Blackhawk Legacy
Silhouette Books
December 2004
ISBN 0-373-21849-4

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4 ½ Stars! “…not-to-be missed single title…absorbing tale grabs the reader from the beginning and doesn't let go until the last startling secret is revealed…”
Susan Mitchell, Romantic Times

"...This book has it all, Romance, Mystery, Plot Twists, Secrets and Surprises. I have been following Barbara McCauley's career for a long time and I knew this book was in her but this exceeded even my expectations. From the beginning this book grabs you by the throat, rings you out like a dish rag and doesn't let you go until the last reveal. Every thing is there on the page with Barbara's usual pathos, passion and perception. This book is A GREAT READ."
Michelle Thorne, A Great Read, RWA Bookseller of the Year 1998

Chapter One

Midnight jerked him from the dream.

Dillon Blackhawk lay on his back, damp sheets clutched in his fists, sucking air into his lungs. As always, it took him a moment to remember where he was. Which city, which town. Whose bed.

Not that it mattered. They were all the same to him. Different faces, perhaps, different jobs, but still, the same.

Midnight. He closed his eyes again. Always midnight.

Dragging a hand through hair he'd neglected to cut in several months, Dillon sat on the edge of the mattress, waiting for his heart to slow. Like a drum, it pounded heavy in his chest, in his head...boom...boom...boom... An ancient, primitive beat. Hollow, deep, foreboding.

There'd be no sleep now. Dillon had learned that much in the past sixteen years. He'd fought it at first. It was in Dillon's blood to fight. Warrior blood, passed proudly down from generation to generation. Pure Cherokee blood.

But the "mind creatures," as his grandfather had called the dream demons, did not fight fair. Cloaked in animal skins, they crept silently in through the darkness. Like shadows, they slipped under and around the strongest defenses, stirring the memories, awakening feelings that Dillon had long ago closed off. He'd managed to hold the creatures at bay, but for the past three weeks, they'd been relentless. Raiding his sleep, invading his dreams. Whispering.

Damn them to hell.

Naked, Dillon rose and stepped over the big dog sleeping at the foot of the bed. Bowie lifted his head briefly, then settled back down again with a sigh. The animal was accustomed to his master's middle of the night risings, and he simply accepted it as part of their routine.

Dillon moved through the darkness into the small bathroom, but didn't bother to turn on the light. The tile was cool under his feet, a relief from the blistering heat of the West Texas summer. Light from a half moon spilled through the open bathroom window and washed the room in shades of gray. He splashed cold water on his face, then gripped the sides of the chipped porcelain sink and rolled his head back. Staring up at the ceiling, he listened to the drip...drip...drip of the faucet and breathed in the tangy scent of herbs drifting in from Maria Guadalupe's garden. Cilantro, chili peppers. Rosemary and basil.

For the past six months Dillon had rented a room--a converted garage--behind his landlady's small brick house. Maria, a widow with graying temples, a stout build and a thick waist, loved to cook as much as she loved to eat. Every Sunday she would send her grandson, nine-year-old Juan, with a basket of still warm chili rellenos and homemade tortillas. Juan would insist that his grandmother would beat him if Dillon did not accept the food. Though Dillon knew that Maria raised her voice on occasion, he also knew she would never strike her only grandchild. She'd raised the boy by herself since he was six and little Juan, with his big brown eyes and ready smile, was Maria's greatest joy.

So Dillon silently accepted the lie, just as he accepted the basket, but other than occasional home repairs for his landlady, he offered nothing in return. He had nothing to offer. Not to the Guadalupes, or to anyone else.

He looked in the mirror over the sink, but only a shadowed face without features stared back. Perhaps that was why the dreams had been so frequent lately, he thought. Maybe, without even realizing it, he had been moving too close to the line he never crossed. Wanting things he had no business wanting. Maybe that was why he'd felt an uneasiness these past few days, a persistent prickling on the back of his neck.

A wariness that something, or someone, was coming.

Dillon swiped at the drops of water on his face and chest, then raked both hands through his hair. Tomorrow was Friday. Payday. After he gave Maria this month's rent, he'd blow whatever was left on beer and a few games of pool. A woman would help ease the tension, too, he figured. God knew he'd been without female companionship for way too long.

Cold beer and hot sex. What better solution for a good night's sleep?

Satisfied with that thought, Dillon went back to bed and waited for the morning.

At the edge of the small town, the bar sat alone. Light bulbs strung from phone poles glowed dimly over the weed-infested dirt and gravel parking lot. On top of the flat roof that slanted downward from the front of the wooden building, a yellow neon sign flickered "Backwater Saloon."

Hardly an original name, Rebecca Blake thought as she parked her little white sedan between two large, dusty pickup trucks, but it certainly fit the bill.

Resolute, Texas . Population 2,346.

After driving across more than five hundred miles of sparse, flat highways and dusty backroads, this is where she'd finally ended up. Resolute looked like most of the other small towns Rebecca had driven through since she'd flown into the airport in Midland . One long main street, no stop lights, brick buildings from circa 1920 and at least one bar, if not two, where locals gathered after work.

According to the travel guide Rebecca had read, Resolute, like so many other Texas towns, had prospered in the height of the oil boom days after a rancher drilling for water hit black gold instead. Though the boom was gone today, enough oil still flowed to sustain a small refinery and provide income to keep the quiet little town on the map.

The Backwater Saloon, however, was anything but quiet. Even with her windows rolled up, Rebecca could hear the pulse of country-western music when the Old West style saloon doors opened and two men walked out onto the wooden sidewalk. Laughing, they both lit cigarettes and leaned against a rail while they smoked. Their conversation was animated, but appeared friendly, their clothing nearly identical: jeans, boots, striped button-up work shirts with sleeves rolled to the elbows. The only difference between them was that one wore a baseball cap, the other a cowboy hat.

Rebecca had seen more denim, cowboy hats and cowboy boots in the past three days then she had in her entire twenty-eight years. It wasn't that people in Boston didn't wear jeans. Of course they did. She owned several pairs herself. But here in West Texas , it was how they wore their denim that was different--as if they owned it. With the same acceptance and confidence that royalty wore their crowns. Here, denim had nothing to do with fashion or fads, and everything to do with practical.

Here--unless you were a cow--a brand meant nothing. A blonde suddenly popped out of the double doors like a stripper out of a cake, her red skirt short enough to get her arrested in most states and her white tank top tight enough to cut off circulation. Her cowboy boots were trimmed with red, white and blue rhinestones. The best word to describe the woman's hair was big. She curled up against the taller of the two men, the one wearing a cowboy hat, and then they all three turned and shuffled back into the bar.

Rebecca had never been in a place like the Backwater Saloon, had never even seen a place like it before she'd come to Texas . She'd be lying if she didn't admit, at least to herself, that she was afraid. Good God, she was terrified. Walking into a seedy working man's bar by herself, on a crowded Friday night, was hardly the most intelligent thing she'd ever done. If anything, it was just plain stupid. Or crazy.

Both, she decided.

She could only imagine what her sister and brother would say if they knew where she was and what she was doing. Melanie would rant and rave and try to reason with her. Sean, on the other hand, would most likely kill her himself.

But she couldn't let worrying about her family stop her now. She'd come much too far, had waited much too long already. Like it or not--and she didn't--she'd do this tonight.

Dragging a fortifying breath into her lungs, Rebecca opened her car door and stepped out, immediately felt the heavy slap of the evening's heat and humidity. Though she'd confined her shoulder length hair into a neat ponytail, several loose strands were already curling in protest against the hot, damp air. Out of nerves more than vanity, she straightened the collar of her long-sleeved pink blouse and adjusted the belt on her tailored black slacks.

You can do this, she told herself, then slung the leather strap of her small purse over her shoulder and closed her car door. She'd taken no more than two steps when a huge, snarling mass of sharp teeth and thick fur lunged at her from the bed of the pickup truck she'd parked beside.

Stifling a scream, Rebecca jumped back against the hood of her car, realized with a great deal of relief that the dog was leashed in the bed of the truck. The animal, who looked part grizzly bear, part shepherd, continued to bark.

"Good dog." Gravel crunched under the heels of Rebecca's flats as she slowly backed away. "Nice dog. Stay."

With a low growl, then a soft woof, the dog sat, its black eyes wary. Heart hammering, Rebecca turned and picked her way across the dirt parking lot, then stepped onto the wooden sidewalk. A sign over the entrance said: NO DOGS OR LIZARDS ALLOWED.

Since the sign said nothing about third grade teachers from Boston , Rebecca pushed through the double doors.

Inside, a thick cloud of cigarette smoke wrapped itself around her neck like a hand and squeezed while cold air blasted her hot, damp skin. Over the din of conversation and country western music she recognized as a Willie Nelson song, pool balls clacked from a corner table. Colorful neon beer signs buzzed from every wall, bathing the interior in soft glows of yellow and red and blue.

When she took another step, the room--except for Willie's wailing--went completely still.

It seemed as if every head had swiveled toward her at the same moment. This is it, Rebecca thought, and swallowed the thick lump of fear in her throat. I'm going to die.

Though it was probably only a few seconds, it felt like a lifetime before the conversations slowly started up again, as did the game of pool. Even though she knew everyone was still watching her, Rebecca released the breath she'd been holding, then made her way to the bar and slid onto the only available stool. To her left, a slender young man with Elvis Presley sideburns and a long, hawkish nose slid her a curious look, while an elderly man to her right touched the brim of his white cowboy hat and smiled wide, giving his face the appearance of cracked leather.

"How do," he said in a voice as dry and gravelly as the parking lot outside. "Elton Potter."

"Mr. Potter." Rebecca managed a weak smile. "Rebecca Blake."

"Folks just call me Elton," the man said. "We ain't fancy around here."

Rebecca glanced around the smoky room, noted the sawdust on the wood-planked floor, a mounted buffalo head over the pool table and a six-foot long diamond-backed rattlesnake skin stretched out over the sign leading to the restrooms.

No kidding, Elton.

A bartender suddenly appeared, wiping a glass with a towel while he stared at her. He was short, with a flattened nose and arms the size of an oak tree. "What can I get you?"

"Chardonnay, please."

The man to her left snickered, but when the bartender shot him a look, the man cleared his throat and hunched over the beer in his hand.

Rebecca noticed a sign over the back of the bar that said DON'T MESS WITH TEXAS OR LESTER. Apparently, this was Lester.

The bartender pulled out a dusty bottle of white wine from under the bar, wiped it down and opened it, then filled a whiskey glass. He shoved it across the battered, wooden counter and as an after thought, laid a white cocktail napkin beside the glass. "Twenty dollars."

"For a glass of wine?" Rebecca blurted out, then cursed her own loose tongue.

"For the bottle." Lester folded his beefy arms across his chest. "And for whatever else it is you're here looking for."

The man certainly didn't mince words, Rebecca thought, then took a sip of the warm chardonnay. And choked. She might as well have bought a bottle of vinegar.

It didn't matter. She hadn't come here for the fine wine and exemplary service.

Pushing the glass away, she reached into her purse, then pulled out two twenties and a pen. She wrote on the napkin and shoved it back across the counter.

Both Elton and Elvis stretched their necks to see what she'd written, but the bartender's meaty hand snatched the napkin away. After he glanced at it, he looked back up at Rebecca.

"Never heard of him." Lester crumpled the napkin and threw it in a trash can.

"Who?" Elton and Elvis both asked eagerly at the same time.

When Lester gave the men a look that could have lasered through steel, Rebecca couldn't help but wonder why. If the bartender truly didn't recognize the name, why would he be making an effort to shut Elton and Elvis up?

Lester glanced back at Rebecca. "So why you looking for this guy?"

"It's a personal matter."

"Yeah?" Lester gave her a hard, bland look, then spread his hands on the bar and leaned in closer. "How personal?"

She didn't like the man's tone or suggestion one little bit, but Rebecca wasn't looking for an invitation to Thanksgiving dinner. Maybe this man knew something and maybe he didn't. She wasn't leaving until she knew for sure.

"I'm a friend of the family." She reached in her purse and pulled out another twenty. "Maybe you could ask around."

Without changing expression, the bartender stared at the money, but said nothing.

"I'll just use the ladies' room while you think about it." Rebecca slid off the bar stool, felt the crunch of sawdust under her shoes. "Watch my wine for me, will you, Elton?"

The old man grinned with pleasure. "Sure thing, miss."

Once again, the beat of the room paused and slowed when she made her way across the room. Still, she kept her head up, her shoulders back and her gaze straight. She didn't hurry, but she didn't stroll, either. She made eye contact with a few of the other patrons, men and women, but didn't hold it. If she'd learned anything from teaching eight-year-olds, it was never, ever, to show fear. The slightest shudder, the tiniest tremble, and any control she might have would be shredded, then tossed about like confetti.

A couple of the men nodded politely at her. Rebecca nodded back, but she didn't smile, knowing that the women in the bar were already wary--staring at her as if she were an alien female come to beam their menfolk up to the mother ship.

But there was only one man she'd come here looking for. Only one man she was remotely interested in. She'd zigzagged across West Texas from one small oil town to another, hoping, praying, that she'd find him. Something in Lester's eyes told her that, finally, she'd hit pay dirt.

In spite of her nerves, excitement fluttered in her stomach.

She cleared the doorway leading to the restrooms. The room on the left had a picture of a cowboy on the door, the room to the right, a cowgirl. Rebecca didn't go inside. Instead, she waited a moment, then peeked back around the corner.

Lester was gone.

She scanned the room, then spotted the bartender standing beside a tall-backed booth on the other side of the bar. She couldn't see who was sitting there, but she watched Lester pull a wad of paper out of his apron pocket and lay it on the table. Unless she missed her guess, it was the napkin Lester had tossed in the trash. The bartender nodded a couple of times, then glanced over his shoulder toward the restrooms. Rebecca's heart slammed against her ribs, and she quickly ducked out of sight.

Was it him? she wondered. Part of her desperately wanted it to be, needed it to be. But another part of her was terrified that it was.

She felt like the women in a horror movie who hears a sound coming from the basement. It was crazy to go down there, who in their right mind would go down there? The voice of reason in her head, like an audience in a theater, was screaming at her to run, telling her she was a fool.

Rebecca jumped when the ladies' bathroom door swung open. Laughter and a cloud of heavy cologne preceded the two women who tumbled through the door. Rebecca recognized one of the women as the busty blonde who'd popped through the bar's swinging doors and spoken to the men out front. The brunette beside the blonde wore a red cropped top that showed a lot of bare midriff, a short denim skirt, and red snakeskin cowboy boots. Both women were obviously graduates of the Tammy Faye cosmetology school.

The blonde slid a long, hard look over Rebecca, then raised one interested, but heavily penciled brow. "You lost, honey?"

"Not if this is the ladies' room," Rebecca said, smiling.

The blonde seemed to assess Rebecca's answer and accept it. Her red lips curved into a bright smile. "Not sure about the lady part," she replied, her Texas accent thick, "but if you got to sit down to pee, you're in the right place."

The brunette snorted in laughter. "That's a good one, Dixie . You should do stand-up."

"That's what the guys do," Dixie replied and broke into giggles herself. "Stand up."

The two women laughed so hard, they had to hold onto each other so they wouldn't fall over. Knowing that it never hurt to be friendly to the natives, especially the female ones, Rebecca forced a laugh herself, then watched the women toddle off.

Releasing the breath she'd been holding, Rebecca stepped into the restroom, was thankful it was empty. There were three wooden stalls, though one had an OUT OF ORDER sign on it. The thick scent of sweet cologne and musty tile hung in the air, and the white single-sink countertop was marked with cigarette burns. The walls, desperately in need of paint, vibrated from the blaring jukebox.

Rebecca stared at herself in the mirror over the sink. The past six months had changed her, she thought. Maybe not on the outside. Outside, she supposed no one would notice any difference in her. But inside, where it really mattered, she didn't know who she was anymore.

She'd come a long way to find out. No matter what happened, she wouldn't quit now.

Dillon knew the second the woman had walked into The Backwater Saloon. Not only because beer bottles had frozen in mid-air and the pool game had stopped, not only because every head had swiveled and stared.

But because he'd felt her.

He'd felt her presence, knew before he'd even turned to look, that she'd come here for him. All day, he'd felt her shadow beside him, had tried to shrug it off as lack of sleep the night before. But in his gut, he'd known. The dreams had warned him, but he hadn't listened closely enough this time. If he had, he would have packed up and left this morning.

I must be getting old.

It didn't matter, Dillon told himself and tossed back a swig from the bottle of beer in his hand. It wasn't the first time his past had risen out of the ashes. It probably wouldn't be the last, either. It did surprise him that they'd sent a woman to come find him this time, though, especially one who looked like she'd just stepped out of Miss Prim's Prep School. He could picture her gliding stiffly across a room with a book balanced on her head--probably Dickinson or Bronte, Dillon decided. She had a face that would match one of those Victorian writers' heroines: high cheek bones, skin milkmaid white, thick, dark brown strands of curls framing her heart-shaped face and wide eyes.

She was tall--at least five foot eight--and slender, too. Dillon had the feeling there were some serious curves going on under her black tailored slacks and long-sleeved blouse. He'd spotted the fear in her gaze when she'd walked into the bar, but she'd managed to hold her own, simply glanced across the room as if she owned it, then walked with purpose to the counter and slid onto a stool. He'd actually even felt a flicker of admiration she hadn't shriveled under the intense scrutiny of the crowd.

She fit in like a cactus in a Jacuzzi, but whoever she was, and whatever she wanted, he'd send her pretty little ass on her pretty little way.

Dillon stared at the wrinkled napkin Lester had given him. He was absolutely certain he'd never met this woman before, unless maybe he'd been blind drunk at the time. A possibility, he supposed, but highly unlikely. Even blind drunk, he'd have remembered this one.

Which meant Peter had sent her, Dillon thought, though the man had never sent a woman before. Dammit. He should have left while she was in the restroom.

But he was comfortable sitting right where he was and besides, he still had half a beer. He'd be damned if he'd leave before he finished it.

And if he were really being honest, he was more than a little curious. He stared at the crumpled napkin she'd written his name on, then turned it over and set his damp beer bottle on top. Either she wasn't very bright, or she had cojenes. More than the men who had preceded her. They would have found him at work, or waited outside his house rather than set foot in a place like this.

Whatever, he thought, since she'd apparently gone to such lengths to find him, he decided he'd at least hear her out.

He knew she was standing next to him now. Even before she spoke, he caught her scent. Light and floral, slightly sweet. The kind of scent a man wanted not only to smell, but to taste.

"Dillon Blackhawk?"

He ignored her question and the velvet-smooth sound of her voice and took another slow pull on his beer. Dillon knew that everyone in the bar was watching him, dammit. Waiting. He lowered the bottle in his hand, then rudely slid his gaze up her body, pausing to stare at her breasts. Full, round, just the right size for a man's hand, he thought.

He watched her stiffen at his lecherous inspection, then she tilted her chin up and repeated, "Are you Dillon Blackhawk?"

There was an icy chill in her voice now. With reluctance, he glanced up and met her gaze. Her eyes, a deep, startling green, caught him slightly off guard. "Who wants to know?"

She slid into the booth across from him. "My name is Rebecca Blake."

The name meant nothing, but she had a hell of a mouth, Dillon noted. Lush and full, tipped up slightly at the corners. When he didn't respond, she reached into the black purse slung over her shoulder and pulled out a photograph, then slid it across the table, facing him. It took him a moment to realize that it was his own high school graduation picture. God, had he really ever been that young? Other than his driver's license and the army, it was the last time he could even remember having his picture taken. What the hell was this woman doing with it?

Still, he showed no reaction.

"I need to know I have the right man," she said evenly.

"Depends on what you're looking for, darlin'," Dillon said with a lift of one brow.

Those incredible lips of hers pressed into a thin line, and her already stiff back straightened even more. "Are you Dillon Takota Blackhawk?"

Her question was a verbal blow that caught him straight in the gut. Takota. His middle name wasn't even on his birth certificate. He'd been given the name later by his grandfather. No one knew it--no one living, anyway.

"Lady--" Dillon narrowed his gaze "--you've got exactly five seconds to tell me who you are and what you want."