Laura Acton

Chapter 1:  Left for Dead

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March 5, 1878 – Trail to Bitterbend

Cracking his eyes open, Luke squinted as the brutally bright sun overhead caused his brain to thunder like a herd of wild Mustangs galloping through a canyon. He slammed his lids shut and rolled to his left, groaning as the intense pain in his abdomen amplified.

 

Once he made it on his side, he continued rolling to his stomach, hoping to get his knees under him, and well, he didn’t rightly know the next step. Lying face down, Luke rode the bucking bronco of nausea that threatened to relieve him of his last meal.

 

Alone and in acute agony, he contemplated the dire situation. He would likely die if he chose to lie here. Soul-deep self-preservation kicked in, and with immense effort, Luke pushed up from the ground. Teetering on unsteady arms, he managed to sit back on his heels.

 

Taking another shot at opening his eyes, he squinted and scanned the area, finding the trail empty and his trusty stallion nowhere in sight. Having set out before dawn, the sun’s position in the stratus cloud-dotted sky told him he had lain unconscious for quite some time.

 

Though parched, Luke whistled for Stoneclad, but the noise coming out didn’t sound like anything his horse would recognize.

 

Discouraged, his lashes lowered as he breathed through the burning sensation of a fire poker in his gut and the hammer pounding in his skull. His left hand moved to his temple, and his fingers made contact with sticky congealed blood.

 

Endeavoring to recall what put him in this position, he drew a ragged breath as his hand moved to his abdomen, seeking the epicenter of his ungodly pain. He dipped his chin and shifted his coat to peer at his damp shirt, noting a hole and wet crimson staining the right side of his blue chambray work shirt.

 

Groaning, he reached around to his back. Luke couldn’t find an exit wound, which meant the lead remained in him somewhere, along with bits of fabric—a surefire invitation to infection.

 

Aware the bullet must be dug out but unable to treat himself, Luke pondered which direction he should go. Based on landmarks, he figured home was closer than either Bitterbend or Fort Grant—though reaching his destination would be a monumental task.

 

Expending much effort, he struggled to his feet, swaying as the world’s axis tilted. Once vertigo abated somewhat, pressing a hand to the slowly seeping gut wound and shuffling forward, Luke started for home.

 

As the word home bounced in his mind, he staggered onward. There were days in the past four months Luke still couldn’t believe he now lived in the manner house on a prosperous ranch or that the wealthy, influential family recognized his birthright. The only dissenter being Jackson, the second son of Samuel and Elizabeth Blackweld.

 

Jack, a loud and brash cattleman worth his salt, barely tolerated him on a good day. But Luke could handle all the negativity and anger Jack directed his way. He possessed ample experience dealing with much worse during his almost twenty years of life.

 

It still perplexed him why Jack refused to accept him as family when all the others did. However, regardless of Jack’s rejection or maybe in spite of it, Luke endeavored to work harder than any of the hired hands.

 

He put in long hours and did the jobs others shirked or grumbled about doing without voicing a single complaint. Perhaps, in time, if he proved himself worthy, Jack might come around to accepting him as his brother and quit believing him to be an imposter.

 

Stumbling along the rutted track paralleling the foothills of the snowcapped peaks of the mountain, Luke scanned the vast scrub brush grassland, hoping to locate a dust trail of a traveler. Alas, he found none.

 

Despite wearing a jacket, Luke shivered. It was not weather-related, at least not yet. Being early March, the daytime temperature in the valley ranged from cold to cool, but remained comfortable. However, at this time of year, it dropped to near freezing at night.

 

He needed Stoneclad to make it home before dark. His eyes skimmed the tree line, wondering where his steadfast horse went. The steed would never leave him on his own accord. Many times, in the past, when he became incapacitated in one way or another, his Cerbat mustang would happily graze nearby until he righted himself and gathered the reins.

 

Retreating to his mind as he zigzagged on the trail, the passage of time lost all meaning to him, but Luke comprehended he must continue to put one boot in front of the other, or he’d become buzzard food.

 

Instead of focusing on his discomfort—a mild word for excruciating pain and lightheadedness due to blood loss—Luke thought about how swiftly he came to enjoy living with the Blackweld family, despite Jack’s attitude towards him.

 

Sixteen-year-old Catherine, who made it clear from the start she preferred Cathy, was a breath of fresh air. A wildcat with a heart of gold and the sweetest smile, she could do no wrong in Luke’s books. He liked having a sister, even if she tended to be challenging at times.

 

Of all his siblings, he felt the strongest kinship with her. According to Cathy, they both took after their father Samuel—blessed with sky-blue eyes and blond hair. Whereas David, Jack, and Seth all favored the darker hair of their mother’s side.

 

His mouth gritty and dry, Luke wouldn’t mind sitting on the veranda and feigning enjoyment of a tall glass of Cathy’s lip-puckering lemonade. Though his sister always carried plenty of sugar for the horses, she often forgot to add enough sweetness to her concoctions—be it cakes,

cookies, or lemonade.

 

For that reason, Luke hoped the majordomo, Ben, a former slave who worked for the Blackwelds for nigh on thirty years, would be the one to bake his birthday cake.

 

When Mrs. Blackweld showed him the family bible with his birth recorded, learning his real birthdate had been quite a shock. David came first in 1850, Jackson in 1853, then him five years later in 1858, followed by Catherine in 1861, and Seth in 1862.

 

He was not born on October 20, 1856, as his mama, may she rest in peace, claimed. Instead of being almost halfway to his twenty-second year, Luke would actually turn twenty on April twenty-eighth. The difference in dates explained a lot about his growth.

 

As a child, boys his age were always much bigger than him, and he trusted Mama when she professed him to be a late bloomer and would eventually match them in size. But in reality, he was a year and a half younger than he believed.

 

Childhood memories flooded back with a mixture of happiness, sorrow, rage, and bitterness, plus a full wagonload of confusion and unanswered questions.

 

Ruminating about his past as he stumbled onward, Luke failed to notice the deep rut. As he stepped into it, he lurched forward, and both hands flew out in front of him, attempting to break his fall.

 

Unfortunately, they did little to stop the agonizing jarring as his body and head impacted full-force with the hard-packed earth. Awash in pain, darkness claimed him again