The Lone Rancher - By Carol Finch Page 0,3

lively voices and bustling activity. He’d never felt so alone and abandoned in his thirty-one years of existence.

And he blamed his brothers and sister for every moment of his misery…

Chapter One

Cahill Crossing, Texas springtime, early 1880s

Quin Cahill dismounted from his horse, then stared at the string of saloons and dance halls that lined the north side of the newly completed railroad tracks. He doubted his parents would have approved of the disreputable businesses that had sprung up in the town that bore their family name….

The tormenting memory of losing both parents at once—not to mention the devastating family split that had followed—put a scowl on Quin’s face and left an empty ache in his heart. Squaring his shoulders, Quin forced aside the bleak thought and decided to treat himself to a drink at Hell’s Corner Saloon before he crossed the tracks to the respectable side of town to pick up supplies.

“Afternoon, Quin,” Sidney Meeker, the baldheaded, dark-eyed bartender, said as Quin strode across the planked floor.

Quin nodded a greeting as he leaned against the bar. He glanced around the saloon to note several unfamiliar faces at the poker tables. Cardsharps, he supposed, all waiting to prey on off-duty soldiers from nearby Fort Ridge, the cowboys from neighboring ranches and trail drives and the tracklayers who were constructing iron rails westward.

Sid arched a questioning brow as he dried off a shot glass, then set it aside. “How are things going on the 4C? Still having trouble with rustlers and squatters cutting your fences?”

Quin took a welcomed sip, allowing the liquor to slide down his throat and wash away the bitter memory of his brothers and sister bailing out on him and how hard he’d worked to take up the slack. “Not as much trouble as I had a year ago,” he said before he took another drink.

“That’s good news for you and the other ranchers in the area.” Sid absently wiped the scarred bar with his dish towel. “Especially the new owners of the ranch west of your spread. I saw ’em climb off the train this morning.”

Quin jerked up his head and frowned. He had been trying to purchase that run-down ranch for six months. Some highfalutin family had bought out the other investors from Boston and England that had run the spread long-distance—which almost never worked. Quin had written several letters to the headquarters in Boston and made a generous offer to M. G. & L. Investment Group. He had received notice that someone named McKnight had acquired most of the shares.

Sid grinned, exposing his horselike teeth. “It was a sight to behold at the new train depot. Boxcars of fancy furniture, a new breed of cattle and stacks of lumber arrived with ’em.” He inclined his bald head toward the door. “Folks scrambled out of here to watch. Most of the ones who showed up at the station were offered jobs of transporting wagonloads of belongings to the ranch.”

Quin smiled wryly, then took another drink. This was the perfect chance to meet his new neighbor—who wouldn’t last long when he realized the ranch house had fallen into disrepair and part of the livestock had been stolen because only a skeleton crew of hired hands had been retained to watch the place.

“Quite an entourage,” Sid continued as he propped both elbows on the bar. “One well-dressed gent with fancy manners and three women. They purchased a two-seated carriage from the livery and headed west a few hours ago.”

Quin’s lips quirked in wicked amusement. He could imagine the cultural shock those Easterners would encounter. While it was true that Cahill Crossing had increased in population since the coming of the railroad, social events here were infrequent. Sure, there was the occasional school function to raise money for supplies and church socials—that sort of thing—but nothing compared to the gala affairs rumored to take place in New England.

He predicted his uppity neighbors would turn up their aristocratic noses and scurry back to Boston soon. And Quin was going to be first in line to offer to take the property off their hands. The land west of his ranch had an excellent water source, pastures of thick grass and wooded hills to shade the livestock during oppressive summers and to block the brutal blue norther winds during harsh winters.

Yes, indeed, Quin was going to get his hands on that tract of land, just as he had bought up other available property to fulfill his father’s dream of expanding the 4C Ranch.

“And Bowie,