Luke's Cut. Sarah McCarty

could just up and ask Ace.

      “I’d feel better if Tia would wait until fall, when preparing for winter will keep the Comanche busy elsewhere,” Ace muttered.

      So would Luke, but as Sam’s wife, Bella was Hell’s Eight. Full of fire, courage and an unlimited amount of sass, she fit into the group as if made for them. He swirled the last swallow of whiskey in his glass. “There’s no way Tia’s going to miss delivering Bella and Sam’s first child. Not after she promised to be there.”

      Ace frowned across the yard at Tia, who’d joined the group around the bride and groom. “She’s not a young woman anymore.”

      Luke echoed his frown as the sun caught the gray in Tia’s shiny black hair. When had Tia decided to get old? “She isn’t in her grave, either. And that’s what I think it would take to keep her away from this birth. Especially since Sam asked her to come.” He attempted to change the subject. “You know, of all of the Eight, he’s her favorite.”

      Ace snorted. “Tia isn’t here to rile with that accusation, so you can just drop it and stop trying to change the subject.” His frown deepened. “What the hell was Sam thinking?”

      Luke didn’t know, but it had to be serious. “That he needs her. He wouldn’t have sent for her if he didn’t. Sam isn’t an alarmist. He knows the traveling risk right now and he loves Tia as much as all of us. Things have to be serious. To the point I’m thinking he left the Montoya ranch all but unprotected with all the men he sent to escort Tia.”

      That was a big thing for Sam. Sam was a wild card. A man who’d ride into a fray of bullets just for the challenge of surviving, but he took his responsibilities seriously. And that included the huge responsibility of the Montoya ranch he’d inherited when he’d married Bella. The ranch sat smack dab in the middle of Comanche country. Luke shook his head. It took a strong man to keep it in one piece. But Sam seemed to be flourishing under the challenge. The man no one thought would ever settle, just might have found his place.

      Ace nodded. “So I heard.”

      “Did you hear when they’re arriving?”

      “Based on the telegram, they should be here any day.”

      “Good. We’re going to need everyone. There’s some rough territory between here and there.”

      Ace cocked an eyebrow. “And yet you’re volunteering.”

      And looking forward to it. Being around so many settled people chafed. “It’ll be a new adventure with which to thrill the readers.”

      “Uh-huh. Do your readers know how much truth is in your novels?”

      It was Luke’s turn to shrug. No one was more surprised than he at the success of his novels, written under the pen name of Dane Savage. More shocking than the money was the notoriety. According to his publisher, Easterners couldn’t get enough of the rumored-to-be-autobiographical tales of the ever-so-honest, bigger-than-life Texas Ranger’s high adventures in the West. As fast as Luke was writing them, they were selling. He adjusted his hat. “I get the feeling they’re more interested in the fiction.”

      “Uh-huh.”

      A new voice entered the fray. “I wondered where the whiskey had gotten to.”

      Only one man of the Hell’s Eight had such a deep voice. Tucker McCade. His tread was heavy on the stairs, his smile broad but tinged with concern.

      Ace held up the nearly empty bottle. “You timed that close.”

      “Still can’t get used to you wearing sleeves,” Luke said, turning to greet Tucker. Nor to seeing him without his knives strapped to his thighs.

      Tucker smiled and tossed his lemonade over the rail. The heavy muscles in his arms rippled under his shirt with the movement. His shoulder-length black hair fell over his face, casting his harsh features in shadow. “Me, neither.” He held out his glass. “But having a wife who turns a jealous eye when other women ogle my manly attributes means I get tailor-made shirts.”

      Ace chuckled and poured. “I’ve heard it’s good to keep a Quaker peaceful.”

      Tucker’s smile reached his brown eyes and his teeth shone white against his dark skin, emphasizing the scar on his right cheek. “I do enjoy smoothing Sally Mae’s feathers when they’re ruffled.”

      “Pacifist or not, that woman has a way of getting what she wants.”

      “Not everything,” Caine pointed out, coming up to join them, a fresh bottle in his hand. “She’s not going to Rancho Montoya.”

      “You heard?”

      “I think everyone within a mile heard you shouting last night,” Caine said, pulling the cork from the fresh bottle with his teeth.

      “That woman has a stubborn streak a mile deep,” Tucker grumbled.

      Luke smiled. Sally Mae was a tall, slim blonde and as cool as a spring day. She never raised her voice. The exact opposite of her dark, big, muscular husband. “Almost equal to yours.”

      “Yeah, but things, they’re not good out there. You know that. I know that. With the cavalry pulled back East and bad blood, travel isn’t safe. I know Sam sent his vaqueros, but I’d feel better if some of Hell’s Eight were traveling with Tia.”

      Caine held up the bottle. Luke held out his glass alongside the others.

      “I’m going,” Luke offered. But he wasn’t staying after he got there. The itch in his feet was too strong. The horizon too enticing.

      Caine frowned and poured them each a measure. “I wish we could spare more.”

      “Sam handled that end.”

      “Yeah.” Tucker took a drink of his whiskey and shook his head. “But I’ve got to tell you, I’m being plagued by a bad feeling.”

      Shit. There was nothing worse than Tucker having a bad feeling.

       CHAPTER TWO

      WITH DAWN JUST PAST, the ground wet with dew, the yard bustling with activity, the time to leave had arrived. Even with two cups of coffee in him, Luke was dragging. With the efficiency of long practice, he tightened the cinch on Chico’s saddle. Thanks to a restless night, his mood was jagged.

      Around him, the sounds of the group preparing for departure joined the sleepy chirps of rousing birds. Leather creaking, horses stomping their feet, people talking, items thudding into the buckboard—it was all familiar. The rightness of it had settled over his unease with a soothing balm. He gave the cinch a firm tug. It was time to go. A man who stayed in one place too long got stale.

      Tia came out of the house, escorted by her husband, Ed. Her dark green traveling dress was impeccably tailored, and the gray-streaked black of her hair was pulled up into a distinguished bun. She was the perfect image of a refined lady, but if he wasn’t mistaken, her dark brown eyes lit with excitement. It occurred to Luke that maybe he wasn’t the only one who’d been feeling the weight of settling down. For Tia to have been out in the back of beyond as she had been when the boys of Hell’s Eight found her, she had to have a spirit of adventure.

      Funny how he’d never thought on that before. Tia had always just been Tia. The stability in their lives. The one they’d counted on. Behind her trailed Sally Mae. At six months pregnant, her belly led the way. It was her second pregnancy, the first having ended in miscarriage, and everyone was worried because, from the girth of her belly, this child was going to have Tucker’s size.

      “I should be going with you,” Sally said and sighed, supporting her stomach with her hand. Behind Sally Mae came Tucker, carrying another suitcase. With a shake of his head he negated that idea. “Before you got two feet in that wagon, that baby would be bouncing out of your belly.”

      Despite