Letters from Peaceful Lane (New Americana 3)

“We agreed that one would be enough,” she said as his hand came to rest on the growing bulge of her belly. “I hope you’re not having second thoughts.”

“Not a one.” Burke unfastened her bra. His hands massaged her tired back and shoulders. “With Brianna living in Springfield and engaged to Liam now, I’ll be needing a new fishing buddy—besides you, of course.”

Allison laughed. “Since I’ve never gotten the hang of casting, I’ll probably just steer the boat.”

As his arms went around her, Allison recalled Kate’s letter, how she’d wanted to be there to dance at Brianna’s wedding and to cuddle her grandchildren. Those pleasures would fall to Allison now.

She would embrace them with joy.

For Kate.

Read on for an excerpt from Janet Dailey’s next

Tylers of Texas novel, coming soon.

TEXAS FREE

She’s a woman with a burning need to break free from her past . . .

Rose Landro is on the run. Seeking refuge at the Rimrock Ranch, she is finally ready to claim the land her granddaddy left her and make a fresh start. But her return is rife with controversy when cattle begin disappearing—and a handsome menace named Tanner McCade starts watching Rose a little too closely. Could the new cowhand be connected to the men she’s hiding from? Or is there another reason the rugged stranger is shadowing her every move?

He’s a man ready to fight boldly for his future . . .

There’s a secret in Rose Landro’s eyes, a mystery that Special Ranger Tanner McCade is determined to uncover. Even if the beauty isn’t behind the cattle rustling he’s investigating, she’s way too skittish, and all too exquisite for Tanner to just let slide past his piercing gaze. Then he discovers a vulnerability in Rose that has him aching to protect her—and longing to possess her. . . .

Río Seco, Mexico

April 1985

The Mexican village slumbered under the light of a waning crescent moon. In the empty plaza, windblown shadows flickered over the cobblestones. The cantina was closed for the night, its outdoor tables and chairs locked away behind corrugated metal doors. A bat fluttered from the tower of the old adobe church and melted into darkness. A skinny dog f

oraged for leavings in the deserted marketplace.

The night was almost peaceful. But the stillness was heavy with tension—especially in one small adobe house on a dusty side street. Nothing in Río Seco was the way it had been before the Cabrera cartel took over the town. And for Rose Landro, after tonight, nothing would be the same again.

The click of a boot heel on the tiled patio startled Rose to full alertness. Lying fully dressed in the dark, she checked the impulse to sit up, fling aside the covers, and bolt out of bed. She was a small woman. Face-to-face, she’d be no match for the burly intruder who was stalking her. Her only chance of survival lay in surprise.

The loaded Smith and Wesson .44 was a cold lump under her pillow. As footsteps clicked across the patio, she closed her hand around the grip, cocked the hammer, and slid to the floor. Her free hand bunched the pillows into a semblance of her sleeping body and covered them with the blanket.

She knew who was coming for her. Lucho Cabrera, younger brother of the local cartel boss, was built like a short pile of bricks. He wore high-heeled cowboy boots to make him appear taller. The sound of those boots, clicking across the kitchen, chilled Rose’s blood.

Gripping the heavy pistol, she crawled across the floor and pressed upward to stand against the wall, in the shadows behind the door. Her breath came in shallow gasps. Her pulse hammered in her ears.

The cartel would kill anyone who stood against them. They had already murdered Ramón and María Ortega, who’d taken Rose into their home twelve years ago. Rose would have fled for her life before now, but she could not leave without avenging the couple who’d cared for her like their own daughter.

Honor. The Ortegas had lived by that code. Now it was Rose’s turn to carry on the tradition.

The footsteps were coming closer. Would Lucho stand in the doorway and fire at the lump in her bed, or did the sadistic pig plan on raping her first, as he’d done two months earlier when he’d caught her walking home alone after dark?

At the memory of his filthy, sweating body, her finger tightened on the trigger. If ever a man deserved killing, it was Lucho Cabrera. Only his older brother, Refugio, was worse.

The bedroom door creaked open. Rose held her breath as Lucho stepped into the room, his pistol drawn. The faint moonlight, falling through the high, barred window, cast black shadows across his fleshy face. As he neared the bed, he holstered the gun. One hand fumbled with his belt buckle. Good. This was almost too easy. She could shoot him now, in the back. But something in her wanted more. She wanted him to see her. When the bullet tore into his body, she wanted him to know who had fired it.

She forgot to breathe. Every muscle was a coiled spring as she waited for the right moment.

“Brujita fea . . .” he muttered. The name, given to Rose because of the birthmark on her face, meant “ugly little witch.” Over the years she’d learned to bear it with a measure of pride. Superstitious people tended to fear her, especially some of the men. But that wouldn’t stop Lucho. He might even be planning to take a trophy back to his brother—an ear, a hand, or even her head—as proof of his bravery.

Still muttering, he loosened his trousers and jerked back the blanket. That was when he realized he’d been tricked. He spun around, cursing as Rose stepped out of the shadows, the .44 gripped between her hands.