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 Dion
Helping a friend in need will change her life forever…
A sexy surrogate romance by Katie Dowe of BWWM Club.

Talented fashion designer Odette Billings and multi-billionaire heir Dion Horton have been best friends since
childhood.

When Dion asks Odette to be a surrogate mother to help him start anew from a bad break-up, she agrees,
wanting only to support her friend.

But as the pregnancy progresses, her feelings for Dion begin to deepen into something much more than friendship.

Yet Dion is still haunted by his tumultuous past, and by an ex-girlfriend determined to get in his way!

Will Odette’s growing love for Dion find its way to his guarded heart?

And now with the baby due any day, can their bond evolve into a love that withstands the uncertainties of a new
beginning?

Find out in this emotional yet sexy romance by Katie Dowe of BWWM Club.

Suitable for over 18s only due to sizzling hot sex scenes with an alpha billionaire!

Tip: Search BWWM Club on Amazon to see more of our great books.
Free: Get Jason from the Members From Money series where YOU'RE the
star!!
Hi there. As a special thank you for buying this ebook, for a limited time I want to send a copy of Jason free of
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You'll be emailed a new chapter once a day for 7 days. You can get it by clicking the cover below or going here:

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This book is so exclusive you can't even buy it. As well as sending daily emails with the story, I'll also send you
updates when new books like this are available.

Copyright © 2023 to Katie Dowe and AfroRomanceBooks.com. No part of this book can be copied or distributed
without written permission from the above copyright holders.
 Contents
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

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 Chapter 1

She didn’t want to think. The balmy spring afternoon was too lovely to spoil by thinking dark thoughts. She’d come
to the country home in the middle of nowhere to escape and try and get some ideas of her designs on paper.

She would take a swim in the lake, it would be cold of course, but she wasn’t going to make that stop her.
Besides, she loved swimming and if the water was bracing, then it presented more of a challenge.

Yes, she decided – she’d take that swim after her run. The house was far enough away from neighbors so she
wouldn’t have the inconvenience of someone stopping to talk. Checking to make sure the front door was locked,
she bounded down the steps of the porch, stopping to inhale the scent of peonies and daffodils at the sides of the
building.

She wasn’t here for the most part, but she had someone overseeing the property and keeping up the place. Melvin
had been with the family since her mother was a child and continued to make sure the place was well kept.

Turning to the left, Odette started her power-walk which turned into a sprint before long. A slender woman, topping
just over five foot three with dark-brown hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, her body was athletic with wonderful
breasts and legs long enough to eat up the ground.

Odette Billings was strikingly beautiful with a flawless caramel complexion, large, dark eyes and a pointed chin.

Taking the time to appreciate the verdant green foliage and the flowers, she could feel the tension slowly ebbing
away. The conversation with her sister had upset her even more than she’d thought. It’d been a battle between
them for years and every time Odette felt as if she was the one in the wrong.
It was always the same argument. Their father wanted to see her to make amends. To make up for the years he’d
been absent from their lives and explain why he’d walked away from his wife and two daughters, leaving their
mother to raise them.

She wasn’t interested in hearing his excuses and she’d told Lydia that much, but her elder sister, by two years,
wanted to make peace.

"He said he was frightened and wary of responsibilities."

"He was a father, and as far as I heard, being a parent is scary. It doesn’t mean you get to run away from the job.
I don’t want to see him. You don’t want me to see him." She’d finished angrily. "What I have to say won’t be pretty.

He waited for Mom to die to come out of the woodwork. I get it, I‘m a fairly famous designer and he figured he
could come and hone in on that. What does he want? Money? Because if that's the play here, he is shit out of
luck."

"He isn’t after money."

"How do you know that?"

"Well, he hasn’t asked me for any." Lydia told her stiffly. "I’m not exactly hard up, you know. My practice is doing
very well." Her sister was a pediatrician with her own private clinic and catered to the rich and famous.
They’d both done very well for themselves and had their mother to thank. Gloria Billings had pushed them to be the
best they could be and to follow their dreams.

"Now that we’re well established, he suddenly wants a reunion."

"He’s sick."

"I don't care."

"He’s our father, and the only parent we have alive."

"It just goes to show that life is unfair. He’s alive and Mom’s dead. Makes me wonder."

"Maybe it's for a reason."

"I don't want to see him."

"How can you be so stubborn!"

"I’m being realistic. You’re being sentimental and stupid. The man is coming around because he wants us to take
care of him. He hooked up with some woman who wasn‘t able to give him children and now he wants back into our
lives. I’m not interested."

"This discussion isn’t over."

"It is now." She’d turned off her phone after that. Inhaling the bracing air, she continued on her walk a few more
minutes before picking up the pace until she was running along the winding path. It was lovely here and she’d
contemplated giving up her apartment and living here.

It would suit her, she thought. The wide-open space, the isolation, the solitude. She wasn’t like her sister who
craved the city lights and the nightlife. She liked the quiet because it helped her to think and create.

She could have horses - a few livestock as well, shaking her head, she stopped at the bubbling stream, enchanted
by the water. All around she was surrounded by the spectacular beauty of nature. The greenness of the trees
towering above with the sprinkle of flowers dotting the luxurious grass carpeting the ground.

From where she was standing, she could see the old industrial warehouse that had once been a thriving apple
farm. The sad and dilapidated structure stood out against the sunlight.

She and Lydia had been coming here since they were children and had found the place a source of fascination.
They’d been allowed to pick apples and watch as the men and women went about their daily business.

At one point growing up, she’d thought about becoming a farmer, but that had been quickly replaced by her
fascination for clothes and the making of them.
She’d started designing when she was ten. Her mother had been horrified when she took scissors to her denim
jacket and redesigned it, but that had been the beginning of a very lucrative career for her.

She’d gone from making over her own clothes to do so for her friends at school. She went to design school to
become certified and from there to Horton's Department store where she started to sell her ideas.

Now, she was working on her own and her designs had taken off. She was proud of what she’d accomplished, her
only regret was that her mother wasn’t around to see it.

She’d already wasted two years on a man who had just wanted her to take care of him and it upset her that she
hadn’t seen him for the loser he was.

"That company isn’t for me, darling. They don’t appreciate my expertise. I want to be somewhere I’m wanted."

She’d supported his lazy ass when he decided that, at the age of thirty, he wanted to go back to school to study
software. It was only after paying out thousands she realized he wasn’t attending classes. When she confronted
him about it, he said he’d lost interest.

"What happened to the money?"

"I had some debts to pay and I used it to do that."

She’d kicked him out after that and blocked his number from her phone. The sex had been mediocre at best and
she was ashamed that she’d been with him because she thought having a man was the thing. Now, she was
concentrating on her career and men be damned. She wasn’t going to jump into anything again.

Lifting her hands in the air, she stretched and felt the satisfying pull of muscles. She was grateful she hadn’t given
into his pleas for them to have a child. That would have been a disaster.

Now, however, she was faced with another dilemma, the real reason she’d come out here to think in the first place.
Dion had asked a favor and she was thinking about it. Turning around, she headed back to the house, her steps
slower this time. Squirrels scampered across her path and she could see one rabbit chasing another.

He’d asked her to be a surrogate. It wasn’t about the money for her, of course, it was helping out a friend. Shaking
her head, she chuckled softly. What a favor! He'd said the same thing. "I know it's a lot to ask."

"The mother lode of favors." She agreed.

"If you say no, I’ll understand."

She’d told him she’d think it over and that was what she was doing, but she already knew what the answer was
going to be. Dion had helped her out in those early days, pushing to have her designs showcased in the illustrious
department stores even when his haughty and arrogant mother had been against it from the very beginning.

Ilene Horton was the matriarch of the company and ruled everything with an iron fist, but her Achilles heel was her
only son and heir. He’d been able to convince her to give the designs a chance. Not only had he insisted on them
not being shoved into some corner, he’d suggested she be given a window for her display.
That had been the start of her career and she owed it to him. He’d be waiting for her response and she wasn’t
going to draw it out. It felt strange for her to be agreeing to carry a baby for him. He wasn’t a normal guy; he was
the heir to a multi-billion-dollar fortune and the baby would be his heir.

She hadn’t told her sister yet and she wasn’t certain she would, at least not yet. Lydia would have a lot to say
about her decision. She was going to discuss it with Dion at length. She’d been reading up on the subject to
familiarize herself with the process.

She didn’t want to think about the ramifications just now. She realized it was something she was going to have to
do. She owed him that much.

*****

Ilene Horton pursed her lips as she watched her son pacing the length of the carpeted floor. A frown crossed his
forehead and there was an anxious look about him she didn’t like. He was thirty-two years old and was an
impressively lean and handsome man with thick brown hair and green eyes, both of which he’d inherited from her.

His regular check at the doctors had confirmed what he suspected and she hated that this was yet another
disaster he was going through. She would have preferred he go through another channel, but she understood that
after what that homicidal bitch had done to him, he was staying clear of relationships.

“She hasn’t called.’ He finally broke the silence as he stopped his wandering to stand in front of her desk.
“She said she would.” She wasn’t exactly in approval of her, but if the woman was going to do this for him, she
was definitely going in her good books. “And she’s usually a woman of her word. You know her far better than I
do.” She added.

An amused smile touched Dion’s lips as he stared at her. Ilene Horton was a force to be reckoned with and a
dynamic and influential leader of the fashion industry. But to him, she was simply his mother, a woman he loved
and respected. “She’s not that bad.”

“She’s rude and abrupt.”

“She can be forthright, something I thought would appeal to you. She reminds me of you.”

He laughed at the horrified expression on his Mom’s face. Ilene Horton was in her sixties, her skin still smooth and
flawless. Her brown hair was streaked with silver, giving her a distinguished look which she cultivated. Her green
eyes were as sharp as ever and her shoulders erect.

“God forbid.’ Those sharp green eyes sized up the man in front of her. “You like her.”

“She’s a very good friend and isn’t intimidated by my position and, most of all, she’s not afraid of you.” He added
with a grin.

“She gets on my nerves.” With a sigh, Ilene acknowledged, “She is beautiful.”

He cast her a wry look. “We’re just friends. Both of us have gone through-“ He ran a hand through his hair and
deliberately steered away from the troubling thoughts.

He was still having nightmares of the time he’d been tied up for more than a week and almost lost his life. His
mother had warned him about Amelia several times, but he’d been fascinated by her beauty and her sophistication.

“Darling-“

“I’m fine.” He forced a smile. The press had salivated over the event for several months and he was only now
getting back to some sort of normality. He was still wary of women and aside from a quick tumble a few times
after that, he wasn’t in a hurry to make a commitment.

“I want to hurt that woman for what she did to you.” The fury on Ilene’s face was evident.

“She’s where she belongs.” He didn’t bother to tell her that Amelia had reached out to him and that he was still
feeling the aches from the stab wounds. She didn’t need to worry about anything like that.

He'd spoken to Odette about it and she had been colorful in her anger.

“You really know how to pick them.”

“You’re one to talk.” He’d pointed out teasingly.

“God, we are a hot mess!”

“I think I take the prize.” He agreed, grimly. “I almost died because of my choice.”

“You had no idea the bitch was crazy. I saw the two of you together several times and she looked normal as hell.”

He’d laughed at that. She always had the ability to downplay the heavy stuff. He’d been bombarded by the press
until his mother had threatened to file complaints and set their lawyers on them in order for them to back off. Now,
he was trying to return to normality.

He still had feelings for Amelia which made him sick with guilt and shame. She’d been beautiful, of course, but also
intelligent and energetic in bed. She’d started introducing drugs into the mix and, when he balked at that, she’d
backed off for a bit.

When she brought another man to have a menage a’ trois, he decided the most logical and sensible thing was to
break things off.

She’d begged him to reconsider, but he realized belatedly that the relationship was destructive and she was
leading him down a path he didn’t want to take. He should have had the common sense not to meet with her, but
she’d begged and pleaded with him.

His phone pinged, bringing him sharply back to the present. Pulling out his phone, he looked at the LED, his heart
thumping inside his chest. “It’s her. I’ll take it in my office.”
“You’ll let me know?” She asked anxiously.

“Of course.” Sliding the green icon, he headed for the door. “Hi.”

“Hi yourself. I hope I didn’t catch you going into a meeting.”

Her voice warmed his cold heart and gave him much needed hope.

“I was just talking to Mother.”

“How is the dear lady?”

Nodding to his assistant, he closed the doors to his office and laughed ruefully. “Singing your praises.”

“I bet.” She snorted. “We should talk.”

“We should. When?”

“Soon. How are you for the weekend? Say, Saturday?”

He barely glanced at his schedule and made the decision. This was a lot more important than the tennis match at
the club.

“Where?”

“You know the house? My Mom’s place. I’m here for the weekend, trying to get away and do some work.”

“Wine. I’m going to drink as much as I can now, since for the next nine months I’m going to be banned.”

His breath caught in his throat and he lowered himself into the chair weakly. “You’re saying yes?”

“I’m saying yes. We’re friends, Dion, and you did something for me that I’ll never forget. What did you think I was
going to say?”

“Go to hell?” He ventured shakily. “I’ll never be able to pay you back for this.”

“I might ask you for an island when all of this is over.”

“Done.”

Her husky laugh sounded in his ear. “I think it’s time you have something to look forward to.”

“Thank you, Odette. Seriously. After I asked you, I realized I was asking a lot of our friendship.”

“I used the hell out of you when I wanted to showcase my designs,” She reminded him.

“This is bigger, and your designs did a hell of a lot for our stores.”

“I agree.” She told him with a laugh. “How are you?”

“Now? I’m over the moon.” He admitted.

“I’m going to be a bitchy pregnant woman. I’ve been reading up and pregnancy increases the senses. Beware.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.” He paused and closed his eyes as the relief coursed through his body. “Have you called
him?”
“Nope.” She knew instinctively who he was referring to. “And I won’t.”

“I’m not going to tell you that a parent can be precious or anything like that.”

“Good. If you did that, I’d have to hurt you. I already have Lydia breathing down my neck about the entire thing.
Well, anyway, just wanted to share the news. Have to go. See you on Saturday.”

He hung up and sat there staring at the ash gray wallpaper, his gaze fixed. She’d said yes. When he’d come up
with the idea of asking her, he’d mentioned it to his mother who had objected at first and then warmed to the idea.
“You know how much I want a grandchild.”

Now, she was going to be carrying his baby and he was grateful for the sacrifice. He’d been reading up as well
and knew that the fact she’d never given birth before made it slightly risky.

After the pregnancy, he had no idea what would be next, but he wasn’t going to think about that now. running his
hands over his face, he rose and left the office.

“I’ll be in Mother’s office for a bit. You may transfer my calls there.”

Without breaking stride, he walked past the assistant’s desk and realized it was empty.
Pushing the doors open, he stopped short. “I could come back.”

“Nonsense, darling.” Ilene waved a dismissive hand. “Type that up and send me a copy and hold my calls.” She
waited until the woman had left and closed the doors behind her. “From the expression on your face I’d guess that
the answer is positive.”

Walking around the desk, he grinned and pulled her out of the chair. “She said yes.”

“Oh, darling!” Walking into his arms, she allowed the rigidness to leave her shoulders and closed her eyes in relief.
“I might have to kiss her.”

“I’m not certain she’d be up for that.” Putting her at arms’ length, he noticed the moisture in her eyes.

“I’m getting emotional, I know, but this is finally a happy moment.”

“I’ve put you through so much.”

“Don’t worry about it, darling.” She kissed his cheek. “All is forgiven. Now, I know it’s early in the day, but I feel like
champagne.”

“So, do I.”
 Chapter 2

He enjoyed the solitary drive as the urban gave way to the rustic and rural. He passed through a small town with
quaint stores and wondered if they would benefit from having an exclusive line of Horton’s here. Shaking his head
at constantly thinking about business, he forced himself to enjoy the spectacular view and the clean air.

He’d cleared his schedule so he could spend the entire day talking and planning. Turning off onto the dirt track, he
slowed down and made his way carefully towards the sprawling ranch type house, a smile crossing his lips when
he saw the woman curled up on the porch swing, her long legs tucked underneath her.

There were papers strewn all around her and she was nibbling on the tip of her pencil.

She smiled as she lifted her head.

“You had the top down.”

Alighting from the low-slung BMW, he made his way toward the porch and bounded up the steps. “To enjoy the
scent and the breeze.” Leaning over, he kissed one smooth cheek before making space by moving some papers to
sit next to her. “You look well.”

“I look stressed.” She corrected with a sigh. Gathering the papers into a pile, she put them on the table to her left.
“It’s good to see you.”
Dark brown eyes searched his face. She’d seen him several times since the awful incident with the mad woman
and, during that time, he’d had that gaunt look about him. She knew he thought he was in love with the woman and
had suffered as a result of it.

“Want something to eat?”

“I brought the wine.” He shook his head and started to rise. “I left it on the backseat.”

“Enough time for that.” Placing a hand on his arm, she pressed him back down. “How are you?”

“You made my day, made my damn year actually.” His smile reached his green eyes and she was pleased to see
them twinkling. “I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”

“I want to say it’s nothing, but it is a big something. I’ll say instead that I’m happy to help.” She took a breath.

“I know the risks- “

“So do I.” She shook her head, the untidy pile of hair bundled on top of her head, slipping a little. “I’m not going to
concentrate on that aspect now. As soon as I leave here, we’ll go to-“ She gave him a quizzical look. “I’m assuming
you have a place?”

“The company has a vested interest in a private clinic in town.”

She tilted her head to stare at him. She’d had a huge crush on him in high school, but he’d been out of her league.
She’d decided he wasn’t so bad for a rich and entitled white guy and they’d become friends instead. “Of course,
you do.”

“Dion- “She touched his arm briefly to get him to look at her. “I'm going to ask a very personal question.”

“You usually don’t give a warning.”

“This time I am. Are you still in love with her?”

She watched closely as the mask dropped and his eyes became hooded. “I don’t think so. She’s still reaching out.”

“Dion- “

“I’m trying to let go.” Shaking off her hand, he lunged to his feet and went to lean against the rail. “I almost asked
her to marry me.”

He told her bleakly. “I had plans for our lives, it didn’t matter she was ten years my senior, I admired how her body
looked, how young she looked. I used to accuse her of looking younger than I did.” His hands gripped the wooden
railing until his knuckles showed white.
“She’d tell me it’s good genes. When she started introducing other things into the relationship, I almost gave in,
that was how desperately I wanted to please her.” He turned to face her, eyes weary and sad. “I was so tempted
and would have done anything to keep her.”

“Only you didn’t.” She pointed out softly. “You came to your senses the way I did. You have to stop beating
yourself up.”

“I have a track record.” He reminded her harshly. He could talk to her – she was the only one he could open up to,
the only person he didn’t have to pretend with. “And it’s damn lousy.”

“That’s changed now. You had the good sense to ask me to be your surrogate.” She said lightly, desperate to take
that look off his face.

It succeeded. Leaning back against the railing, he laughed, arms crossed over his chest, broad shoulders shaking.
“Yes, that I did.”

“There you go.” Holding out a hand, she waited for him to come to her and took her hand. Tugging lightly, she
persuaded him to take his seat. “We made mistakes and hopefully we would have learned from them.

Right now, I’m not going to allow any negative talk of the past. We’re going to concentrate on the future, and that
future will include a tiny baby. You need to concentrate on that.”

“You’re right.” Taking a deep cleansing breath, he gave her a grateful look.
“Good.” Squeezing his hand before releasing it, she pushed up out of the swing.

“You’re not wearing shoes?” He noted, staring at the small feet with the bright-green nail polish.

“Look at that.” Throwing him a teasing smile, she took his hand and led the way inside. “I have to warn you I gave
the maid the day off.”

“I won’t say anything about the cobwebs I see hanging from the ceiling." He laughed out loud as she stopped and
stared upward.
“I made you look.”

“For that, you’re going to help with the dishes.” Leading the way into the cozy yellow and white kitchen, she went
to get an apron, tying it around her slender waist. “I made chili and a salad, and we’re eating right there.” She
pointed to the small table under the large bay window.

"I’ve never washed dishes in my life. Oh, the wine."

"Go and get it and you’re going to learn today. I’m not doing this by myself."

"Yes ma'am." He gave her a mischievous grin and hopped off the stool to go back outside.
Odette liked the fact he was feeling much lighter. She’d been away when she heard what happened to him and
had reached out immediately. He’d been a wreck - not just from the disappointment and loving a woman who was
as crazy as hell, but that same woman had almost ended his life.

The double blow had left him reeling. He’d gone into a depression that had lasted months. To her credit, his Mother
had fought to get him back and she could see he was getting there.

Getting the salad together, she was chopping lettuce when he came back in with a bakery bag and the wine.

"I picked up dessert as well."

"Please tell me you know me well enough to pick up strawberry shortcake."

"I know you very well."

"Remind me to kiss you when I’m done." She pointed to a space on the counter. "Open the wine and let it
breathe." She squinted at the label and nodded in satisfaction. "Cabernet. Perfect."

"Shall I pour us a glass?"

"I’m almost finished here and yes, I could use one."

"How’s the design going?" He went to fetch the glasses and came back to work the cork out of the bottle. It was
strange how at home he felt. It wasn’t just the coziness of the place, but her company as well and it’d always been
that way between them.

Taking the glass from him, she dumped the greens into the bowl and took an appreciative sip. "I’m stuck."

"You’re never stuck."

"Well, I am now. I’m supposed to be designing these period costumes for the movie - Loving Elizabeth - as in
Queen Elizabeth and I’m way off. I’ve read the script and done my research, but I still think there’s something I’m
not getting."

"You’re a perfectionist." He pointed out.

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It can be." He grinned at her. "I remember when you were designing the contemporary lines to put in the stores.
You’d call me up at all hours of the day and night obsessing over the design."

"That's because I was afraid of your mother. She’s scary as hell, and she didn’t want to include my designs in the
first place. She put a lot of pressure on me to come up with something spectacular." She gave him a thoughtful
look. "You were very patient with me."

"I wanted to strangle you by the end of it.' He told her dryly, green eyes twinkling.
"You told me to get over myself and get it done. You were an asshole."

"You got it done, didn’t you?"

"That’s beside the point." Putting the glass down, she went back to slicing tomatoes. "I have this idea for straight
A-line dresses, and I’ve been scouring all of Europe for the right kind of material and colors."

She dumped the pieces of tomato into the bowl. "Instead of pastel. The female character is blonde and white."
She broke off with a smile when he started laughing.

"I happen to know her."

"So, you agree with me."

"Erin is a beautiful and classy young woman."

"I didn’t say she wasn’t, but she is too damn blonde. Blonde hair and ghostly white skin.” She shook her head. “So
definitely jewel colors.”

“I agree.”
“I love this.” She’d finished chopping vegetables and turned the flame down on the chili.

"This what?"

"Us, here like this. It feels right."

"I was just thinking the same thing." He objectively admired her smooth skin and the hairs curling against her face.
She wasn’t wearing makeup and was the most beautiful woman he’d ever known. "Want to talk?"

She shrugged. "He wants to meet."

"You’ve not decided to?"

"He claims he’s ill."

"You think he’s lying?"

She shrugged again, her expression moody and irritable. "The guy walked out on us like a zillion years ago and I
grew accustomed to not having a Dad. Now he wants to come back and expects me to run over and give him a
hug. Screw that."
"Lydia thinks different, I’m guessing"

"Lydia is the forgiving sort. I’m not." She sighed. "He’s messing with my head. I hate him for what he did -"

"However, you’re curious. You want to confront him and demand to know what the hell happened to make him turn
tail and run."

She gave him a rueful look. "You get me."

"I always do." Their eyes met and held for a minute before she picked her glass up.

“Anyway, thinking about it got me off my game. I want to just put him away and not think about him at all, but every
few minutes, something would pop up. I can’t help think it’s very convenient for him to come back into our lives at a
time when both Lydia and I are doing very well. It has to be about money. Am I being cynical?”

“You’re being realistic.” He told her quietly.

“There you go.” She toasted him with her wineglass before hopping off the stool to turn off the flame. “Dinner is
ready. Grab some bowls from the cupboard.”
He hid a smile as he grabbed the bowls. He’d been born wealthy and, as far back as he could remember, he had
people picking up after him. Odette was the only one who could order him around without a second thought.

“Yes, ma’am.” His sham humility had her giving him a sharp look as she took the bowls and started ladling out the
chili. “It smells good.”

They settled down to eat in companionable silence, eclipsed only by the clink of utensils against the bowls. That
was another thing that hit him each time he was with her. The silence was never uncomfortable, but they would slip
into it with ease.

“What do you think?”

“You don’t need validation.” He told her teasingly.

“That's right, I don’t.”

“It’s very good.” He told her with a smile. “You don’t usually cook.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not good at it.”

Dipping her spoon into the chili, she took an experimental swallow and nodded in approval.
“Whenever I’m working, I forget and, by the time I remember, it’s late and I don’t want to eat anything heavy.”

“You should hire someone.”

“Remember what happened to the last one?” She asked him dryly.

“She stole from you. There are reputable agencies out there.”

“She was a friend of a friend.”

“That’s always a mistake.”

“I found out the hard way and you know I hate people in my space. I hired a cleaning service and it’s working out
pretty well. More wine?”

“Why not?” Holding out his glass, he watched as she poured.

“I see Horton’s has been in the news again.”

“This time in a good way.”

“You guys are branching out and turning up in quaint little towns.” She gave him a curious look. “I’m betting that’s
your idea.”

He nodded. “I passed a town on my way here and will be checking it out. The Horton name is synonymous with
quality. That will never change. We’re an exclusive brand- “

“You’ve certainly been giving Romano’s and the others a run for their money.”

“We try, but making brands to suit the everyday people is the way to go.”

“I’m just thinking that Ilene must have been forced to start letting go of her rigid standards.”

Dion laughed as he reached for his wineglass. “Mother had to be persuaded and convinced that designing clothing
for the working class doesn’t mean we’re lowering our standards.”

“She thought she was doing that when you convinced her to start showcasing my designs.”
“She was proven wrong, though.” He shook his head. “Your enthusiasm was contagious.”

“That’s because I was desperate to sell you. I knew if I did, I was in. I didn’t want you to do it because of our
friendship.”

“You know me better than that.”

“It helps that you love what you do.”

“Fashion is in my blood and the stores mean a lot to me.”

“I’ve been to the ones in Rome, Milan and Paris and have to say-“ She shook her head. “I was definitely bowled
over. It’s not just the way the products were showcased, it was the architecture, the spacious interior and the
unbelievable luxury. It felt like I’d stepped back in time.”

“We recently opened one in Hawaii and two more in London.”

“I saw the pics of those and they’re lovely. You were there for all of the opening.”

“It’s kinda my job.”

“And you do it so well.”

“Thank you.” He murmured. “I’m trying to make up for the mess I made.”

“You’ve more than done that.” She deliberately steered him away from the painful past by dipping back into the
company. For the rest of the meal, they spoke about fashion trends until she rose to get the dessert.

“I think we should walk this off a bit.”

“I think so too.” Leaving the dishes in the sink, Odette went to get her tennis shoes and light jacket before heading
out next to him.

“I normally do my runs early in the mornings or late at nights.”

“The air is so fresh and clean.”

“I’m thinking of spending most of my time here.”

He gave her a glance, admiring the delicate curve of her cheek. She’d put on a green jacket that was zipped up to
her chin and looked like a delightful wood nymph, not that she would appreciate the comparison.
“It’s too quiet.”

“That’s precisely the point. Listen.”

“I don’t hear anything.”

“My point exactly. Birds are singing and the sounds of the wind whistling through the trees is so soothing, it makes
you think that everything is okay with the world.”

“You sound like a poet.” He told her teasingly. “You’d miss the bright lights in minutes.”

“I’ve been here for the past three days and I’m OK.”

“Give it another day.”

“You’re saying you wouldn’t be able to spend a couple of weeks here?”

“No.” He stated unequivocally. “I’m city born and bred.”

“So am I.” They’d reached the stream with the clear water bubbling over the smooth stones.

“Tell me that standing right here doesn’t give you a certain amount of peace.”

Moving away from her, he leaned against the trunk of a massive oak tree, his head tipped back to breathe in the
crisp air. Very soon he was going to be making his way back or he might spend the night by staying in one of the
guest rooms.

He was sure Odette wouldn’t mind. He’d meant to leave earlier but spending time with his friend had made the time
fly by.

“Dion?”

“Hmm?” Tipping his head down, he gazed at her upturned face and noticed the worry lines on her brow.

“Let’s go and do some exploring, shall we?”

He didn’t like the impish smile on her beautiful face.

“Uh no. It looks downright creepy. There might be thieves and serial killers hiding out in there.”
“Yesterday, I went in there all by myself.” Tugging at his hand, she got him to move.

“Why would you do something stupid like that?” He allowed himself to be led, albeit reluctantly.

“Because I happen to be adventurous. Come on, city boy, your yellow is showing.”

*****

In the guest room Odette had assigned to him, Dion found himself staring up at the plain ceiling, a small curving his
lips. He hadn’t brought anything to sleep in, and had stripped down to his underwear. Odette had found him some
blankets and, after finishing the bottle of wine, they’d turned in for the night.

She’d dragged him into the old warehouse and used the lights from their phones to pick their way through broken
floorboards, cringing at the scent of mold and mildew.
After a half an hour, he’d purposefully dragged her out of the stale air and headed back to the house.

The time spent with her had soothed his frazzled nerves like never before. She made him laugh and forget the
problems and issues plaguing him. He’d been stupid when it came to relationships with the opposite sex.

He’d thought he had it right with Amelia, but had turned out to be dead wrong. Now, he was reeling from the
consequences and had almost brough the company down with him.
His mother hadn’t condemned him even though she had reasons to do so, and for that he was grateful. He was
trying to put it all behind him now and Odette was right. He was going to have to cut all ties with Amelia. Odette
had given him a new lease on life and he wasn’t going to mess things up again. He had something to look forward
to.
 Chapter 3

Even though she’d researched the procedure extensively, Dr. Mary-Ann Mitchell, head of the clinic, and the one
who would be leading the process explained it to them in detail.

“Knowing each other is supposed to make things easier. You’re a healthy young woman, Odette, and normally I’d
advise against being a surrogate as this will be your first time giving birth. You’ve spoken about that aspect of it, I
assume, and know all the risks involved?”

“We do.” Odette answered for both of them. Dion had insisted on accompanying her to all the appointments, which
had started two weeks ago. “How long will it take?”

“Not long.” The silver haired woman smiled at her. “We’ll proceed in a few minutes and you’ll need to lie flat on
your back for nature to take its course.” She glanced from one to the other. “I understand that you’re friends- “

“Best friends.” Dion told her firmly, knowing what was coming next. “Our lawyers have already been through the
legal ramifications and we signed the necessary documents.”

The doctor nodded. “Ilene assured me that it was all above board.” She paused before rushing along. “What you
will be going through – both of you - will be very intense and hormones will be flying all over the place. There are
going to come times when- “

“No offence, Doc, but I read everything. I know you think you’re trying to warn us of what’s to come, but we’re
solid.” She exchanged a glance with Dion who nodded in agreement. “We both want this and are willing to work
through all of it.”
He reached for her hand. They were both so caught up in the moment, they failed to notice the look of interest on
the doctor’s face.

“Odette is doing me the favor of solving this problem and I’m going to be there for her.”

“You had better be.” She said with a teasing smile before looking at the woman. “Shall we?”

“Of course.” Dr. Mitchell gave a disarming smile.

“A room is ready for you.”

*****

“How do you feel?” He asked a little anxiously.

“You realize you’ve asked me the same question three minutes ago, right?” She was lying back with her legs
slightly raised as they waited for the required time to pass.

“That’s not true. The first time I asked if you were okay.”
“Same thing.”

“And the second time, I asked if everything was okay.”

“Funny.”

He grinned at her. Taking her hand, he pressed his lips against the back of it. “You're doing all the work.”

“You had better remember that, too. I’m fine. You realize this might not happen at the first try, right?”

“I know.” He was still holding her hand and somehow it felt right. “But I have high hopes.”

“So do I. Fingers and everything else crossed.”

They both looked up as the doctor came back into the room.

“You’re free to go. I have added some supplements and vitamins to your prescription.”
Noticing the joined hands, she pulled up a swivel stool next to the bed.

“I reminded Dion it could take several tries before anything happens.”

“Indeed, but we’ll hope for the best. You’ll know when it happens.” She told Odette with a smile.

“As soon as I feel the slightest twinge, you’ll be the third to know.” She smiled at Dion. “The first will be you and I
know Ilene will be second.”

“Of course. I wish you both all the best.”

*****

“What now?” Dion asked as they went out to the parking lot.

“Don’t you have a multi-billion-dollar company to run?” It was a balmy afternoon in May and the scent of begonias
budding nearby made for a pleasant ambience.

“And you have designs to submit.”

“I do. I finally managed to come up with something satisfactory.”

“I’m sure it’s more than that. I –“ His phone pinged. “Give me a minute, it’s probably my assistant-“ He frowned as
he stared at the LED.

“Dion?”

“Yes?” He stared at Odette.

“Who -“ Suddenly she realized and the anger came. “Give it to me.”

“No. I – I'm just going to ignore it.”

“She’s just going to call back. You should report her to the prison guards.” Grabbing the phone from him, she slid
the green icon.

“Darling- “

“Listen, you sick bitch. Leave him the hell alone. Haven’t you done enough?”
“Who is this?”

“This is the woman who’s going to have your phone privileges revoked. He doesn’t want to talk to you.”

“Is he screwing you? Because if he is, that’s not going to last very long. He belongs to me; we share a bond- “

Odette hung up and slapped the phone into his palm. For some reason, she felt anger rising up inside her.

“Change your damn number,” She blazed at him.

“You know I can’t do that.” He was ashamed and angry with himself that he was still susceptible to Amelia’s wiles
and Odette knew it.

“Then what are you going to do, Dion?” She wanted to shake some sense into him. “Is she going to control the
rest of your life?”

“She doesn’t control my life.” His jaw was rigid, green eyes blazing. “I’m trying here.”

“How are you trying?” She almost stamped her foot in frustration. “She’s still calling and you’re letting her. She’s in
prison for almost killing you and you take her calls. Are you that desperate and stupid?”
He stepped back, his breathed backing up inside his throat as he stared at her. “I have to go.”

“Dion-“ She called out, but she watched helplessly as he dragged the door open and got into his vehicle.

She’d hurt him deeply; she realized that. Who the hell was she to judge? She’d stayed with a loser for two years
and had funneled money into his account even though she knew he was using her. “Oh Lord.” She whispered,
getting into her vehicle as he drove out of the lot. “I’m going to have to find a way to make it up to him.”

*****

He didn’t go back to the office. He knew his mother was waiting to find out how it went, but he wanted to be alone.
Taking a left turn, he drove into the private cemetery and nodded to the security on duty who knew him by sight.
Charles Horton was buried there in the family plot that had been bought centuries ago.

Exiting the vehicle, he walked slowly to where several of his ancestors were paraded in a straight line. His father
was the latest. The patch of land was private and came with a bench for the mourners to sit in comfort and style,
something he’d always thought was ironic. Who would want to spend an inordinate amount of time in a graveyard?

No matter how well kept the graves were, they were still symbols of bodies buried, of loved ones who would never
return. Lowering himself onto the padded bench, he stared at the inscription. It was simple enough.

Birth and day of death and the usual- 'Loving husband, father and friend.' The inscription was just a formality, a
charade, because Charles Horton had never been a loving husband or father. Far from it. He’d cheated on his wife
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his head—a kind of go-devil on wheels he called it—but now he is
useless, and I want you to help me out.”
Bertram showed no surprise. In fact no development of this
strange adventure, in which he found himself cast, could surprise
him. He looked the pile of machinery over carefully.
“There are the wheels and frame of a hayrake,” said Hoog. “And
there are a couple of road scrapers. Take the bottoms of those
scrapers and fasten them to the hayrake frame, and you’ve got
something that you could walk right up to a nest of rifles with. Ain’t
that right, Bertram?”
The young Texan nodded. “I reckon it might work out that way,” he
replied, “but I didn’t know that you were accustomed to getting your
men from behind things like that, Hoog.”
The gunman darted a murderous glance at Bertram, and his
hands moved toward his hips, but Swingley stepped quickly between
the two men.
“Hyar! No fussin’!” he commanded. “We ain’t got more’n two hours
start of the gang, and we’ll have to work fast. Let’s have that go-devil
fixed ’fore the boys git here.”
Bertram knew that to refuse outright would be equivalent to a
declaration of war. Yet he was far from having so detached a
viewpoint regarding the expedition as he had at the start. Previous to
his meeting with the girl he had been ready for most any adventure.
As an alien gunman—a Hessian in cowboy traps, as he bitterly
called himself—he would have cared little about any harm he might
bring to those concerned in this range war, so remote from his home.
Cattle interests or rustlers—it had made no difference to him until he
had met Alma Caldwell. Since then a growing distaste for the whole
business had come upon him. Yet he could not very well drop out.
He would be a marked man in a strange country, and somebody
would be certain to slay him as one of the invaders.
Working so leisurely that he made Asa Swingley curse fervently
under his breath, and deepened the glitter of hate in Tom Hoog’s
eyes, Bertram started the forge fire and performed the comparatively
simple task of attaching the scraper bottoms to the wheels.
 When the work was completed Swingley crouched behind the
contraption and pushed it about with an enthusiasm that was almost
boyish.
“You’ve been slow enough about it, Milt,” he said to the young
Texan, who stood with bare arms folded over the leather apron
Swingley had provided, looking at the cattleman in undisguised
contempt. “But it’s a good job, all right. If anybody holes up in front of
us, they ain’t goin’ to stay holed up very long, now that we’ve got this
go-devil.”
It was as Swingley said. The machine would afford protection for
two men, who might push it with their hands under the very muzzles
of rifles and revolvers. Bullets might rattle against that thick shield of
iron, but the men behind it would be safe.
“Old Jim had the right idea!” exclaimed Swingley, “and you’ve
worked it out in good shape, Milt. It’s time for the crowd to be comin’
up, and, if I ain’t mistaken, you can see this go-devil tried out, purty
quick after daylight.”
As Swingley spoke, the advance guard of the command could be
heard coming, and soon the road by the blacksmith shop was filled
with mounted men, none too good-humored at being routed out
before sunup and without breakfast.
“There’ll be plenty to eat after a little work that’s mapped out first,”
said Swingley, haranguing the crowd. “The first rustlers we’ve got to
git are not more’n a mile ahead of us, in a cabin to the left of the
road, toward the foothills. You can’t miss the place. I want it
surrounded. If any man from the cabin shows his face after
daybreak, he’s to be shot—and shot dead. But I don’t want any noise
and no firin’ till you see somethin’ to shoot at. Tom Hoog will take half
the men this side of the cabin, and I’ll take half around on the other
side. Be careful shootin’ across, so we don’t hit each other.”
Hoog and his division started up the road. The moon was
beginning to pale, and there were bird noises from the prairie,
indicating that dawn was not far away.
Bertram had not put on his coat, but still stood in his leather
apron, a sledge hammer in his hand.
 “That’s right, Milt,” said Swingley, reining his horse beside the
young Texan, “you stay here and be ready to bring up this go-devil
when I send for it. Arch Beam, you stay here with him.”
Bertram knew that Swingley was suspicious, that he had detailed
Beam as his guard. He smiled grimly, as the leader of the expedition
clattered away at the head of his half of the command.
“Arch,” said Bertram, as the last echo of hoofs died away, “let’s
see your gun.”
“Sure,” said the cowboy, handing over his six-shooter, with a grin.
Bertram put the weapon in his own belt, beneath the blacksmith’s
apron. Then he stepped to the cowboy’s horse, which was standing
riderless in the doorway. Drawing Beam’s rifle from its scabbard
Bertram extracted the cartridges from the magazine. Then he put the
weapon back where he had found it.
“Now Arch,” said Bertram calmly, “consider yourself held up. Both
guns are useless, and I’ll ask you to step back in the shop and not
move, while I undo a little piece of work I’ve had to do for Swingley.”
“Sure,” replied the imperturbable Arch, with a grin, “I’ve seen so
many queer things on this queer picnic that nothin’ is goin’ to
surprise me—I’ll give you warnin’ of that.”
Bertram swung the sledge and with half a dozen strokes
destroyed the wheels of the go-devil, past all fixing. Then he flung
the hammer into one corner of the smithy and, rolling down his
sleeves, put on his coat.
“Arch,” he said, “I’m quitting this expedition right here. Want to
desert with me?”
“I don’t guess I do,” replied Arch, surprised in spite of himself.
“The people in this country will scalp you alive when they learn that
you came in here with this gang. You’d better stay on and chance it
with us, Milt.”
“I’d have to fight Swingley when he saw that,” replied Bertram,
pointing grimly to the destroyed go-devil. “Between the two camps of
enemies I seem to have made, there’s nothing for me to do but take
to the brush. Good-by, Arch, and sorry to have had to hold you up.”
Bertram flung down the cowboy’s empty gun and, swinging into
his own saddle, cantered down the road, with a backward wave of
his hand to the puzzled cowboy in the doorway of the blacksmith
shop.
 CHAPTER IV
A BATTLE AND A BULLET.

Bertram knew that the wagons would soon be coming along,

under guard. Accordingly he turned off toward the foothills, which
were beginning to be touched with pink. At a few rods from the road
he was indistinguishable in the tall sagebrush and scattered groves
of quaking asp and cottonwood. As he neared the foothills the tree
growths became thicker, and soon he was moving in a forest which
was comparatively free from down timber and underbrush.
The loneliness of the country struck Bertram as amazing. They
had passed by no ranch houses on the road during the journey of
the invaders from the railroad terminus. The blacksmith shop was
undoubtedly the first outpost of civilization. All else was given over to
unfenced prairie.
As the light grew stronger, and the bird sounds more pronounced,
Bertram heard the sound of firing from the direction in which the
raiders had gone.
There was a heavy volley, succeeded by firing at irregular
intervals.
Being without any definite purpose in mind Bertram determined to
make his way as close as possible to the firing and observe what
was going on. Sheltered in the trees on the sides of the foothills the
task was not difficult. From one glade he caught a glimpse of the
blacksmith shop and saw that the mess wagons and bed wagons
were grouped about the building. From the smoke he judged that the
cooks were getting breakfast.
Pushing on, but always keeping in the shelter of the trees,
Bertram advanced nearly a mile. The sound of firing grew more
distinct, as he went on. There were no more volleys. Evidently the
men were firing at random, but shooting steadily.
When he judged that he was about opposite the scene of the
combat, Bertram tied his horse in a clump of quaking asp and made
his way cautiously to the edge of a clearing, where he could
command a view of the scene below. Through the binoculars, which
he always carried, he watched with interest the development of a
drama which had already taken the form of tragedy.
In the center of a considerable tract of cleared land stood a cabin.
It was a small cabin, evidently not more than one room, but stoutly
built of logs. There was no porch, but close to the single step,
leading to the front door, lay the figure of a man, evidently dead. A
water bucket, upturned, was near his outstretched hand.
“They didn’t give him a chance, the curs! They must have shot
him as he started to the spring for water,” said Bertram aloud,
noticing the well-worn trail from the door to a small ravine, one
hundred yards or more away.
Sounds of firing came from the ravine and from the clumps of
trees on all sides of the clearing in which the house stood.
Answering shots came from the house. It was evident that the
defense was being put up by one man, an expert marksman.
“He must have hit some of ’em right at the start,” muttered
Bertram, “or they’d have rushed the house.”
The cabin seemed to be liberally provided with loopholes, as
shots came from all sides. The lone defender, plainly enough, was
distributing his shots impartially, keeping a good lookout to see that
no parties gained the shelter of the cabin walls.
The bright sunlight crept down the foothills and flooded the scene
of battle. Still the fight went on. One hour passed—then two. The
man in the cabin seemed to have an unlimited supply of ammunition.
If he could manage to hold out much longer, perhaps the countryside
would be aroused and come to his rescue. Bertram knew from the
talk of Swingley and others that there were many ranches between
this outpost and the county seat, where the invaders had planned to
dispossess the sheriff and strike their heaviest blow. If they were
delayed too long, their surprise march would be futile.
The Texan could imagine how Swingley was fuming at the
unexpected resistance, and how he was urging the cowboys to
renewed efforts to “get” their man. But, in spite of the countless shots
that were directed at the windows and loopholes on all sides of the
cabin, not a bullet seemed to take effect. The return fire came
steadily from the cabin—first from one side and then from another.
Bertram saw two cowboys being led away from the field of battle,
evidently victims of the man who was fighting against such odds.
“Unless they’ve got something up their sleeve,” thought Bertram,
“Swingley’s men might as well move on. This man seems to have
plenty of ammunition, judging from the free and easy way he is firing,
and he can keep up this long-range fighting all day, unless a chance
bullet hits him.”
Hardly had the thought crossed his mind when, under cover of
unusually heavy firing from that side, Bertram saw a two-wheeled
armored device, similar to the one he had recently smashed, being
pushed along the road that led from the highway to the house.
“By the gods, Swingley has had his way in spite of me!” ejaculated
Bertram. “Blacksmith Jim must have come up and told them how to
fit those scraper irons to another pair of wheels.”
Slowly the improvised war engine moved toward the house, under
a concentrated fire of rifles. Bertram, from his elevated position,
could catch a glimpse of the feet of the men behind the armor, as
they pushed the go-devil toward the cabin.
The lone defender of the ranch house sensed the danger to which
he was exposed by this new element in the fight. He fired shot after
shot at the advancing go-devil, but still it came on.
Bertram watched intently. At first he thought it was the intention of
the men to reach a loophole or a window and fire through it, but he
soon saw that such was not their idea.
A bundle of straw was tossed over the top of the go-devil, against
the cabin door. Another bundle followed, and then the go-devil was
slowly backed away from the cabin.
“Burning him out, as if he might be a wolf, without a chance for his
life!” exclaimed Bertram, striking his forehead in anger. “I’ll bet Ace
Swingley himself is behind that go-devil. No one else could think up
such a plan and carry it out.”
Almost as the Texan spoke flames burst from the straw pile at the
cabin door. In a few seconds they had crept up the dry woodwork
and had reached the roof. By the time the men with the go-devil had
reached a place of safety, one side of the cabin and the roof were
ablaze.
Thinking that the defender of the cabin would attempt to escape
by way of the rear door, Swingley brought most of his forces around
on that side. To Bertram’s amazement the front door opened, and a
man, bareheaded and coatless, carrying a rifle in one hand, ran
swiftly toward a gulch in the foothills. The man had a good start
before the besiegers realized how cleverly they had been outwitted.
If there were any riflemen concealed in the growth of timber and
underbrush, toward which the man was making his way, they were
too surprised to shoot. But bullets began flying from the thicket on
the opposite side of the cabin. A few yards from the protecting gulch
the runner stumbled and fell heavily. Animated by a determination
which even his foes must have admired, he, rose slowly to his knees
and then to his feet, using his rifle as a crutch.
The rifle fire had died away, as everybody seemed intent on
watching the next move. Then a single shot was heard, as the
defender of the cabin started to run again, and the man fell and lay
still, his arms outstretched, his face turned to the sky.
The brutality of the killing caused the young Texan to tremble, as if
he had been smitten with ague. He had seen sudden death in many
forms, but this murder of one man by scores of assassins shook his
consciousness to the center. It seemed as if a crime so monstrous
could not go unpunished on the instant. Bertram almost looked for a
lightning bolt to descend from the blue sky and strike down the
riflemen. When the rifle firing had ceased serenity had returned to
the scene. The meadow larks resumed their trilling, and, if it had not
been for the burning cabin and the two still forms in the clearing, one
might imagine that death and destruction could never visit so
peaceful a haunt.
Now that their mission at the cabin was over, the invaders paid no
further attention to their handiwork. Evidently under orders from
Swingley, they swarmed out of the clearing toward the road, ready to
take up the march without further delay.
Through his glasses Bertram saw Swingley approach the body at
the edge of the clearing. The big cattleman appeared to be writing
something. Then he stooped and attached a piece of paper to the
dead man’s breast. Turning hastily aside, Swingley strode across the
clearing, intent on marshaling his forces.
Bertram saw the dust and heard the clatter of hoofs, as the
cavalcade took up its march. Then he could hear the rumble of the
wagons. The roof of the cabin fell in with a crash, and the crackling
of flames began to subside. The young Texan led his horse down the
slope and into the clearing, which had been the center of such
spirited conflict.
The body of the first man still lay where it had fallen, close to the
cabin door, with the water bucket a few feet away. Approaching as
closely as he could, and shielding his eyes from the mass of coals
that had been the cabin, Bertram saw that the man was rather below
medium stature and past middle age. Evidently he was a ranch
helper—a cowboy who had seen his best days.
The man at the edge of the clearing was tall and powerfully built.
As he lay with his arms outstretched, his brawny hand still clutching
the rifle, he made an imposing figure even in death. His features
were aquiline, his nose having the curve of an eagle’s beak. Though
he, too, was past middle age, there was no hint of gray in his hair.
Plainly enough he had been a leader of men, a foeman to be feared.
Bertram, stooping, read the message, scrawled in lead pencil on
the square of paper attached to the dead man’s breast. It said:
NICK CALDWELL
KING OF THE RUSTLERS
LET OTHERS BEWARE
As he read the name Caldwell, Bertram uttered an exclamation. It
was the name of the girl he had met at the start and again at Denver.
Probably he was the girl’s father. In the bitterness of his heart
Bertram cursed Swingley and the expedition. Then, his attention
being attracted by some papers, the edges of which peeped from the
man’s belt, Bertram drew the documents forth.
There were two letters addressed to Nick Caldwell. Glancing
through them in the hope of finding something more concerning the
man’s identity, Bertram gave a whistle of astonishment.
The letters indicated that the recipient, while ostensibly favoring
the cattle rustlers, was in reality working for certain great cattle
interests.
But, if Swingley and this slain man had been associated on the
same side in this great war of the range, how had it come about that
the leader of the expedition had been so determined to kill his
confederate? Was Swingley unaware that Caldwell was really
working for the cattle interests, or had some personal feud arisen
between the two men?
“Probably it’s a case of wheels within wheels,” thought Bertram.
“Maybe this man Caldwell threatened Swingley’s leadership. Or it
may be that Caldwell was not so much on the cattlemen’s side as
these letters indicate, and the word was given to Swingley to get him
first of all.”
Dropping on one knee beside the body Bertram glanced over
another paper, which he had taken out with the letters. It was in the
form of a diary, loosely scrawled on several sheets of paper. It was a
brief account of the fight which had just taken place.
“By George! this Caldwell was a cool one,” thought Bertram. “He
found time to jot down a story of the fight, while he was standing off
that bunch.”
The opening entry said:
Five-forty—The fight’s on. They’ve got Nate Day—shot him, as he
stepped out after water. I can see from the window that he’s stone
dead.
Then followed entries in which the writer told of the fight as it
progressed. He mentioned wounding or killing four men, and he told
of bullets that whistled through the windows and loopholes, yet did
not hit him. The final entries read:
Eight-fifteen—They’re bringing out some kind of a go-devil on
wheels, with an armored front. I can’t see the men behind it, and
bullets don’t go through the iron. I guess I’m done.
Eight-twenty-five—They’ve set fire to the cabin. Throwed straw
out from behind that go-devil. Curse the man that made that,
anyway. I might have had a chance if it hadn’t been for him.
Eight-thirty-five—The roof’s afire. I’ve got to make a run for it. If I
can make the gulch I may get away, but the chance is slim. Good-by
all.
 Bertram did not put the diary in his pocket with the letters. He
thrust the rudely scrawled notes back in the man’s belt, and he left
undisturbed the notice which Swingley had pinned to Caldwell’s
breast.
Still kneeling beside the body, Bertram for the first time thought
about himself. Should he go or stay? No doubt the whole countryside
was being aroused, and men would soon be flocking along the trail
of the invaders. It would not do to be found at the scene of the fight,
but would he be better off anywhere else? He was a stranger in a
hostile land. He had entered the country as one of a band of armed
invaders, and it was not likely that any explanations he might make
would be heeded. Hot-headed men, intent on vengeance, would not
hesitate to shoot him down at sight. He smiled ruefully, as he thought
of Arch Beam’s words: “The people in this country will scalp you
alive!” No doubt Arch was right. But, if he was to be killed, it would
be better to meet death on the open road, rather than at the scene of
a crime so despicable.
As Bertram was about to rise to his feet a rifle cracked from
across the clearing, and a bullet tore through the young Texan’s left
shoulder. Although the shock of the impact spun him half around,
Bertram struggled to his feet. His heavy revolver was drawn with
amazing celerity, and he was about to empty the weapon in the
direction from which the shot had come, when he heard a cry in a
girl’s voice.
At the same time the thicket parted. As the young Texan stood
with feet firmly planted, in spite of the intense pain that racked him,
while his finger almost pressed the trigger, Alma Caldwell came
running toward him.
 CHAPTER V
A RIDE TO SANCTUARY.

The Texan had only a confused idea of the events that followed
immediately after he had been shot. He knew that the wound was
serious, for the impact of the bullet had fairly staggered him. Yet he
managed to find his feet steadily enough, and the young woman,
who ran toward him, had no idea that he was hurt.
To Bertram it seemed as if the girl floated toward him on a
billowing sea of ether, instead of running swiftly, as she did, across
the sparse verdure of the clearing. Also, in the young Texan’s eyes,
she seemed more lovely and more unattainable than before. He had
caught only fleeting glimpses of her during their previous meetings,
and one of those meetings had been under a very poor brand of
artificial light. But now, in the bright Wyoming day, he caught the full
beauty of her youthful color, the regularity of her features and her
grace of movement. Her lithe figure was outlined in all its charm
against the green of the thicket from which she had sprung. She had
dropped her hat and tossed aside her riding gauntlets, and her spurs
jingled at the heels of her small riding boots, as she ran.
“By all the gods!” thought the wounded and dazed Bertram, “this
country up here was made as a background for her.”
Horror and questioning were written on the girl’s features, as she
reached Caldwell’s side and flung herself on her knees beside the
body. One glance told her what had happened, and she buried her
face in her hands.
Meantime Bertram’s wavering attention had been attracted by
another figure, following closely behind the girl. It was the figure of a
youth, hardly taller than Alma Caldwell and nearly as slender. Yet, for
all the newcomer’s youthfulness and slenderness, there was
something so threatening in his attitude, as he approached more
slowly than had the girl, that Bertram half raised his revolver. The
boy, who was carrying a rifle, hesitated a moment, as if to bring the
weapon to his shoulder.
“Stop!” said the girl, looking up. “Jimmy Coyle, put down that gun.
You had no business to fire in the first place, without my telling you.”
“So that’s the person who shot at me, is it?” asked Bertram,
lowering his weapon and turning toward the girl. “I’m glad you’ve
stopped him from doing it any more, as it seems to me there’s been
quite enough shooting around here to-day.”
The spreading crimson stain on the young Texan’s shirt front
caught the girl’s eye. With an exclamation of concern she rose to her
feet.
“It’s nothing worth bothering about,” the Texan said. “You’ve got
sorrow enough on your hands, for I take it this man must have been
your father. I just want to tell you that I don’t—I don’t——”
Bertram intended to say that he did not take her advice about
quitting the expedition in Denver, and he had therefore been
compelled to do so when it was a matter of more personal difficulty,
but the words refused to shape themselves. The young Texan wiped
the cold beads of agony from his forehead. His words came haltingly,
and he swayed and fell in a faint beside the body of the man whom
Swingley had dubbed the “king of the rustlers.”
The touch of cool water on his forehead revived the young Texan.
He was lying on his back, with bis head comfortably pillowed on a
rolled-up blanket. He was in the shade, and the branches of a tree
waved between him and the sky. Then he found himself looking into
the face of Alma Caldwell. He thought it was much pleasanter than
looking at the sky or at trees, and he did not even blink for fear the
vision would vanish.
The girl smiled at him faintly and said: “Your shoulder—how does
it feel? Do you think you can ride?”
Bertram felt of his shoulder. To his surprise it was neatly
bandaged, and the stained part of his shirt had been cut away. The
numb sensation was gone from his side. He sat up.
“I’ll be all right in a minute,” he said. Then he saw that he was
down by the spring, where the first man at the cabin had started to
go when the work of assassination began.
 “How did you get me down here by the spring?” asked the Texan.
“Jimmy carried you down,” replied the girl. “He’s strong. Of course
I had to help him a little.”
The events of the morning rushed into the Texan’s memory. Again
he saw the beleaguered cabin, heard the firing, saw the slain men.
“Your father?” he asked. “What’s become of his body? I must help
you with it. And the other man who was killed?”
“There’s nothing to do. After we brought you down here and fixed
up your shoulder, some men came—men we knew. They took Nate
and my stepfather—for the man you saw killed wasn’t my father, as
you thought—and have arranged for their burial.”
“Why didn’t the men find me?”
“None of them came down here, and we didn’t tell them there was
any one at the spring. They were in a hurry to get on the trail of the
invaders. Other men will be coming from every direction. The whole
countryside is being aroused. The ranchmen are furious, and there
will be more fighting. Oh, why couldn’t I have arrived in time!”
“How could you have stopped it?” asked the Texan.
“Easily enough. I could have had such an army of men at the
railroad that the invaders never would have come this way. I was
visiting near the station, where I first met you. It was my stepfather’s
old home. I received a hint of the invasion when it was being
planned. Finally, a day or two before the invaders started, I learned
the whole truth—that Swingley was raising a body of freebooters
under the guise of punishing rustlers. I wrote, and then I telegraphed.
Then I thought that probably neither my letters nor my telegrams
would be delivered. I determined to come in person, and I expected
to arrive ahead of Swingley’s train, if it were possible.
But every effort was made to stop me. I was robbed of my
transportation, as you know, and I would not have reached Denver if
you had not helped me.”
“They didn’t bother you after you left Denver, did they?” asked the
Texan.
“I was called from the train at a little station, not far from the end of
the line. The station agent said he had a telegram for me. Then he
said he could not find it—that he must have been mistaken.
Meantime the train would have gone on without me, if I had not been
watching for such a move. I frightened the conductor by telling him
that I knew there was a plot to get me off the train. He did not dare
try any more such tricks, and I reached the terminus. The telegraph
agent there did not know about any of my telegrams. The place was
full of strange men, and I saw the wagons there, ready for the use of
the invaders. I tried to get a horse, but the town was practically under
martial law, with one of Swingley’s lieutenants in command.
“I could get nothing in the way of a conveyance. I went to the
hotel, where I had put my hand baggage, and I changed to my riding
dress, thinking that I would be ready when the opportunity came. I
heard the invaders’ train, as it came in, and then the horse train. I
saw the preparations for the start. I knew they were setting out to kill
relatives and friends of mine. I thought I would go out to plead with
Swingley to give up the expedition, but I was stopped at the foot of
the stairs and given to understand that I was a prisoner in the hotel.
Nobody offered to molest me. I saw the men start out—you with
them. When they had gone some time the hotel proprietor brought in
Jimmy, my cousin, who had been concealed in the barn. He found
horses for us, and we followed the trail of the invaders. Evidently
Swingley did not care to detain me further, after he and his men were
on their way.”
“He didn’t think he would be held up here at this cabin so long,”
observed Bertram.
“My stepfather made a great fight,” said the girl, her eyes glowing
with pride. “There was not a better shot in the State than Nick
Caldwell.”
“He was a brave man, too,” said Bertram, “brave and cool. In fact,
he was the gamest man I ever heard of. Did you find the diary that
was in his belt? I glanced through it, just before you came. Any man
who could write that under fire has my admiration.”
“Yes,” responded the girl, “and it shows that they would never
have beaten him if they had not used unfair means. Whoever made
that go-devil was the means of killing my stepfather. I’ll find out who
it was, and that man shall pay and pay!”
The girl’s eyes flashed, and her hands clenched. Bertram did not
tell her that he had been called upon to fashion the go-devil in the
first place, and that he had destroyed it, only to have it refashioned
by some one else. Nor did he say anything about the letters which
he had found on Caldwell’s body, which indicated that the “king of
the rustlers” was identified with both sides in the range war. Those
letters, the Texan made sure, were still in his pocket, undisturbed. He
did not want to destroy the girl’s faith in her stepfather, after her
heroic efforts to save him.
The conversation was interrupted by the youthful Jimmy Coyle,
who, with his rifle still clutched in his right hand, came scrambling
into the hollow from the clearing, his flapping leather chaparajos
looking absurdly wide for his slim and boyish figure.
“We’ve gotta git outa here,” remarked Jimmy, without preliminary
words of any sort. “You can’t tell what side’s goin’ to stray in here
next. The invaders might even be comin’ back.”
“You’re right, son,” replied the Texan, getting to his feet. “It’s
dangerous for you to be here with me. If you’ll just bring my horse
down here where I can get him, I’ll be obliged. Then you folks had
better be riding on.”
“You’re going with us,” replied Alma.
“Where?” asked Bertram. “There’s no place in this part of the
country where they won’t hang my hide on the barn door, after the
thing that’s happened right here.”
“Yes, there is. We’re not all savages here. I don’t dare take you
back to the home ranch, up Powderhorn River, but Jimmy and I have
a hiding place all arranged for you, where it won’t be necessary to
explain things to folks.”
“Yes, I reckon most people here will be inclined to shoot first and
listen to explanations afterward,” said Bertram. “But you can’t afford
to put yourself in a questionable light by sheltering one of Swingley’s
rustlers. I can’t hide the fact that I’m a Texan.”
“Nobody wants you to,” answered the girl with a smile. “Jimmy will
have the horses at the edge of the draw in a moment, and we’ll start
on a nice quiet trail back into the hills, where we won’t meet a soul.”
“But—but I haven’t any claim on you,” stammered Bertram.
“Oh, yes you have—two claims. Didn’t you help me on my way,
once when I started home, and once in Denver?”
 “But those things didn’t amount to anything. And you know I came
in here with this invading crowd that killed your stepfather. How do
you know that I didn’t have a hand in shooting him?”
“Those things can be straightened out later. Right now you’re
badly hurt, and the one thing is to get you cared for.”
“That’s putting it impersonally enough,” ventured Bertram.
“Why should I put it otherwise? I wouldn’t leave even a known
enemy under such circumstances, and I don’t know that you are an
enemy—not yet.”
The young Texan smiled quizzically. “Since you put it on that
basis,” he replied, “I’ll accept your offer. I admit that I’m too wabbly to
put up much of an argument with any man who might stop me, orally
or with a gun.”
Just how “wabbly” Bertram was, he did not comprehend until he
had climbed to the top of the draw, where Jimmy had brought the
horses. Even though Jimmy assisted him on one side and Alma on
the other, he had difficulty in negotiating the steep trail. But he
managed to get into the saddle without aid.
“It’s queer how just the grip of a saddle horn puts life in you,” he
remarked, as they started out of the clearing, with backward glances
at the still smoking cabin. “That’s a right smart gun you’re carrying,
Jimmy. I never got a worse knock in my life.”
“It’s only a .38,” said Jimmy modestly, though a flush of pride
overspread his freckled features at this tribute to his weapon and his
marksmanship. “It’s jest drilled a little hole in you, as far as we could
see when we was bandagin’ you up. Purty quick I’m goin’ to git a .45.
If I’d have been packin’ the gun I want, it would have torn your whole
shoulder off.”
“Well, I’m glad you’re still sticking to small horses,” replied the
Texan genially. “You and I are going to be on a permanent peace
footing before you get that .45. I reckon I’ll take no further chances
with you.”
Jimmy’s reserve and suspicion had melted away before they had
more than caught a last glimpse of the cabin smoke through the
trees on the foothills. He chatted with the Texan, who did not
indicate, by word or facial expression, how much pain the journey
was causing him, even though the horses went no faster than a
walk.
To Bertram’s disappointment Alma Caldwell rode ahead,
apparently with a view of being the first to meet any travelers on the
trail. But the little procession continued on its way for two hours or
more without meeting any one.
“It’s lucky we didn’t go by the main road,” said Jimmy, “or we’d
have been stopped every mile or so. I’ll bet every man in the county
is in the saddle now. But leave it to Alma to find a way out of a
difficulty. She’s a wonder, but”— here Jimmy’s voice sank to a
confidential murmur—“I’m goin’ to skip off and help fight these
invaders, as soon as we git you took care of at Uncle Billy’s.”
“Who is Uncle Billy?”
“Oh, he belongs to the Coyle side of the family—the side that I’m
from. Only he ain’t a fightin’ man like the rest of the Coyles and all
the Caldwells. He jest believes in lettin’ everybody do what they want
—and the animals, too. He’s queer, but everybody likes him, and
you’ll be safe there because nobody bothers Uncle Billy. There’s his
place now.”
The Texan, who was wondering how many rods farther he could
ride without falling from the saddle, looked ahead, past the slim
figure of Alma Caldwell, and saw a tiny cabin nestled in an opening
in the pine forest. In the doorway stood a tall, white-bearded man,
watching from beneath a shading hand.
 CHAPTER VI
SWINGLEY HAS HIS SAY.

The young Texan’s life during the next few days was in striking
contrast with what had gone immediately before. He had a confused
recollection of sinking to rest on a comfortable bed, in a room filled
with the forms of animals—elk, deer, bears and smaller creatures, all
in most lifelike poses. There were even some shaggy buffaloes in a
perfect state of preservation. In small glass cases were groups of
insects, and there were some giant trout on the wall, evidently taken
from near-by lakes, or from the alluring stream which ran close to the
cabin.
Bertram’s recovery, under the ministrations of Uncle Billy and
Alma Caldwell, was rapid. In a few days he was able to walk about
the place. The inflammation left his shoulder and his strength
returned to him, as it always returns to healthy youth in the great
outdoors.
The old naturalist proved a delight to Bertram, and he was both
expert and gentle in applying surgical dressings. Alma accounted for
his skill by explaining that he had studied to be a surgeon.
“But he had no real taste for the profession,” said the girl. “What
he wanted was to live close to the heart of nature, to study wild life at
its source. So he moved here, when the rest of the family came, and,
after a few years of ranching, gave up everything else and settled
down in this little place in the mountains, determined to follow out his
ambition.”
The girl had ridden over to Uncle Billy’s place from the Caldwell
ranch, and she was walking about in the bright sunshine, while the
Texan stood in front of the naturalist’s cabin.
“Well, I can testify that if Uncle Billy had turned surgeon he would
have made a success of his calling,” said Bertram, stretching his
arms above his head, in the joy that a strong man feels when
convalescent. “He’s fixed me up more quickly than I would have
thought possible. Your fighting cousin’s bullet, it seems, just nicked
the top of a lung. Luckily it drilled me clean and did not shatter a
bone, or I might have been on Uncle Billy’s hospital list a long time.”
“This was the only place to bring you,” said Alma. “The one
practicing physician and surgeon in this part of the State lives twenty
miles from where you were hurt, and he had taken his rifle and
joined the men who were opposing the invaders. I couldn’t have
taken you to any ranch house without your presence being known
elsewhere, on account of all this excitement. Neighbors are visiting
everywhere, and any one who had sheltered a stranger at this time
would have come in for general suspicion. But, unless somebody
deliberately sets out to trail you, no one will be likely to know you are
at this place. It is known that Uncle Billy is opposed to the taking of
human life, and that he could not be enlisted in this dispute on either
side.”
“Well, Swingley and Tom Hoog will soon be on my trail,” observed
the Texan. “I’ll not stay here any longer than I can help, on Uncle
Billy’s account. Also on your account,” he added, “as it is not going to
do you any particular good to have it known that you helped one of
the invaders to safety. People are going to grow more bitter than
ever, now that Swingley and Hoog are dominating things in such
high-handed fashion.”
“High-handed is a mild term for what they are doing,” replied the
girl, her eyes flashing. “They are trying to set up a despotism for the
big-cattle interests. After they shot my stepfather and Nate Day, at
our little ranch house on the Powderhorn, and had burned the cabin
they found the settlers opposing them just the way the farmers
opposed the redcoats at Lexington. Things were made so hot for
Swingley and his men that they had to fortify themselves in a ranch
house, several miles from their objective, the county seat at Wild
Horse. They were besieged two days and would have been captured
to the last man, if United States soldiers hadn’t intervened. The
invaders were taken to Wild Horse under military escort, but it wasn’t
ten hours before every one of them was out under bail.”
“There must be bigger men than Swingley mixed up in it,”
observed the Texan.