THAT MYSTERIOUS TEXAS BRAND MAN

  * * *

  Contents:

  Prologue

  1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14

  Epilogue

  © 1998

  * * *

  * * *

  Prologue

  ^ »

  Silver City, New York

  1985

  The broadsword missed his neck by mere inches, flashing by so close Marcus actually felt it.

  Caine smiled. His face craggy, rugged. Fifty-two, and the lines in his face showing every day of it. But he moved like a twenty-year-old, and his cobalt blue eyes sparkled with the mischievous charm of a schoolboy.

  He lunged forward, thrusting the sword upward, but Marcus dodged the blade and brought his own down atop it. When Caine's weapon clattered to the floor, the older man smiled. "First time you've disarmed me, boy. Either I'm getting older or you're getting better." He tugged at the front of his sweat-damp, sleeveless T-shirt.

  Marcus didn't relax. The old man was full of tricks. He resisted the urge to swipe away a trickle running down the center of his own bare chest and stayed focused.

  Caine turned as if to walk away, only to whirl again, quarterstaff in hand. He spun the thing like a windmill, passing it from one hand to the other as he came closer.

  Marcus tossed the broadsword down and picked up a staff of his own from the racks of weapons lining the gym walls. For a time they circled each other, and then they sprang, and the echoes of wood crashing against wood filled the room to deafening levels.

  Caine's staff broke Marcus's in two. Marcus gave a mocking bow. "One for one," he said. "Care for some hand-to-hand combat?"

  "Not this time." Caine pulled a gun, a small black revolver, and pointed it at Marcus.

  Marcus froze. He froze just the way he had nine years ago. And for an instant, he could hear it all again. The rapid pattering fire of the automatic. His mother's anguished scream.

  She'd screamed a name. A name he couldn't remember, like so many other things about his childhood. But he remembered that day. Just before Christmas. His little sister, Sara, all excited because they were going to their cousins' ranch in Texas as they did almost every Christmas. His little sister, Sara. And his mother and his father. Dead. All of them.

  Marcus hated Christmas.

  The sounds faded, and eventually the smell of gunpowder did, as well. Not real. Memories. Faded, half-formed, but part of his past. Marcus lifted his chin.

  "I don't train with guns. You know that."

  "And I understand it, Marcus. Better than you know. In nine years, I've never pushed the issue."

  "So why are you pointing that filthy thing at me now?"

  Caine shrugged, lifting one eyebrow and cocking his head as he did. "You're nineteen, Marcus, and you can call yourself an expert in just about any form of combat I can think of. All except one."

  "And that's good enough. I'll never use a gun. Hell, I'll probably never use any of this stuff you're always teaching me. Sometimes I wonder why you bother—"

  "I have my reasons. Besides, knowledge is power."

  "You've certainly seen to it I'm powerful, then." Caine had taught him everything. Marcus was fluent in seven languages, could do complex calculations in his head, knew the names of the leading lawmakers of every country in the world and could draw maps of most of those countries. He had never known why he had to know all these things. It had never occurred to him to ask until very recently. It always just … was. "But I'll never use a gun," he finally said.

  "Don't use one, then. But learn to defend yourself against those who do." Both brows rose this time, accompanied by a slight nod as if to say, "Make sense?"

  "All right. What do I do?"

  "Use your feet. It's unexpected, fast and effective. However, accuracy is vital. You miss, you don't get another chance. Spinning back kick or a simple crescent. Just hit the target. Ready?"

  Marcus nodded. Caine lowered the gun, then quickly lifted it again. Marcus spun, kicked and missed by six inches.

  "Bang. You're dead. Try again."

  Sighing, Marcus complied. He'd always complied with Caine's wishes. Devoured Caine's instructions. Caine was all he had. All he'd had since that Christmas nine years ago, when the older man had come upon a ten-year-old boy wandering the dark streets in shock. Unable to speak, barely able to remember his own name. Marcus didn't know what would have happened to him without Caine. He supposed if he could love anyone, he'd love the old man. But since he couldn't, didn't even want to, he simply called it fondness. Caring.

  On the tenth try, Marcus hit the gun and sent it sailing from Caine's hand. The man smiled and slapped Marcus's back, the closest thing to physical affection he'd ever demonstrated. He's a loner, Marcus thought. Like me. Two of a kind.

  "Good boy."

  There was a tap at the double doors. They opened, and Graham stepped in. Impeccable black suit, black shirt underneath. Nehru collar, no tie. Unlike Caine's, Graham's face was ageless. He could be Caine's age or twenty years older. It was impossible to tell. Silver hair, contrasting with dark brows. Lean, but still muscular. Fit. Marcus had never been exactly sure what Graham did besides provide sarcasm and take care of the two of them. He'd seen the older man working in the room downstairs with all the computer equipment once or twice, but he wasn't supposed to go down there, so he'd never asked. On the surface, Graham acted like a butler, but that was some kind of scam. He was no gentleman's gentleman.

  "The morning paper, Caine," Graham said, very butlerlike but with a twinkle of mirth in his eyes. As if it were some inside joke.

  "Couldn't it wait until breakfast? We're starved."

  "Oh," Graham said, and sniffed. "I hope there's ample time for a shower first."

  Caine looked at Marcus. "I think he just said we stink."

  "We do," Marcus said, and took the paper from Graham, curious. He read the front-page headline, shook his head, rolled his eyes. "It's that urban-legend garbage they keep playing up. 'The Guardian Strikes Again.' God, what a crock."

  "Utter nonsense," Graham said.

  "Absolutely," Caine added. "Read it to us, Marcus." He slung a towel around his neck and led the way out of the gym, heading for the showers. Graham followed.

  Marcus brought up the rear, reading aloud as he walked.

  "Silver City Liquor Emporium was the scene of an attempted robbery last night. Witnesses claim two men wearing ski masks and wielding shotguns burst in demanding cash. The attempt was foiled by a man dressed all in black, wearing a long dark coat and a wide-brimmed fedora pulled low to shadow his face. This man—who matches other crime-scene descriptions of Silver City's legendary Guardian—quickly disarmed the suspects with no more than his bare hands. 'He just flew into action,' Tim Gaines, the cashier on duty, said. 'And the next thing we knew, the two creeps were on the floor whimpering and the big guy stood there ejecting the shells from their guns.'

  Police arrived to find the suspects bound, gagged and disarmed. The unnamed hero simply vanished into the night. 'It was him,' Gaines told reporters. 'It was the Guardian, I know it was. I just wish there were some way I could thank him.'

  So if you're out there reading this, Guardian, Tim Gaines sends his thanks. And so do all the citizens of Silver City."

  Marcus folded the paper and handed it to Graham. They stood in the dressing room where the showers were now. Caine was already cranking on the water and stepping into a shower stall out of sight.

  "Sensationalism, pure and simple. That and a few scared, confused witnesses." Marcus reached into another stall to turn on the water.

  "You're quite right, I'm sure," Graham said. Then he turned to go, clearing his throat as he did so.

  Marcus popped his head out
of the shower stall to look after him. For a second there, he thought Graham's overblown throat clearing had been disguising a laugh.

  Nah.

  Marcus had been wanting to go out into the world by himself for a while now. It wasn't that he wanted anything to do with people. He didn't. He liked things just the way they were. It was safe behind the gilded gates of Caine's estate. He didn't have to deal with anyone—no complicated relationship skills to master. Just the lessons.

  But he was curious. He didn't want to take part, he just wanted to … observe.

  Of course, Caine forbade this, though Marcus never knew why. Not that it mattered. He'd always been fairly strong willed, and though he'd never disobeyed Caine before, he did this time.

  He slipped out, after dark.

  It was winter in Silver City. Christmas season in full swing. Snow danced through the night sky and dusted the sidewalks and cars. And Marcus walked, trying to ignore it. It was tough, though. Carols blasted from speakers attached to every lamppost. The shop windows were lined with colored bulbs and pine trees were decorated so heavily their boughs drooped under the weight. People ran past him with red and green foil shopping bags and gaily wrapped packages.

  He hated Christmas.

  He hadn't always. The nightmare had happened just before Christmas though, and he'd never enjoy the holiday again. Besides, he could barely remember the Christmases before that tragic one. Just vague bits and pieces. Some cousins. That ranch in Texas. Riding horses. Something about a porch swing his little sister would never leave alone.

  He gave his head a shake and continued walking. He wasn't a part of this, he realized. He was different. Like some alien walking among earthlings. He didn't belong. He was no more like the people around him than he was like the snow-dusted sidewalk under his feet. He didn't interact. Didn't connect or communicate. He just observed. Detached, but interested in spite of himself.

  This became his ritual, his secret, his … hobby, if you wanted to call it that. This observing.

  Until one night, when he came upon something he couldn't watch dispassionately.

  It began with a scream that seemed to split Marcus right down the center of his being. So like his mother's scream. And again he was ten years old, impotent to help her, so frightened he was unable to even try.

  But then he saw the men—young men, several wielding blades—crowding closer to a woman whose back was pressed to the far wall in a dead-end alley, and he snapped out of the momentary flashback.

  The old rage, though, remained. The same rage he'd felt years ago and been unable to act on. Now he didn't think, he just moved. The terror-stricken woman huddled, wide-eyed, while Marcus kicked the hell out of her would-be attackers. Six of them. Four went down, two ran off.

  Marcus stood there a moment, slightly amazed. He'd frankly expected to get his ass kicked. It was the first time he really understood just how powerful he was compared to other men. They couldn't fight their way out of a shoe box. He wasn't even winded. All thanks to Caine.

  Shaking his head, Marcus turned to the woman and took a step toward her. But she suddenly shifted her gaze and pointed past him, babbling something incoherent.

  Marcus sensed the movement, started to turn, caught what was happening from the corner of his eye. One of the men he'd put down was getting up. He had a gun and was lifting it, aiming it at Marcus.

  Marcus spun the way Caine had taught him, but he knew there was no time. Then two things happened at once.

  The gun went off.

  And a man dressed in black, wearing a fedora with an unusually large rim, lunged out of the shadows and into the path of the bullet.

  The man in black jerked, then crumpled to the ground. Marcus finished his motion, kicked the assailant, sent the gun sailing, kicked the man again and knocked him cold. Then he bent over the fallen hero.

  "My God," Marcus whispered. "You're real. It's true. You're … the Guardian."

  The hat brim bobbed with the man's weak nod. "That's right, Marcus. I am."

  Marcus felt his heart stop in his chest at the familiar voice. "Caine?" Gently, he lifted away the hat. It was. His own mentor—the Guardian. "B-but … how? Why?"

  Caine's face contorted in pain. "Take me home, son. There's a lot you need to know. Not much time, I'm afraid."

  "But—"

  "Take me home, Marcus. Take me home."

  "I wasn't the first."

  Marcus sat beside the bed. The doctor had come and gone by now but he'd said there wasn't a thing he could do. The strongest man Marcus had ever known was dying. And yet Marcus thought he'd never really known Caine at all.

  "The first took me in when my parents were killed. He trained me, raised me. When he retired, I stepped up to take his place as Silver City's Guardian."

  "Why?"

  Caine wasn't in pain. Thank God. The doctor had given him something to take the edge off. But he'd refused to be overly sedated. Said he had things to say, things to see to, before he went.

  Caine shrugged then, in that way he had, not just with his shoulders but with one eyebrow and a slight cocking of his head. "Had a score to settle. Criminals took away my life. I wanted payback. But it was more than that, Marcus. Some men … just aren't cut out for that other kind of life. I liked the solitude, the protection of secrecy. The anonymity. It was…"

  "Safe," Marcus said.

  Caine nodded. "I was on my way to help your family that day, Marcus."

  Marcus's head came up, and he supposed he looked startled.

  "Graham … he has ways of finding out things. Computers, connections. He got a tip about the hit, and I was on my way. But I was too late. By the time I got there it was over. I was devastated. My first failure, and I felt solely responsible for your family being killed. I wandered in the night, alone, miserable, and then I spotted you. And I knew immediately who you were."

  Marcus nodded.

  "It was meant to be, I think. I took you in, trained you. Now … now it's your turn, Marcus."

  "My turn?" He stared at Caine with wide eyes.

  "Everything I have is yours now. My wealth. The estate." He nodded at the rack near the door. "The coat and the hat. The identity."

  "B-but … I'm not ready."

  "Yes, Marcus, you are. Graham will help you."

  "I can't…" Marcus shook his head, terror filling him. He could never fill Caine's shoes. Never. Caine was the greatest man he'd ever known. How could he even try to live up to such a legacy?

  "I'm counting on you Marcus. It's my dying wish. Promise me you'll carry on in my place."

  Marcus closed his eyes, lowered his head. "All right. I promise. I'll do my best, Caine."

  "I know you will, son. I know you will."

  * * *

  Chapter 1

  « ^ »

  Texas

  December, 1998

  There had always been secrets behind Laura's eyes. Casey Jones was born a snoop, and she'd die one. She'd spotted the shadows haunting the little girl right away, the very first night her parents brought Laura home and introduced her as Casey's new sister. Those shadows had faded in the more than twenty years since. Or they had until recently.

  Lately, Casey had seen that haunted look creeping into her sister's eyes again. And she didn't like it.

  Laura sat on the big brown sofa in the house where they'd both grown up, the house they still shared, reading this week's issue of Lone Star. But every once in a while she'd look up, huge dark eyes darting toward the door in response to some little sound. Or she'd get up and wander to the window to part the curtains and peer out before returning to her reading. She kept pushing her shoulder-length raven hair back with one hand, a sure sign she was nervous.

  Casey watched her sister closely as she delivered the coffee and doughnuts she'd promised and took a seat beside her.

  Laura laid the magazine down on the coffee table, atop a stack of others, and reached for a steaming mug. "Great column, Case," she said, ignoring the doughnuts. "Did y
ou have to pay that hooker a lot to tell you about her liaisons with Senator Stewart?"

  "Not a dime," Casey said. She grabbed a glazed, cream-filled concoction and inhaled the scent. "She couldn't wait to talk to me."

  Laura finally faced her, a carefully cheerful expression pasted on her face. "Don't you feel kind of mean, exposing him that way?"

  "Hey, at least I didn't publish the pictures." Casey shrugged. "Of course, if I had, they'd have had to sell this week's issue in the porno shop out on Gil-more Street

  ."

  Laura smiled. It was the first time in days. "You love this, don't you. Digging up secrets. Telling them to the world."

  "I only tell the secrets that need telling," Casey said. She set the doughnut down and put a hand over Laura's. "I'd never tell yours."

  Laura averted her eyes a little too quickly. "I know you wouldn't … not that I have any."

  "Laura, when are you going to tell me what's going on with you?"

  Laura pushed one hand through her hair again and closed her eyes. "I don't know what you're talking about, sis."

  "Look, I know, okay? I've always known."

  Meeting her eyes, Laura frowned. "Known what?"

  "Well, for starters, your name isn't Laura. Or at least … it wasn't."

  "Don't be—"

  "Come on, it took almost a year before you got used to it or answered right away when someone called you."

  Laura shook her head. "I was a little girl in a new place. It just took time to get … oriented."

  "It was more than that."

  "Let it go, Casey."

  "I can't let it go." Turning so she faced her sister on the sofa, Casey gripped both Laura's hands. "I know you better than anyone in the world, Laura. We've been joined at the hip since Mama and Daddy brought you home to be my sister, and since they died, we've become even closer. Honey, I couldn't love you more if you were—"

  "I know." Laura closed her eyes, and Casey saw the dampness gathering on her ebony lashes. "I know, Casey."