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  ROUGH STOCK

  (STAR VALLEY Book One)

  Written by DAHLIA WEST

  Copyright © 2016 Dahlia West

  Kindle Edition

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

  Cover art by Rebel Edit and Designs

  For KiKi, who drove me all over Wyoming so I could write this series and tried really hard not to laugh when I nearly drowned at an oxygen bar.

  Click HERE to sign up for my mailing list for news about the next book in the Star Valley series, signed paperback giveaways, and more!

  Also by Dahlia West

  The Burnout Series

  Shooter

  Tex

  Slick

  Hawk

  Easy

  Vegas

  Doc

  The Stark Ink Series

  Harder

  Better

  Faster

  Stronger

  Rapid City Stories

  Preacher

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Also by Dahlia West

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Epilogue

  About Wrangler (Star Valley Book Two)

  Chapter One

  ‡

  Seth Barlow tugged his jacket collar up a little higher to shield him from the biting wind and hoped no one else had to die.

  It was March 1st, but there was still heavy snow on the ground. Seth’s horse, Choctaw, struggled for decent footing on hard-packed snow, a constant reminder of January’s blizzard. Seth was last in their short trail line, as befitted his position as the middle child. Funny how the Barlows always seemed to order themselves that way, without thinking—oldest to youngest. Walker and Austin were ahead of him. Court and Sawyer, his two younger brothers, would have been behind him, but they were taking the long way around, over the eastern plain, looking for the rest of the herd.

  High up on the mountains ahead of them, dead trees, charred from old forest fires, littered the ground. There was a cycle here, normally, one of constant death and renewal, but harsh weather over the last five years, freezing winters followed by long droughts, had locked Wyoming—and Snake River Ranch—into a persistent, unescapable cycle of death upon death, with no renewal in sight. The order of things had been upset. The natural balance destroyed. The cycle arrested.

  Seth would never say it aloud, never tempt God in that way (even though Seth was still raw at Him, over Mom, over Dad) but he honestly felt that they were due for some luck, for the wheel to finally turn and start things going their way for a change.

  They were coming upon the Snake River, which, true to its name, snaked its way through the valleys and plains and carved a path through the Grand Teton Mountains that loomed above them. The spring runoff was severe, churning up white froth as the frigid water rushed past. Small ice floes still held fast at the water’s edges, refusing to melt even in the full sun. This year’s bad winter had charged in like a buffalo and even now refused to leave.

  They had to cross. They all knew it. Seth prayed that no one took a plunge now.

  Walker and Austin were ahead, with Walker—as always—taking the lead. He was older than Austin, by a whole three minutes, and Walker never seemed to let Austin—or any of them—forget it. They were twins only in that they’d once shared a womb. Beyond that they seemed to have little in common. They didn’t even look alike, not identical anyway. They had the same trademark Barlow-dark features, brown eyes and hair, skin a deep-golden tan even in winter, owing to their half-vaquero heritage. But where Walker was calm, deliberate, self-controlled, Austin forged ahead, having calculated the same risks, and usually deciding to take the plunge anyway.

  At the river’s edge, Seth waited silently, taking note of the high water. “Is it going to snow?” he asked Austin quietly after nudging Choctaw closer to his older brothers.

  Walker looked away. He hated bad news.

  Austin raised his face to the sky then looked at Seth. “No,” he said firmly.

  Seth might have worried it was a lie, told just to make them feel better, but the relief in his older brother’s voice was practically palpable. It was over. Thank God. No more storms; no more deaths. And hopefully no accidents as they were about to cross the Snake. The tension in the entire group faded just a bit. They couldn’t survive another blow, probably not even a dusting at this point.

  Austin volunteered to go first, to set the line, no surprise there. It wasn’t that he was reckless really, or a fool, at least Seth didn’t think so, but Wyoming was a wild land, their part of it anyway, a land of extremes, and Austin had seemed to internalize that somehow.

  Secretly, Seth thought Austin was more in tune with the land than any of them, better able to understand it and thus predict its moods. Back in October, Austin had said they were in for yet another hard winter. Everyone believed him, though at the time they couldn’t have guessed how hard. Their herd had already been culled to practically nothing these days, barely enough head with enough meat on their bones to keep the lights on even before that last storm.

  The Barlows had had enough. They had been dragged to the brink. Their way of life was in danger of evaporating before their eyes. For over a hundred years, Barlows had owned this land, worked it, lived in harmony with it, even despite its frequent discordant notes. Theirs was one of the last large open-range spreads in Wyoming. Losing the land was unthinkable. They’d worked too hard, suffered too much, poured too much of their own blood into the earth to let it slip through their fingers now.

  “I’ll set the line,” Walker argued and kicked his horse to the tree closest to the bank. Nero, Walker’s white gelding, gave no argument as they made their way closer to the river. That was Walker, the first born, the leader.

  Seth was simultaneously grateful and irritated with his oldest brother. Walker was in control of everything, always hogging the reins. He had been that way their whole lives d would continue to be in the future, especially now, Seth guessed.

  Walker would also be the first one to die, assuming all the risk, without complaint, to keep them safe. He tied his rope around the base of the tree, knotting it securely before slipping his leather gloves back on. Then, turning Nero toward the Snake, he urged the horse along steadily, feeding the rope out behind him.

  Seth held his breath as horse and rider stepped off th
e bank and into the frigid water. The normally sure-footed quarter horse stumbled, clearly having misjudged the drop.

  Walker remained calm, though. He loosened his grip on the reins and grabbed the saddle horn instead, giving Nero his head. The only thing left to do was to trust the horse to see them safely to the other side. The churning water nearly covered Walker’s waterproof boots as Nero picked his way across.

  Austin urged his horse a bit closer to the edge, and Seth already had one hand wrapped tightly around a reata, ready to throw the rawhide rope around his brother quicker than a snake striking if Nero stumbled and Walker went into the drink. With no anchor line yet set to grab, if Walker fell out of the saddle, he’d be swept away instantly by the rapids.

  Here was someone Seth might be able to save.

  If he had to.

  But he hoped he didn’t have to.

  His hopes were dashed almost immediately when Nero slipped again, and both Austin and Seth kicked their horses forward instantly. Nero went down, plunging Walker into the freezing water up to his waist. The eldest Barlow still had the presence of mind to shout out, “Stay back!” to the two brothers, who were already riding to his rescue. They both ignored him, but Seth was closer. He kicked Choctaw with a simultaneous shout and the trail horse exploded into the water, a full-length ahead of Austin.

  He dropped the reins, letting his horse control their charge, and gathered the slack of his reata in his left hand while he drew back his roping arm. He ignored the bone-chilling water as it splashed over him, and with a sharp flick of his wrist, he sent the handmade rawhide rope whipping through the air.

  No one else was going to die.

  Seth’s aim was true, and the rope caught Walker around his extended arm as he reached in vain for his saddle horn. Seth yanked it back, and the reata went taut a split second before the eldest Barlow lost his seat entirely and plunged into the water.

  Tightening his grip, Seth held on for dear life, even if it wasn’t his own. Walker was swept across the water, right in front of him. Thankfully, Choctaw, a veteran trail horse of the open range, managed to put on the brakes just before they slammed into him.

  Seth hauled his older brother back, and when Walker was finally close enough, Seth wrapped the reata around Choctaw’s saddle horn to free up his left arm. He reached out for Walker, who missed grabbing him on the first try but found a hold on the second. Hauling the more than two-hundred-pound man up out of the water was difficult, impossible really, and Seth only managed to get a tight hold on him before deciding to get him as close to shore as possible.

  Praying he didn’t lose his grip—or Walker didn’t pass out—he nudged Choctaw across the Snake, half-dragging Walker along beside them. Austin had come up along the other side at this point and reached for Walker’s leather belt. Not the most elegant way to save a man’s life, but Walker was in no position to complain.

  They left Nero to find his own footing, and once he did, the white gelding clambered the rest of the way across the river and up the frozen slope of the bank, staying close to the group.

  Once they were on flat ground, Austin held Walker up as Seth released him, jumped from Choctaw’s back, and went to help. Propping the soaking-wet man up, it was Austin’s turn to dismount. When he got to them, Walker held out the loose end of the nylon rope that he’d somehow managed to hang on to. Austin took it and tied it around the nearest trunk. The line now crossing the Snake River drooped quite a bit, sagging in the middle in its arc over the water, nearly touching the surface of the rapids. Not the best defense against drowning, but it was all they had. They still had to come back, after all.

  Seth helped Walker to a fallen tree, and the giant of a man slumped onto it, shrugged out of his dripping jacket, then struggled to unbutton his denim shirt. Seth saw his older brother’s eyes flick to Nero, saw the man’s calculating gaze as he looked over his horse, checking for injuries, Seth knew, while ignoring his own.

  “He’s fine,” Seth assured him, helping him get his boots off. “Not even a limp.”

  “Damn horse,” Walker muttered, but Seth could see the relief in the man’s eyes. The tight corners of his mouth didn’t relax, though. These days, they never did.

  “We’ll stop here,” Austin declared, already getting a blanket out of his saddlebag.

  “It’s too early,” Walker growled. “We need to meet the others at the Gul—”

  “You can barely stand up. And don’t tell me you can ride. You need to stay on your feet and keep moving,” Austin argued.

  Walker glared at him. “I have dry clothes in my pack. I can make it to—”

  “No,” Austin bit out.

  “I’ll go,” said Seth.

  Both men looked at him.

  Seth shrugged. “It’s not far. And the terrain’s easy. I’ll meet up with the others and we’ll get the herd and bring them back here.” He said it as though it were a done deal, as though he’d find the herd, alive. Seth couldn’t allow himself to imagine otherwise right now. He’d almost lost his brother. He’d already lost his father. If they lost Snake River Ranch, too, well, it just couldn’t happen.

  Walker finally nodded. “Head to the Gulch, then. Find the rest of the herd and drive them back here. We’ll camp here tonight and cross in the morning. We need as many riders as we can get out there tonight. Every night we leave the herd unprotected, the more we lose to the wolves and cats. Go. But get the head count,” he told Seth, “and radio it to us before you start back with them.”

  Seth nodded and swung back up into the saddle. “We’ll be back,” he promised and dug his heels into Choctaw, feeling bad about making the horse work any harder than was necessary. But he needed to see for himself if Snake River Ranch had any kind of future at all.

  Chapter Two

  ‡

  Rowan Archer checked her watch, twisting her wrist, and splashed coffee down the front of her scrubs. “Damn it,” she hissed and snatched at the paper towel rack beside her. Unfortunate as it was (and hot), at least it had the bonus of waking her up. The mental fog of her mid-shift slump cleared away as she swiped angrily at the growing stain on her sickly-green-colored shirt.

  It might have been an improvement.

  It was late, almost three am. The beginning of her shift had seen one fall on a patch of ice, one snow-shoveling-induced heart attack, and two colds that had been ignored for too long and were skirting pneumonia. She’d missed her usual tuck-in call to Willow, again. Rowan only worked two overnight shifts a week, but they were brutal here in Cheyenne. Too many people used the ER as their general practitioner. She hardly ever had time for a real break, only coffee standing up in the nurses’ lounge, which was just as well, she figured. If she sat for too long, she might fall asleep.

  Shift work was killing her.

  Slowly.

  And she’d only been a registered nurse for less than a year.

  She drained the mug knowing the caffeine rush would carry her to the end of the shift. It was only a few more hours, and if the place quieted down so she could catch up on all her charts, she might even get to leave a few minutes early. She set the cup in the communal sink, intending to wash it later, and headed back out to the nurses’ station.

  Sandy, the head nurse, was on the phone, looking displeased. When she hung up, she looked at Rowan. “We’ve got a sideswipe coming in,” the haggard woman told her. “Drunk driver versus minivan. Lacerations, minor injuries, for everyone.”

  Rowan sighed and nodded. On the one hand, no one had been seriously injured (or killed), but it was looking like a long night with multiple patients.

  Ten minutes later, the double doors of Cheyenne Regional’s ER opened and vics started pouring in. There were six in all, an elderly man who smelled like a brewery, even from Rowan’s relatively safe distance, and a family of five: Mom, Dad, Grandma, and two kids. Mom gave the old man a murderous look as the paramedics wheeled him in on a gurney, then she refocused on holding a gauze pad to her small daughter’s arm.
>
  Rowan felt a spike of anger as she watched them. The girl was about Willow’s age, also with dark hair. Rowan’s heart knocked hard against her chest to think she could have been lost, in an instant, due to someone else’s poor choices. She gave the woman a reassuring look, a mother’s knowing, concerned glance, even as the lady looked like she might strangle the man who’d caused all their pain.

  Rowan could relate to that look. She’d do anything for Willow to keep her happy and safe.

  Sandy took charge immediately, directing Rowan to take the offending man to Exam Room One, separating him from the family he’d plowed into.

  Rowan bit her tongue as she realized that meant she was stuck treating him herself. She held the door for the paramedics as they hustled him into the small room and watched them, jealously, as they disappeared just as quickly.

  The man groaned loudly.

  “Just lie back,” Rowan told him sharply, accentuating the command with the snap of her blue latex gloves.

  He made another sound, low in his throat. Without missing a beat, Rowan reached for an emesis basin and held it out. She turned away just as he vomited, half on his shirt, half into the pan. In several years she’d gotten used to the blood and other human secretions, but vomit could sometimes still do her in.

  She set the basin aside and shoved another clean one into his chest until he had the presence of mind to hold onto it himself. Behind her, the door opened. When Rowan turned, she saw a uniformed policeman filling the open space.

  “I’ve got to take him in,” he said in a gravelly tone.

  Rowan picked up some tweezers and a clean steel bowl. “Not until I dig this glass out of his forehead,” she replied.

  The cop frowned, looking from the drunk to her. “But he—”

  “I don’t care!” Rowan snapped. “I still have to treat him. Shut the door,” she said firmly. “You can wait on the other side.”

  The frown deepened, but he moved back, closing the door behind him.