Alexis Morgan - Immortal Cowboy

She made a grab for the wall as her knees gave way. Surely this was some kind of joke.

“Who are you?”

Her question was little more than a whisper, but the man heard it all right. There was no mistaking the temper in those ice-blue eyes. His outfit matched the one he’d worn in the picture he held clutched in his fist: scuffed boots, a faded shirt, dark trousers and a worn duster. It couldn’t really be him, but every cell in her body screamed that it was.

“Wyatt McCain?”

His name was the last thing she said as the floor rushed up to meet her.

ALEXIS MORGANgrew up in St Louis, Missouri, graduating from the University of Missouri, St Louis, with a BA in English, cum laude. She met her future husband sitting outside one of her classes in her freshman year. Eventually her husband’s job took them to the Pacific Northwest, where they’ve now lived for close to thirty years.

Author of more than nineteen full-length books, short stories and novellas, Alexis began her career writing contemporary romances and then moved on to Western historicals. However, beginning in 2006, she crossed over to the dark side. She really loves writing paranormal romances, finding world-building and developing her own mythology for characters especially satisfying.

She loves to hear from fans and can be reached at www.alexismorgan.com.

Immortal

Cowboy

Alexis Morgan

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I want to dedicate this story to the memory of one of my favorite uncles, who shared his love of Zane Grey with me. I blame him for my lifelong love of stories about gamblers, cowboys, lawmen, and gunslingers with hearts of gold.

Contents

Prologue Prologue No one was ever alone on the mountain. Sometimes voices whispered in the mists, uttering words too faint to be understood. Eyes watched from the shadows, the weight of their gaze sitting heavily on those few brave enough to venture far up the slopes. The most sensitive of the visitors might feel the fleeting touch of hands without substance, leaving a chill on their soul. Smart folks didn’t linger for long.

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Extract

Prologue

No one was ever alone on the mountain. Sometimes voices whispered in the mists, uttering words too faint to be understood. Eyes watched from the shadows, the weight of their gaze sitting heavily on those few brave enough to venture far up the slopes. The most sensitive of the visitors might feel the fleeting touch of hands without substance, leaving a chill on their soul. Smart folks didn’t linger for long.

Chapter 1

Rayanne charged into the dappled shadows under the trees, following the narrow path that led toward town, the dense growth making it impossible to see more than a few feet ahead.

Where was he?

Her breath came in fits and jerks as she broke into a run down the game trail. A few feet in, her shoe caught on a root, sending her sprawling forward to land on her hands and knees. Ignoring the warm trickle of blood down her shin, Rayanne lurched back to her feet, wishing she’d taken the time to exchange her flip-flops for running shoes. But there hadn’t been time for practical matters, not when Uncle Ray needed her.

The trees thinned out ahead, affording her a better view of the town. There wasn’t much left of Blessing, but that was no surprise. The last residents had abandoned the place over a hundred years ago, leaving behind only the few buildings too stubborn to fall down.

No sign of her uncle in any direction. What would she do if he didn’t come back soon? At thirteen, she could take care of herself for a while, but the mountain was a scary place to be all alone. She yelled Ray’s name several times with no answer except the soft rustle of leaves.

Should she go back to the cabin and call the authorities for help in finding him? No, he’d never forgive her. Uncle Ray wanted nothing at all to do with the government that had taught him how to kill and then did nothing to repair the damage it had done to his soul.

So that left it up to her. As his namesake, she took her uncle’s well-being very seriously.

Ignoring the pain in her side, she sprinted toward the old church, the one place that would give her the best vantage point. It sat right smack in the middle of Blessing, directly across from the saloon. Inside the sanctuary, she waited a few seconds for her eyes to adjust to the dim interior before making her way to the staircase that led up to the belfry. Out of habit, she avoided the missing second step, using the banister to pull herself up directly to the third. The rest of the stairs were sound enough, allowing her to reach the roof quickly.

The hinges on the door creaked in protest when she pushed it open and stepped out onto the narrow confines of the belfry. She carefully skirted the hole where a bell used to hang. It had probably been sold off for scrap metal by one of the former residents, but that was old history. Right now, all Rayanne cared about was finding her uncle.

She hated heights, and each step across the rough wood floor took all the courage she could muster. Dread made her feet heavy as she crossed the short distance to the front edge of the roof. She latched on to the worn wooden railing in relief. But the second she touched it, the air around her rippled and blurred. Her stomach heaved as she clutched the railing and waited for the world to quit rocking.

When the floor beneath her feet finally steadied, she risked a quick peek at the street below. She blinked twice and looked again.

“What the heck?” she asked, not expecting an answer.

The town below was no longer a skeleton of what it used to be. Instead, the street was lined with buildings that hadn’t been there only minutes before, all constructed out of fresh-hewn lumber.

And there were people—men, women and children—going about their business as if they strolled through Blessing every day, all wearing clothes straight out of a history museum. Were they reenactors? She couldn’t imagine Uncle Ray tolerating such an intrusion on his privacy.

Besides, how could she have missed seeing them on her way through town? As she scanned the faces to see if Uncle Ray was among the throng of people, a shout went up, drawing everyone’s attention to the far end of town. A group of men on horseback appeared in the distance, riding hard for the center of town, sending everyone on the street scurrying for cover. Something was dreadfully wrong. Rayanne ducked down even though the railing wouldn’t provide much cover.

Just as the last child was dragged inside the old store and the door slammed shut, a solitary man appeared in the doorway of the saloon, carrying a rifle in his right hand. He paused long enough to inhale deeply on his cigarette before tossing it on the wooden sidewalk and grinding it out with the heel of his boot.

He stepped out into the street and the bright sunshine, moving with a lethal grace. Just like the others, he wore an authentic-looking costume: a cowboy hat, boots and a duster that had seen a lot of hard miles. His hat sat tipped back slightly, giving her a glimpse of coal-black hair. From the faded blue of his shirt to the scuffs on his boots, whoever had designed his costume had an amazing eye for detail.