He draws rein no more than a few yards from me and swings offa Rebel.
“Kate,” he says, tipping his hat. His squinty eyes take in all there is to see. First me, from boot tip to brow; then the barn, the crops, the house and its yet-to-be-weathered wood. “I thought it burned,” he says, gaze fixed over my shoulder.
“I rebuilt it—had all this gold from a reckless chase through the Superstitions.”
“I shoulda been here to help.”
“Yeah. You shoulda.” I can’t keep the edge of anger off my tongue.
“I got caught running cattle to Los Angeles. Benny was furious and said I owed him. It were rough land and a long trip and we didn’t get much time in towns. I’d’ve written, but I didn’t know if you’d returned to Prescott. Had to ask after you in town just to find my way here.” He rubs his stubbled jaw, and I don’t point out that he coulda tried sending a letter either way. “I guess I’m saying it ain’t an excuse for the silence, but it’s the reason,” he adds.
He digs round in his saddlebags and pulls out something wrapped in brown parcel paper and tied with twine. “I got you this,” he says, extending it my way.
I raise my eyebrows.
“Just take it, Kate. Please? I came all this way to say I’m sorry ’bout the last couple months and—”
“Oh, is that what you came for? ’Cus it’s the first time you’s said it.”
Jesse Colton just keeps his arm out, the package held before me while his eyes plead.
I pluck it from his hand and tear off the paper.
I see the shape of a spine first, then the cover. Little Women. I run my hand over the gold-leaf lettering.
“They had an awful nice bookshop in Los Angeles,” he says. “And I had all this gold from a reckless chase through the Superstitions.”
He smirks, and I can barely fight it no more—the smile threatening to break free on my face. I force my lips thin, look up at him serious.
“What if I’d moved on, Jesse? I’m getting good at that, you know. I ain’t just been sitting round waiting.”
“I never thought you would. I prayed every day since we parted that I’d find you again and you might still want me. Hell, I said you had me to go home to and then I weren’t even there when the time came. It was so hard, though,” he adds, frowning. “Every time I thought on you, it brought up Will. Took me a long time to separate the two, to not feel sadness or anger at yer memory.”
I stroke the cover of the leather-bound novel, run a forefinger down the spine.
“Did you read it?” I says.
“Got ’bout ten pages in and fell asleep.”
“Jesse Colton!”
“Maybe you can read it to me. Aloud. Maybe that’d be better.”
“We could try.”
He lets go of Rebel’s reins and steps nearer. “Tonight?”
“You asking to stay?”
“If you’ll let me.”
“Jesse, I never wanted you to leave.”
“I didn’t. I just went away a little while.” He puts a knuckle to my chin and nudges up till I’m looking right at him. His eyes are hazel. I ain’t noticed that before. “Can I?” he says, so close that the heat of his words graze my lips. “Stay?”
“Yeah,” I says. “I reckon you can.”
He kisses me slow and deep. My whole being starts going hazy, and for once I don’t care. I draw him in and kiss him back, letting every worry fly straight outta my limbs.
He swings me into a silent dance, but I don’t carp ’bout the lack of music this time. There’s wind and ruffling mesquite leaves and the sway of dry grass out ’cross my claim. There’s a bird warbling on the fence and Jesse’s heart thumping strong and my pulse burning right on back. A blazing sun rises up over the Territory, and I feel a spark of promise I ain’t sensed since before Pa died. It hums at my core.
It’s the most beautiful song I’s ever heard.
It rings and it echoes and it glistens like gold.
Author’s Note
I’ve loved the West for as long as I can remember. From childhood literature (Little House on the Prairie!) to the Western film genre (Clint!), stories featuring wide open plains and spitfire characters and the trials of homesteading in the late-nineteenth century have always captivated me. I’ve wanted to write my own “Western” novel for years, but without the right story kernel, there was no tale to tell.
That all changed one evening in 2013 when my husband recounted one of his favorite places in Arizona: the Superstition Mountains. He has family in the area and grew up hearing stories about the Lost Dutchman, a rich gold mine supposedly hidden within the rugged mountains east of Phoenix. As he discussed the legend and the various details surrounding it, my muse exploded. I suddenly had that Western novel idea I’d been chasing for ages: a girl out for revenge, but entangled in a bloody quest for lost gold.
Kate Thompson is entirely fictional, as are the Colton brothers, Liluye, and the Rose Riders, though I’m sure there were individuals like them in 1877 Arizona. However, many of the people Kate interacts with during her travels once called Arizona home. Morris, for instance, was indeed a clerk at Goldwaters, and Garfias was Phoenix’s deputy sheriff during the time Vengeance Road is set. Then there’s Don Miguel Peralta, who only graces the novel through Liluye’s words but plays an active role in the infamous Lost Dutchman legend; he was a wealthy Mexican known to have operated a family mine in the Superstitions. While trying to remove a large amount of gold prior to the signing of the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo, his party was allegedly ambushed by Apaches at what is now known as the Massacre Grounds.
And last but hardly least, there’s Jacob Waltz-—perhaps the most central figure in Lost Dutchman lore.