms and stumbled back a step. Seeing the onlookers’ leering grins, she recalled how the officer had handled her and how brazenly he had looked her over, and she burned with embarrassment. It didn’t help to know she had stared back at him like a mindless fool. Seeing his lips curl in amusement, her temper soared.

  “Are ye through manhandling me, sir? Or d’ye still fear I’ll injure yon hooligan?” She flicked her hand toward the offensive young soldier, who had snatched up his cap and retreated to a safe distance.

  The officer glowered at her, eyes narrowing in a way that firmly convinced her he was not the man she sought.

  “Ma’am, with all due respect, I suggest we settle this matter calmly.” He nodded toward the crowd. “Or do you enjoy giving them a show?”

  Jessie gasped at his taunt but fought down a furious retort, refusing to give him and the others more reason to laugh at her. She settled for glaring at him angrily, to which he merely cocked an eyebrow.

  “Why don’t we find a quieter place to discuss this?” he said.

  She nodded curtly, and he motioned for the corporal to follow as he opened a corridor through the crowd. Walking stiffly in his wake, Jessie couldn’t help noticing how well his broad shoulders filled out the dark blue uniform coat and how his back tapered into a trim waist. Then she caught herself staring at the fluid flexing of his muscular flanks. Hastily, she focused her gaze on a spot between his shoulder blades.