Chapter One
Fortune, Texas
1891
Lee Raven.
For as long as he could remember, the name had swirled
like a gray mist at the edge of his memories. Hauntingly
familiar, but elusive. He couldn't comprehend its
significance or understand why it hovered just beyond his
grasp.
He only knew that it was the name he'd chosen to use the
night he died.
It suited his purposes well. It did not hint at his
beloved heritage, family, or roots. No one associated the
name with him. Only his family knew what he looked like.
As far as the world was concerned, the naäve, trusting boy
he had been was long dead.
The man who had risen up from the depths of hell to take
his place instilled terror within those who dared to
whisper his name. Some believed he was Diablo, others
thought he was a phantom. How close they all were to
touching the truth. His charred soul made him hollow
throughout, merely a shell of what he had once been.
Standing in the bank, surrounded by a shroud of darkness,
he acknowledged once again that only fools wallowed in a
past that could not be changed. He had chosen his path,
fully understanding its consequences. Given the choice, he
would choose to follow that road again.
Calmness settled over him as he pressed his ear against
the cool metal door of the bank vault. In the dim light
cast by the low flame in his lantern, he concentrated on
the task at hand. His first order of business upon
entering the bank had been to hang blankets over the
windows so no light escaped into the night. Thecovering
also prevented the soft glow of the street's gaslights
from silhouetting any activities within the building. He
found modernized towns to be a thoroughly aggravating
nuisance.
He rubbed his thumb across his fingertips before flexing
his fingers repeatedly. Taking a deep breath and holding
it, he very slowly turned the dial with practiced ease,
listening intently for the audible click. He stilled as
the first set of tumblers fell into place.
He rotated the dial in the opposite direction. The
tumblers immediately dropped, and he froze. They thought
they could trick him. Estúpido. Obviously, they didn't
have a clue as to exactly how accomplished he was.
He turned the dial until he heard the final clink. Smiling
with satisfaction, he unfolded his lean body, cranked down
the handle, and swung open the door to the vault. He
stepped aside, a gallant wave of his hand serving as an
invitation to those who'd stolen into the bank with
him. "Hombres."
"I don't know how you do that," Alejandro whispered
reverently as he peered cautiously into the dark cavern.
"I am a man of many talents," Lee assured his brother with
a slap on his broad back. Slightly older, Alejandro did
not possess Lee's relentless resolve for revenge.
Lingering within deaths shadow, he had not witnessed
everything that Lee had that fateful night. It was one
thing to hear tell of all that had happened. It was
another to have the images emblazoned on his memory, to
hear forever the anguished cries and unacknowledged pleas
for mercy, to always see the glistening blood. Too damned
much blood. "Get the money."
"How much do we take?" Jorge asked with his typical
reckless eagerness. At eighteen, he was the youngest of
the group. He worshipped the scent of retribution only
because he could not forget the rancid odor of defeat.
"Two thousand two hundred ninety-nine dollars and thirty-
seven cents," Lee told them.
Alejandro groaned. "Can't we just make it an even twenty-
three hundred?"
"No. That is not how much Shelby put in the bank," Lee
explained as he did each time they visited a vault.
"Why do you think he chose this particular bank?" Roberto
asked. Older than Jorge, not as old as Alejandro, he was
always solemn, always inquisitive. "It is far from his
ranch."
Lee shrugged, feigning disinterest. No reason to worry his
brothers with the truth. The farther they were from home,
the more likely Shelby's henchmen could capture them. He'd
been surprised that he'd had only one man — skulking in
the shadows like the vermin he was — to subdue outside the
building.
Shelby tended to surround himself with minions similar to
himself, rabid animals who took with no thought of giving.
The other men he'd hired were no doubt sleeping the night
away in the hotel, their failure to protect the money to
be reckoned with, come dawn.
"The bastard is trying to find a safe haven for his money,
but as long as I live, no such place exists." He jerked
his head toward the vault. "Ándale."
His jangling spurs disturbingly loud, he strode
confidently across the bank, the only other sound the
muffled hush as his brothers quickly filled their burlap
sacks. When he reached the bank president's desk, he
pulled the stopper off the inkwell. He retrieved a piece
of paper from a nearby stack and dipped a pen into the
black ink. He hastily scribbled a message similar to the
dozen he had left in other banks.
$2,299.37 has been withdrawn from the account of Vernon
Shelby compliments of...
With a flourish, he scrawled his signature. Lee Raven. He
plucked a raven's feather from the leather band circling
his black Stetson and positioned it directly below his
name. His calling card. Arrogant, he knew, but it ensured
no one else paid the price he owed for his crimes.
Angela Bainbridge flattened her ear against the cool glass
of the saloon window. She heard her father's boisterous
laughter echo into the night, the deep rumble as telling
as the cards he dealt. He'd allowed someone to win a hand
at faro. If the recipient of his good humor was a smart
man, he'd...
