The Wedding Raffle - Softcover

Republic of Texas -- 1843

A lanky, bowlegged cowboy burst through the swinging doors of the Golden Slipper Saloon and hollered out for quiet. "Listen up, boys," he said, excitement shining in his eyes. "You're not gonna believe this. She's up at the hotel. Gonna draw the winning ticket early. Gonna draw it herself. The Widow Duvall has done come to town!"

The piano player reached for a high C and hit a B flat. A dealer mishandled his shuffle, spewing half a deck of cards into the air. A gambler dropped his dice, a dancer snapped her fan, and a drunk lifted his head from the bar and drawled, "Well, I'll be dipped."

Luke Prescott eyed the generous bosom of the whore leaning over the second-floor banister and decided to raise his bet on a pair of aces.

Glasses hit the bar as the patrons of the Golden Slipper made a rush for the doors. Two men in the game at Luke's table abruptly dropped their cards, pushed to their feet, and scurried from the saloon. Luke's friend, Rafe Malone, played out his hand, his concentration obviously suffering. When his attempt to draw to an inside straight failed, he folded his arms, settled back in his chair, and mused, "Honor Duvall here in Bastrop. Don't that beat all?"

His voice all but echoed in the nearly empty room.

Dust from the patrons' hasty exit floated in the air as Luke gathered up his winnings and deposited a thick stack of bills inside his wallet. The dumbfounded expression on Rafe's rugged face made him grin. "Sure seems like a lot of fuss for a raffle drawing. What's so special about Honor Duvall?"

Rafe brushed a smudge of dirt from the sleeve of his plaid gingham shirt. "Special? That's one way to say it, I guess. Notorious is the word that comes to my mind."

Luke arched a curious brow. "Notorious?"

"Haven't you heard about the Widow Duvall? And here I thought the Rangers kept close tabs on the suspicious characters who inhabit the Republic."

The words stung like whiskey on a raw wound. Luke hadn't been a Texas Ranger for six months, but Rafe didn't know how much that fact bothered him. Nobody knew. Luke had made sure of it. He hid his irritation behind a dry observation. "To do that, the Rangers would need a million-man army. Texas is overrun with suspicious characters, present company included."

Amusement gleamed in Rafe's green eyes. "Hey now, I'm a reformed man. You know that. Ignoring Luke's sport of disbelief, he added, "It's just that I'm surprised you're ignorant of the Widow Duvall."

"Ignorant? You'd best watch your language, Malone." In friendly retaliation, he offered up a fact certain to fire Rafe's curiosity. "Actually, I believe I may have had some contact with the woman," he said, scratching his eyebrow. "I was recently offered a job by a Mrs. Duvall who owns a place called Lost Pines."

Rafe's mouth dropped open and he leaned forward, a lock of dark auburn hair plopping down onto his brow. "That's her, all right. When did this happen? Why didn't you tell me about it? What did she want you to do? Did you meet her? Is she as beautiful as they say? What did you tell her?"

"Still curious as a calf in a new pasture, aren't you, Malone?" Luke smiled smugly as he slipped his wallet into his vest pocket. "She sent me a letter shortly after I arrived in Bastrop, before you talked me into moving from the hotel out to your place. That's been what, five or six weeks?"

"Something like that."

"Mrs. Duvall wanted to hire a gun for protection, someone willing to teach her and her family how to defend themselves. Seems that in the months since her husband died, all the men who worked for him have drifted on to other jobs."

"You mean it's just Honor Duvall, those two boys of hers, and their grandmother out at Lost Pines?" Rafe whistled softly. "Why, it's the most isolated homestead in this part of Texas. I hear it sits on a bluff above the Colorado River, smack dab in the middle of the pine forest. That was his business, you know, lumber. Duvall. Pinery furnished wood for danged near every building west of here. The man had money. Raised racehorses on the side. So, what did you tell her?"

Luke shrugged, eyeing the bartender, whose ear was cocked toward their table. "I'm no babysittin' bodyguard or schoolmarm. I sent her Rip Tulk's name. He'll do it. He hires out his services all the time."

"I wouldn't mind servicing that one," the eavesdropping bartender observed with a snicker. He removed his apron and tossed it onto the bar before hurrying past them toward the door. "Saw her at her husband's funeral. I tell you what, keeping an eye on the Widow Duvall would almost be worth the risk."

Risk? What risk? Just who was this woman? Luke gazed around the vacant saloon and shook his head in wonder. "What did he mean by that?"

Rafe's chair tipped on its two hind legs as he shoved it back and stood. "She's had three husbands die on her." He lowered his voice. "People speculate about the coincidence of it. This last husband turned up his toes not long ago. Drowned in his own bathtub."

Duvall. Luke recalled the printing on the raffle ticket he'd purchased from a redheaded youngster earlier that day: One chance to win Starlight, the prizewinning quarter-miler offered by the estate of Armand Duvall. "Armand Duvall," he murmured.

"You know about him? Did the Rangers investigate his death, too?" Rafe donned a straw palmetto hat.

"How the hell would I know?" Luke replied, his control slipping as he thrust himself awkwardly to his feet. Eight months ago he would have uncoiled from his seat, as graceful and dangerous as a rattler. Six months ago he'd been ambushed by some east Texas horse thieves. Shortly thereafter, at the ripe old age of thirty-two, he'd been officially and forcibly retired when a doctor examined his buffet wounds and expressed doubt he'd ever walk again. Luke had made it his goal to prove the sawbones wrong and for the most part he'd succeeded. The limp had yet to totally disappear.

Rafe didn't pursue the question. Instead, he tugged his hat low on his brow and led the way out of the saloon into the April sunshine. "Damn but I'm glad I talked you into coming into town this weekend. We'd have missed all the excitement if we'd stayed out at the farm."

"But we'd have gotten the doors hung and the windows put in on the new place. You'll be sorry if a family of 'coons moves in before you do." Luke was helping Rafe build a house on land he'd claimed as his headright west of town. After months of being laid up in bed, he both welcomed and enjoyed the physical labor, considering it therapy for both body and soul.

Rafe waved away Luke's comment. "Animals are preferable to some people I've shared a roof with over the years. Besides, I wouldn't miss this raffle drawing for nothin'. How about you? Have you purchased your tickets for the widow's raffle?"

Sucking in a breath of cedar-scented air and finding it pleasant after the smoky, stale odor of the Golden Slipper, Luke nodded. "A freckled-faced youngster browbeat me into buying one ticket. Actually, I wouldn't mind owning that horse. I saw her run in Austin last summer. She must be the fastest filly this side of Indian country."

"Yep. And I'm gonna win her, too." Rafe patted his vest pocket. "Me odds are all on my side. I bought me fifty chances. Sorry, friend, but you wasted your money just buying one ticket."

Rafe kept his pace to an amble as he led the way up Main toward the hotel. Luke knew he walked slowly to accommodate him, and it annoyed him like hell. Damned leg. But at least he still had his brains, which, under the circumstances, was more than he could say about his friend. "You spent a hundred dollars on raffle tickets?" Rafe nodded and Luke shook his head. "You could buy a right fine horse for that amount."

"Not Starlight."

He was right about that, but a hundred-dollar gamble on a raffle drawing? "You always did have more money than sense."

"I'm gonna win."

"Win the prize for the biggest fool, maybe. The odds are still against you."

"Whoa!" Rafe made an abrupt stop and brought his hand to his chest dramatically. "This can't be the Captain Luke Prescott of the Texas Rangers talking to me about odds. This from the man who made a career out of playing long ones?"

Luke reached into his pants pocket and fished for the small tin of lemon drops he habitually carried. Removing a candy, he tossed it to Rafe, saying, "Suck a lemon, Malone. It'll keep your mouth shut."

Rafe popped the sweet into his mouth and grinned. The two men continued their stroll toward the hotel.

As he walked, Luke thought about the upcoming drawing and the lone ticket tucked inside his wallet next to his card winnings. Maybe Malone had a point. Maybe he should splurge on another ticket or two. A man couldn't ask for a better foundation for a breeding operation than the horse Lost Pines offered up for raffle.

He stepped on a rock, jarring his leg, and the slash of pain reminded him he might as well save his money. Horse ranching wasn't in his future, despite what he told those who questioned his plans now that his Rangering was done. Luke had other business to attend to. He had honor to reclaim.

Honor, hell. Had he ever known the meaning of the word? The old, familiar shame clutched at his gut, overwhelming the lingering pain in his leg. Every day he lived with the fact of his cowardice. Each night, the ghosts of those whom he had failed haunted his dreams -- his wife, his children, the one-hundred-eighty-nine men who'd placed their trust in an unworthy man.

How did a man atone for such a sin?

Becoming a Texas Ranger had been an attempt. Serving the country for which his comrades had died had been a start, a small start, a penance. While others viewed his Ranger's star as a badge of courage, Luke knew the difference. He'd worn it as a daily reminder of his fear and foolishness, his cowardice and failure.

But now he no longer wore the star. His Rangering days were done, and he was forced to search for another way to earn his peace....