York, the Renegade: A Loveswept Classic Romance Read online

  York, The Renegade is a work of fiction. Names, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  A Loveswept eBook Edition

  Copyright © 1986 by Iris Johansen

  Excerpt from Tempting a Devil by Samantha Kane copyright © 2013 by Nancy Kattenfeld.

  Excerpt from The Story Guy by Mary Ann Rivers copyright © 2013 by Mary Ann Hudson.

  Excerpt from Friday Night Alibi by Cassie Mae copyright © 2013 by Cassie Mae.

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published in the United States by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.

  LOVESWEPT is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc.

  York, The Renegade was originally published in paperback by Loveswept, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc. in 1986.

  eISBN: 978-0-345-54615-9

  www.ReadLoveSwept.com

  v3.1

  For my good friend Fayrene,

  who asked, “Why don’t we?”

  And for my good friend Kay,

  who laughed and said, “Why not?”

  Contents

  Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Preface

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  The Editor’s Corner

  Excerpt from Samantha Kane’s Tempting a Devil

  Excerpt from Mary Ann Rivers’s The Story Guy

  Excerpt from Cassie Mae’s Friday Night Alibi

  Preface

  It was said that the Delaneys were descended from Irish kings and were still kissing cousins to half of Europe’s royalty. Being more than an ocean away, Europe’s royalty could scarcely confirm this.

  Luckily for the Delaneys.

  Old Shamus Delaney was wont to speak reminiscently of various cattle reivers, cutthroats, and smugglers in his family, but only when good Irish whiskey could pry such truths out of him. Sober, he held to it tooth and nail that the Delaneys were an aristocratic family—and woe to any man who dared dispute him.

  They were a handsome family: tall and strong of body, quick and keen of mind. Nearly all of them had dark hair, but their eyes varied from Kelly-green to sky-blue, and it seemed at least one person of every generation boasted black eyes that could flash with Delaney temper or smile with Delaney charm.

  None could deny that charm. And none could deny that the Delaneys carved their empire with their own hands and wits. Royalty they may not have been, but if Arizona had been a country, the Delaneys would have been kings.

  Whatever his bloodlines, Shamus Delaney sired strong sons, who in turn passed along the traits suitable to building an empire. Land was held in the teeth of opposition, and more was acquired until the empire spread over five states. Various businesses were tried; some abandoned and some maintained. Whenever there was a call to battle, the Delaney men took up arms and went to war.

  Many never came home.

  In the first generations, an Apache maiden caught a roving Delaney eye, and so the blood of another proud race enriched Delaney stock. Sometime before the turn of this century a Delaney daughter fell in love with a Spanish don who really could claim a royal heritage. She was widowed young, but her daughter married a Delaney cousin, so there was royal blood of a sort to boast of.

  They were a canny lot, and clan loyalty was strong enough to weather the occasional dissensions that could tear other great families apart. The tides in their fortune rose and fell, but the Delaney luck never entirely deserted them. They built a true dynasty in their adopted land, and took for their symbol the shamrock.

  They were a healthy family, a lucky family, but not invulnerable. War and sickness and accidents took their toll, reducing their number inexorably. Finally there was only a single Delaney son controlling the vast empire his ancestors had built. He, too, answered the call to battle in a world war, and when it was over, he answered another call—this one from the land of his ancestors. He was proud to find the Delaney name still known and respected, and fierce in his newfound love for the land of his family’s earliest roots.

  But his own roots were deeply set in the soil of Arizona, and at last he came home. He brought with him a bride, a true Irish colleen with merry black eyes and a soft, gentle touch. And he promised her and himself that the Delaney family would grow again.

  While his country adjusted to a life without war, and prosperity grew, Patrick Delaney and his wife, Erin, set about building their family. They had three sons: Burke, York, and Rafe.

  As the boys grew, so did the empire. Patrick was a canny businessman, expanding what his ancestors had built until the Delaney family employed thousands. Ventures into mining and high finance proved lucrative, and the old homestead, Killara, expanded dramatically.

  By the time twenty-one-year-old Burke was in college, the Delaney interests were vast and complex. Burke was preparing to assume some of the burden of the family business, while nineteen-year-old York was graduating from high school, and seventeen-year-old Rafe was spending every spare moment on a horse, any horse, at the old Shamrock Ranch.

  Then tragedy struck. On their way to Ireland for a long-overdue vacation, Patrick and Erin Delaney were killed in a plane crash, leaving three sons to mourn them.

  Leaving three sons … and a dynasty.

  One

  “Open your coat and get your shirt damp.” Chester Brady was gazing critically at Sierra Smith. “We need all the help we can get with York Delaney. He’s as tough as they come.”

  “No way, Chester,” Sierra said wearily. “I’m already so wet, I’m practically floating. You open your coat and get your shirt wet to play orphan of the storm. Maybe he’ll want to take you in from the cold.”

  She wished she hadn’t mentioned the cold. It only reminded her how miserable it was out here in the pouring rain. She wiped the freezing moisture from her forehead, but the gesture was totally futile. More rivulets flowed down her face from her sodden hair. She muttered an imprecation as she remembered that her wet hair was also Chester’s fault. He had snatched off the sock cap and thrown it in the cab of his truck before they had left the spot outside of town where the troupe’s vehicles and trailers were parked. Chester was nothing if not thorough when setting up his scenes.

  “You don’t have to be so prickly.” Chester actually sounded indignant. “You know I’m doing this to help all of us. Do you think I like going to Delaney, hat in hand, begging permission to come into this godforsaken town?”

  “Then why are we here?” Sierra asked. Her feet were sinking into the mud, and she didn’t know if it was the mud clinging to her boots or the cold numbness of her feet that was making her stumble. “Hell’s Bluff can’t have a large population. It’s just a little mountain mining town, isn’t it?

  “A very rich mining town,” Chester said. “The adjective makes all the difference. We were here two years ago, and it was our best take of the year. Hell’s Bluff has one of the richest copper mines in Arizona, as well as being a Delaney property. Those two factors guarantee excellent wages. Then add the fact that Delaney doesn’t allow anyone but male mine personnel in the town, and you have the perfect setup for us: several hundred bored, restless miners just aching to spend those excellent wages. The troupe should do a fantastic business.”

  “Only mine per
sonnel? You mean, no wives or families? How can he get away with such a thing?”

  “Money. I told you, he pays better than any operator in the state. He claims women are a disturbing influence in an isolated mountain town like this. So he gives his men one month’s leave out of every four to go down the mountain and return to civilization.”

  “Civilization?” She laughed, and it suddenly turned into a hacking cough. It was a minute before she could stop. Oh, Lord, not again, she thought. The tightening in her chest was frighteningly familiar. No, she wouldn’t be ill again. It was only because the wind was so sharp here on the side of this damn mountain that it hurt to take a breath. “You make this town sound like it’s in the wilds of Africa,” she said.

  “Not Africa, but it’s definitely wild. Dodge City or Tombstone in their heyday would be a more apt comparison.” Chester paused, and when he spoke again, it was with grudging concern. “That’s a nasty cough you have. You’re not coming down with something?”

  “No, it’s just a cold.” She hoped to heaven she was right. She couldn’t afford not to be well. As long as she was strong she had value to Brady’s Olde Tyme Vaudeville Troupe. She had a place and a purpose.

  “You ought to take better care of yourself,” he said gruffly.

  She almost laughed aloud. Take good care of herself, indeed. Considering he’d done everything possible to see she was thoroughly chilled, the remark struck Sierra as the height of absurdity. Yet she knew he actually meant it. Chester wasn’t cruel so much as blindly single-minded about his troupe. He could even be surprisingly sympathetic on rare occasions. “I’ll take an antibiotic when I get back to the trailer,” she said. “Providing we ever do get back. How much farther is it to Hell’s Bluff anyway?”

  “Around the next turn. Delaney’s house is right on the edge of the town.”

  “Why do we have to ask permission anyway? If you were here two years go, you must have established a relationship with the man.”

  “It’s only courtesy.” Chester’s glance sidled away. “Besides, Delaney owns the only theater in town.”

  “I still don’t see why you—”

  “Well, actually there was a little difficulty the last time I was here,” he said uncomfortably. “It wasn’t my fault, of course, but there was talk of one of the performers in the troupe operating a crooked dice game in the wardrobe room in the basement of the theater.”

  “You mean, you were run out of town.” It was worse than Sierra had thought. This cold wet trek was going to be totally useless. “Then will you tell me why we’re on this blasted mountain in the middle of the night when we could be in Phoenix or Tucson?” The thought of the warm desert country filled her with wistfulness.

  “It’s not the middle of the night; it’s only a few minutes after ten. And the pickings are so good here, it’s worth a try. A small traveling company like mine can’t compete with the big road shows touring those cities. You know what a rotten take we had in Prescott.”

  “Yes, I know.” She had thought Brady’s troupe would go under three weeks ago when a freak ice storm had kept the crowds away for the entire engagement. “But you told me this Delaney was a tough operator. What makes you think he’ll have changed his mind about you in the last two years?”

  “He probably hasn’t, but I’ll have to try anyway.” There was a hint of grimness in Chester’s tone of voice. “Without a good take I can’t last another month. I’ll be damned if I give up because I’ve had a run of lousy luck. So you just be a good little girl and sit there in the parlor looking at him with those big black eyes while I try to wring a bit of compassion out of the bastard.”

  “All right, but that’s all I’m going to do. It’s up to you to persuade him.” It was growing more difficult to breathe. Did she still have any penicillin tablets left in the trailer? she wondered.

  “That’s all I want you to do,” Chester said. “If I’d wanted a woman to seduce the man, I’d have brought Selma. You’re hardly equipped for it, Sierra.”

  She would have smiled, but it wasn’t worth the effort. He probably didn’t even realize he’d insulted her. Not that she had any illusions about her attractiveness. She had accepted all her assets as well as her limitations a long time before she’d come to work for Brady’s vaudeville troupe. “I meant, I won’t do any talking.”

  “No one asked you to talk. But you know damn well your face has an amazing effect on creditors and bribe-hungry sheriffs. It’s worth a try with Delaney.” They rounded a bend in the road and Chester gestured. “There’s Hell’s Bluff up ahead. Delaney’s place is just past the large pine tree on the left. It’s the big Victorian mansion wih all those fancy turrets and cupolas.”

  The driving rain made it impossible to see anything beyond a few yards in front of her, and she could barely make out the twinkle of lights in the town ahead. Delaney’s house was closer, however, and was illuminated by two ornate lanterns on each side of the double doors. The red bulbs in the lanterns glowed garishly over the front porch, turning the white paint a rose hue. “I gather Delaney has a fondness for red,” she said. “Those lanterns are really hideous.”

  “It’s probably more an offbeat sense of humor than preference. This building was a bordello during the Gold Rush days of the 1800s. After the gold ran out, Hell’s Bluff became a ghost town. When copper was discovered here recently, Delaney restored the original buildings.”

  “That must have cost him a fortune. He doesn’t sound like a very tough businessman.” To her intense relief they had reached the porch and were sheltered from the rain if not the cold. A bordello, for heaven’s sake, she thought. This was taking on all the aspects of a farce.

  “He can afford the whimsy,” Chester said dryly. “He’s a Delaney, remember? From what I heard, his brothers were glad to underwrite any expense to get him to take an interest in the corporation when he came home from wandering around the world five years ago.” He rang the doorbell. “And the atmosphere here certainly suits him to a T.”

  “A bordello or a Wild West town?” Sierra asked dully. She didn’t know why she was asking questions. She had no real interest in either Delaney or Hell’s Bluff. She just wanted this over so she could get back to her trailer and go to bed.

  “Both. He’s something of a renegade.” Chester’s brow was furrowed in a frown. “Why the devil aren’t they coming to the door?”

  “Maybe there’s no one at home. We weren’t exactly sent an engraved invitation.” The irony didn’t faze Chester. She doubted he even caught it. Renegade, she mused. What a melodramatic word. She supposed it wasn’t any more melodramatic than living in a bordello in a ghost town. No, it wasn’t a ghost town; it was a boom town now. She had to remember that. She seemed to be having trouble thinking—much less remembering—anything at the moment.

  The door was swung open, and Chester stiffened with the eagerness of a spaniel pointing out game. “Mr. Moran. It’s good to see you again,” he said with bluff heartiness. “You remember me, Chester Brady of the Brady vaudeville troupe? I realize it’s late, but I wonder if we could have a word with Mr. Delaney?”

  Sierra tried to focus on the small wiry man facing them, but her attention kept wandering away to the lanterns beside the door. They didn’t look garish to her anymore but rather warm and inviting. She was shivering. Of course, she was shivering, she thought desperately. It was cold out here. The trembling didn’t mean she was going to be ill again.

  “I remember you very well, Mr. Brady,” said the man who’d answered the door.

  Sierra studied him. If he was a renegade, he was a very peculiar one. He was only five feet five or six, with a pale triangular face and light brown hair flecked with gray at the temples. He was dressed in jeans and a bright red shirt that gave his thin frame a bold dapper elegance. It was the eyepatch, she decided. That was why Chester had called him a renegade. He was wearing a black eyepatch over his left eye, and it was definitely a renegade touch. “If you’ll wait here,” the man said, “I’ll se
e if York will see you.”

  “Couldn’t we come inside?” She hadn’t known she was going to speak until the words came out. “It’s very cold out here.”

  The man turned and looked at her appraisingly. His one brown eye was as expressionless as the rest of his face. “I guess that would be all right,” he said finally, and for the first time she noticed his British accent. He stepped aside. “As long as you understand I may have to throw you out again, Mr. Brady. York wasn’t too pleased with your operation, if I remember correctly.”

  “All a misunderstanding, Mr. Moran,” Chester said. He took Sierra’s arm and propelled her into the blessedly warm foyer.

  To Sierra’s profound relief her shivering stopped instantly. Moran, she thought. She had become confused again. This wasn’t the man who was supposed to be the renegade, it was the other one. York Delaney of the Delaney dynasty. Long live the king.

  “That’s why I’m here,” Chester was saying. “I want to straighten out our little difficulty.”

  “Really?” Moran raised a brow with obvious skepticism. “I’m sure York will appreciate that. He’s such a peaceable man, and misunderstandings completely devastate him.” He shut the door. “Wait here.” He walked swiftly across the foyer and down the hall.

  “Sarcastic shrimp,” Chester muttered.

  Sierra was getting tired of her boss’s tactlessness. Moran was at least three inches taller than her own five feet two. “You can scarcely blame him,” she said. “We shrimps have to protect ourselves any way we can from you normal people.”

  He glanced at her in surprise. “You’re a woman. In your case, lack of size is an advantage. It adds to your helpless air.”

  She clenched her teeth to keep from giving him the answer his sexist attitude deserved. “I never found it gave me any particular advantage.”

  “Only because you don’t exploit it.” He grinned. “I knew we’d be able to use you the minute you walked up to me backstage at the theater in Flagstaff and asked for a job.”