Fortune, Texas 1891

     Lee Raven.

     For as long as he could remember, the name had swirled like a gray mist at the edge of his memories. Hauntingly familiar, but elusive.  He couldn't comprehend its significance or understand why it hovered just beyond his grasp.

     He only knew that it was the name he'd chosen to use the night he died.

     It suited his purposes well.  It did not hint at his beloved heritage, family, or roots.  No one associated the name with him.  Only his family knew what he looked like.  As far as the world was concerned, the naïve, trusting boy he had been was long dead.

     The man who had risen up from the depths of hell to take his place instilled terror within those who dared to whisper his name.  Some believed he was Diablo, others thought he was a phantom.  How close they all were to touching the truth.  His charred soul made him hollow throughout, merely a shell of what he had once been.

     Standing in the bank, surrounded by a shroud of darkness, he acknowledged once again that only fools wallowed in a past that could not be changed.  He had chosen his path, fully understanding its consequences.  Given the choice, he would choose to follow that road again.

     Calmness settled over him as he pressed his ear against the cool metal door of the vault. In the dim light cast by the low flame in the lantern, he concentrated on the task at hand.  His first order of business upon entering the bank had been to hang blankets over the windows so no light escaped into the night.  The covering also prevented the soft glow of the street's gaslights from silhouetting any activities within the building.  He found modernized towns to be a thoroughly aggravating nuisance.

     He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips before flexing his fingers repeatedly.  Taking a deep breath and holding it, he very slowly turned the dial with practiced ease, listening intently for the audible click.  He stilled as the first set of tumblers fell into place.

     He rotated the dial in the opposite direction.  The tumblers immediately dropped, and he froze.  They thought they could trick him.  Éstupido. Obviously, they didn't have a clue as to exactly how accomplished he was.

     He turned the dial until he heard the final clink. Smiling with satisfaction, he unfolded his lean body, cranked down the handle, and swung open the door to the vault. He stepped aside, a gallant wave of his hand serving as an invitation to those who'd stolen into the bank with him.  "Hombres."

     "I don't know how you do that," Alejandro whispered reverently as he peered cautiously into the dark cavern.

     "I am a man of many talents," Lee assured his brother with a slap on his broad back.  Slightly older, Alejandro did not possess Lee's relentless resolve for revenge.  Lingering within death's shadow, he had not witnessed everything that Lee had that fateful night.  It was one thing to hear tell of all that had happened.  It was another to have the images emblazoned on his memory, to hear forever the anguished cries and unacknowledged pleas for mercy, to always see the glistening blood.  Too damned much blood.  "Get the money."

     "How much do we take?" Jorge asked with his typical, reckless eagerness.  At eighteen, he was the youngest of the group.  He worshipped the scent of retribution only because he could not forget the rancid odor of defeat.

     "Two thousand two hundred ninety-nine dollars and thirty-seven cents," Lee told them.

     Alejandro groaned.  "Can't we just make it an even twenty-three hundred?"

     "No.  That is not how much Shelby put in the bank," Lee explained as he did each time they visited a vault.

     "Why do you think he choose this particular bank?" Roberto asked. Older than Jorge, not as old as Lee, he was always solemn, always inquisitive.  "It is far from his ranch."

     Lee shrugged, feigning disinterest.  No reason to worry his brothers with the truth. The farther they were from home, the more likely Shelby's henchmen could capture them.  He'd been surprised that he'd had only one man -- skulking in the shadows like the vermin he was -- to subdue outside the building. 

      Shelby tended to surround himself with minions similar to himself, rabid animals that took with no thought of giving.  The other men he'd hired were no doubt sleeping the night away in the hotel, their failure to protect the money to be reckoned with come dawn. 

"The bastard is trying to find a safe haven for his money, but as long as I live, no such place exists."  He jerked his head toward the vault.  "Ándale."

     His jangling spurs disturbingly loud, he strode confidently across the bank, the only other sound the muffled hush as his brothers quickly filled their burlap sacks.  When he reached the bank president's desk, he pulled the stopper off the inkwell.  He retrieved a piece of paper from a nearby stack and dipped a pen into the black ink.  He hastily scribbled a message similar to the dozen he had left in other banks.

     $2,299.37 has been withdrawn from the account of Vernon Shelby compliments of . . .

     With a flourish, he scrawled his signature.  Lee Raven.  He plucked a raven's feather from the leather band circling his black Stetson and positioned it directly below his name.  His calling card.  Arrogant, he knew, but it ensured no one else paid the price he owed for his crimes.

***

     Angela Bainbridge flattened her ear against the cool glass of the saloon window.  She heard her father's boisterous laughter echo into the night, the deep rumble as telling as the cards he dealt.  He'd allowed someone to win a hand at faro.  If the recipient of his good humor were a smart man, he'd take his winnings and head home.  The next round of Bucking the Tiger would not find her father so generous.

     She pushed her palm against the windowsill until the wood bit into her tender flesh.  How she longed to stand beside him and deal cards.  When she was a child, he'd promised that she could work with him in the saloon.  He was convinced she'd inherited his gift for manipulation.  At the age of five she'd been adept at stacking a deck; at six she'd mastered false shuffles and cuts; at seven she’d excelled at keeping track of the cards played and determining which ones remained available; at eight she'd been proficient at gauging the odds of winning by analyzing the cards that had been revealed.

     When she was twelve, her father had made her a special deck of marked cards.  From that moment on, she'd known that she'd never ask him to keep his promise, understood that she'd never touch her dream of being a dealer at the Texas Lady.

     She realized it was ridiculous to long for things that could never be, knew she should appreciate what she had.  After recently acquiring a position as a seamstress at Damsels in Dis Dress, she had independence.  She'd moved into a room at the boardinghouse.  She still visited her family frequently, and she spent every Sunday afternoon at her parents' home listening as her two younger sisters waxed poetic about the young men seeking their favors.

     Her routine was comfortable, dependable . . . utterly boring.  Not at all what the daughter of a woman who had struck out on a cattle drive in 1866 had envisioned for herself as she'd grown up.  She wanted to make her mark on this state as her mother, her father, and their friends had done.  Pioneers in farming, ranching, business enterprises, and law enforcement.

     Instead she sewed fancy bodices and bell skirts. Hardly her idea of making a notable contribution to society.

     Her father's laughter rang out, and she smiled at the warmth and triumph within it.  He'd won that round.  She knew if she asked that he'd allow her to sit beside him, but if she couldn't command the deck, she didn't want to hear the shuffle.

     With a deep sigh of acceptance for the yearnings that would remain unfulfilled, she stepped onto the boardwalk and remembered the festivities that had taken place the day that the township installed the gaslights along the main street of Fortune. 

Her father's friend, Grayson Rhodes, had held her high above his head so she could touch the glass globe.  Her father would have lifted her, but an injury he'd suffered years ago had left him with a weakened hip and in constant pain. Although he never complained, the grooves on his face were deeper than the lines that added character to the faces of his friends.  Admiring her father as she did, she followed his example and never grumbled about her own limitations.  She understood them and dealt with them, but inwardly she resented the hell out of them.

     As she walked briskly along, she briefly touched the Indian statue that stood outside the general store.  The chiseled features intrigued her, and she often trailed her fingers over the intricately carved wood.  Her heels clicked along the boardwalk, her skirt whispering over the worn planks. As though she had a beau calling upon her, she always donned her finest favorite green dress for her midnight strolls.  She had a keen fascination with men, but they had little interest in her.

     She strolled past the millinery.  Perhaps tomorrow she would order a new hat with bright, colorful ribbons and an emerald bow.  As the boardwalk ended, she strode onto the dirt path that led to the alley between the shop and the bank, the ground muffling her footsteps.  Somewhere down the alley, a horse snorted and struck a hoof impatiently at the ground.

     Strange.  Most horses were tethered at the saloon this time of night if they weren't boarded at the blacksmith's.

     Perhaps Mr. Sims, the bank president, was working late -- although she thought it more likely that he was illicitly stuffing his pockets with money before heading to her father's gaming tables. 

Her father often questioned the man's penchant for gambling, thinking it an unseemly habit for a man who was responsible for handling others' money.  Yet in spite of her father's concerns, he never turned Mr. Sims away from his table.

     Then she heard the door leading into the bank open with a rush of hushed movements and jangling spurs.  Someone rammed into her.  She teetered backward before catching her balance.  "I'm sorry --"

     "Goddamn it!"

     That deep whiskey voice, that Mexican accent, did not belong to anyone who worked at the bank.  Panic surged through her as comprehension dawned instantly.  She'd inadvertently stumbled across a bank robbery.  She took another quick step back, fully intending to beat a hasty retreat, but a strong hand wrapped around her arm and yanked her forward.

     "No!"  She bucked wildly.

     Everything happened at once.  Her arms were pinned to her sides, soft cotton, no doubt this vile man's bandanna, was shoved into her mouth, and her feet skipped over the boardwalk as he hauled her away.

     "What are you doing?" another man with a thick Mexican accent asked.

     "The street lamps, goddamn it! She saw my face.  She knows what I look like."

     Angela shook her head frantically and twisted her body in an attempt to gain her freedom, but the iron band of his arms only tightened as he dragged her into the alley.  She heard the restless horses tamping the ground, their harsh breathing filling the air.

     "Lee, you can't take her with us," the other man pointed out.

     Lee?  Lee Raven!  Was it possible that the one who held a death grip on her was the notorious outlaw? Dear Lord, help her!  She had to escape.

     "I have no choice," he said.

     Like a hellion, she fought to break loose of his unrelenting grasp, tried to cry out.

     "Be quiet, señorita.  I am not going to hurt you," he said in a low voice.

     Not hurt her?  The man was a murderer, a thief.  She knew all about his harrowing reputation.  Her heart pounded so hard that she was surprised her father didn't hear it.

     For an insane instant, before she realized what his plans were, he released her.  She quickly jabbed her elbow into his gut, finding brief satisfaction in his grunt.  She managed two rapid steps, barely skimming her fingers across the cloth in her mouth before he wrenched her arms behind her back.  She growled her protest against the gag while he wrapped another bandanna tightly around her wrists.  Bending over, she kicked back, frustrated that she couldn't connect the heel of her shoe with this desperado's shin.

     "Señorita, do not fight me," he ordered.

     Don't fight him?  She'd damn well kill him if she got the opportunity!

     She didn't know how the man managed it, but he tossed her on his horse, quickly mounted behind her, formed a barrier around her with his arms, and grabbed the reins.  "Vámonos, hombres!"

     The horse burst into a gallop, the wind slapping Angela's face.  The only things keeping her from falling and being crushed beneath the pounding hooves were the strong arm he'd snaked around her waist, the firm thighs she was nestled between, and the paralyzing fear that she was now at this murderer's mercy.

     And from the tales she'd heard, he possessed no mercy.

Copyright © 2001