Devils on Horseback: Zeke, Book 3

  A cool man, a fiery woman, a love destined to ignite.

  Devils on Horseback, Book 3

  Intense, reserved and known for his strategic thinking, Zeke Blackwood has struggled to find his place in the post-war world. After the violent death of the first woman to capture his heart, Zeke retreats into a whisky bottle—until he’s handed the position of town sheriff.

  Zeke sobers up and tries his damnedest to be the best lawman he can be. He hadn’t counted on the tempting new saloon girl to jeopardize his cold, unhappy existence.

  Naomi Tucker is a survivor, a woman who made it through the war on her own wit and strength. She hoped moving to Tanger, Texas would bring her the peace and stability she yearns to find. Instead she runs head-on into a cool-eyed sheriff who welcomes her to his bed, only to push her away.

  The wildness of the West is far from tamed. It threatens the town’s efforts to rebuild, Zeke’s bond with the Devils—and his fragile relationship with Naomi. As Zeke’s hold on sobriety slips, he and Naomi must choose between settling for half a life apart, or embracing all they could be. Together.

  This title has been revised for rerelease.

  Warning: Take one hard-ass lawman with inner demons and a down-on-her-luck waitress. Mix well and add in bullets, danger and life-threatening bad guys. Wait for the fireworks.

  Devils on Horseback: Zeke

  Beth Williamson

  Dedication

  To every person out there, man or woman, who has endured suffering in silence, who does not speak of their pain for fear of the unknown, and who has survived that which might have broken others. You are not alone, know that there are others like you who stand beside you.

  Live life knowing you are loved.

  Prologue

  March 1866

  Tanger, Texas

  “What the hell is that smell?”

  Zeke Blackwood opened one eye against the bright light streaming in the window. When a thousand pain pricks shot through his head, he groaned and rolled over.

  “Get out, Lee.” His voice sounded like a broken violin string.

  His younger brother, as usual, didn’t listen. “It fucking stinks in here. Did something die?”

  “Shut up and get out.” Zeke rubbed his hands down his face, the scrape of whiskers loud in the quiet room. Agony shot through his fingers and he blearily tried to focus on them. Were they broken?

  “You know it’s almost noon. Gid and I have been working like dogs to get the damn restaurant rebuilt and you lay in here like you ain’t got nothing to do.” Lee pushed at his shoulder. “I’m sick of it.”

  Zeke barked out a laugh. “Me too. Sick of life, sick of nothing but old ladies and bad food. Sick of never sleeping more than an hour or two at a time.”

  Six months of darkness, each day even worse than the last, had pushed him so far down into a whiskey bottle he didn’t think he’d make it out. The only person who still talked to him was Lucy Michaelson, the saloon owner. The red-haired beauty had accepted him as he was without pretense, thereby becoming the recipient of Zeke’s drunken rants. He wanted nothing more than to forget all the bloody memories dancing around in his mind. However, whiskey had only served to make them dance faster.

  He made it to the edge of the bed and rolled until he reached the floor. The world shifted beneath his feet as he finally made it upright, at least until his gut decided to heave the opposite direction. Zeke dropped to his knees and groped blindly for the chamber pot. After he emptied the contents of his stomach—about half a bottle of cheap whiskey—he leaned his head against the side of the bed and closed his eyes. The silence in the room was only broken by his heavy breathing. Lee must have given up.

  A damp cloth was shoved in his hand. “I ain’t gonna clean up your leavings.” Lee hadn’t left after all. He’d just gone to get a rag.

  Zeke was infinitely glad his brother had only lost an arm in the war instead of his life. He didn’t know what he’d do without him.

  As Zeke brought the rag to his mouth, his hand shook so bad, it looked like it belonged to an old man, instead of a twenty-five-year-old. A sob almost erupted from his throat and he slammed his lips shut to keep it from escaping. He’d never been as miserable or pitiful, even during the unending days in the Yankee prison camp. He closed his eyes against the prick of tears when Lee’s hand landed on his shoulder.

  “The whiskey’s gonna kill you, Zeke. You gotta stop.” Lee was usually caustic and could be counted on for always telling the truth no matter how brutal. This time his tone didn’t match his words, in fact, he sounded almost gentle.

  Zeke’s throat tightened as he struggled to speak. “I…I can’t. Jesus, Lee, I… The nightmares get so bad. I need the whiskey to forget, to have peace.” He fisted his right hand, the nails biting into the clammy skin of his palm. The left hand was unable to make a fist since two of the fingers hurt like hell.

  He didn’t want his friends to know how bad his drinking was, but there was no hiding it from Lee. Zeke was a mess, inside and out. He had no purpose anymore, nothing to look forward to. His nightmares about what happened six months earlier replayed themselves over and over. Whiskey helped dull the sharpness of the pain.

  Too many mornings he’d woken with a pounding head, a taste in his mouth like old shoes, and no memory of how he ended up in his bed. The sheets smelled like old sweat, vomit and desperation. Zeke knew one day he wouldn’t wake up in his bed. Perhaps he wouldn’t wake up at all.

  “Yes you can. Don’t be such a baby, just quit.” Lee sat down heavily on the mattress, pushing rancid air past Zeke’s nose.

  His stomach heaved against the stench, but he swallowed back the bile. “I can’t. For once in my fucking life, I just can’t.”

  Lee put his palm on Zeke’s head, the comforting warmth seeping down through his matted hair. “Then for once in your life, let me help you.”

  Zeke closed his eyes as the tears rolled down his face. He reached out for his brother, reached out for the lifeline he needed to survive.

  Chapter One

  June 1866

  “Yes, you have to wash the damn dishes.” Lee threw his arm in the air. “How do you expect me to do it?”

  Zeke scowled at the piles of dirty tin plates in the wooden sink. “It wasn’t my idea to rebuild this place and I don’t know shit about running a restaurant. Gideon needs to hire somebody who does.”

  Lee narrowed his gaze. “Washing dishes don’t require nothing but water, soap and two hands.”

  “That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” Zeke picked up the bucket of hot water from the stove and poured it on the dishes. “We’re lucky nobody has taste buds in this town or Gideon’s cooking would’ve killed them. You can’t be a waitress worth shit and I’m damn sick and tired of doing dishes.” He added a bucket of cold water to the mix. “We need a woman.”

  “Speak for yourself. I don’t need a woman.” Lee harrumphed. “The ladies in this town are crazy anyway.”

  It had been a long three months since he’d sworn off booze, made even longer by Zeke’s constant thirst for whiskey, as well as the battle against his dark memories. He’d fought hard and long, with the help of his brother, cousin Gideon and friend Jake, to conquer the demon that had taken over his soul. He’d likely always have to fight that particular demon, but Zeke was waking up in the morning clearheaded again. The thought of being with a woman, however, made the demon dig its claws in deep. Because then he remembered Allison, and the other woman who had taken him on a ride into hell, Veronica Marchison. He just wanted to forget.


  It took great effort to ignore the pain and think about what had to be done for the business. D.H. Enterprises had gone from being gunslingers to restaurant owners.

  They’d been in Tanger for almost a year and had become true citizens. Their friend Jake had married the miller’s daughter, Gabby, and been voted onto the town council. Gideon, Lee and Zeke had rebuilt the restaurant that had burned last year, contributing to the rebirth of a town almost laid to waste by raiders.

  New folks were even starting to move into town every day. Gideon had been smart enough to suggest rebuilding the burned-out structure for half of the business from the owner, Cindy Cooley. She had been the victim of the raiders, and now spent her days at the mill recovering from the experiences that scarred her, both physically and emotionally.

  With Cindy’s approval, the Devils had worked to get the restaurant rebuilt. It gave Zeke something to focus on, at least for a short while. Now, however, the problem was three single men having no experience with restaurants—other than eating in them on occasion—had no idea what they were doing.

  “What about Cindy? Is she coming out of her bedroom anytime soon?” Lee looked towards the mill.

  “Probably not. She suffered two months of God knows what at the hands of those raiders. I wouldn’t want to come out either and face this place without her granddaddy.” Zeke still missed the old codger and even sometimes missed the coffee he brewed that a spoon could stand up in.

  “Then we need to hire somebody else and soon.” Lee tossed a towel at Zeke.

  He caught the towel before it hit him in the face. “Talk to Jake, he’ll know who to ask. The man knows every person in town.” Their friend Jake was the most comfortable with the people of Tanger, as well as being the most social. With he and his wife running the flour mill, Jake had many opportunities to use those skills.

  “Good idea. I’ll go see him now.” Lee headed out the back door after shooting a smirk at his brother, leaving Zeke to finish the dishes alone.

  With a snort at the indignity of doing such a menial chore, Zeke plunged his hands into the soapy water and got busy.

  Gideon walked into the kitchen a short time later and grinned when he saw what Zeke was doing. “He left you again, didn’t he? Lee’s getting too big for his britches. We’re gonna have to put a stop to that.”

  “Tells me he can’t do dishes with one arm.” Zeke dipped the clean plate into the bucket of cool water. “He went to talk to Jake. See if we can figure out who can work here, ’cause, Gid, your cooking is gonna kill us.”

  Gideon laughed, a huge gut-busting guffaw that came from somewhere near his toes. Zeke’s smile was genuine at the sound of his cousin’s mirth.

  “That’s the gospel truth and I won’t deny it. But right now I have something to talk to you about.” Gideon picked up the towel and started drying the clean plates. “With so many new folks arriving, Tanger needs a lawman. You have a mind to be sheriff?”

  Shock rippled through him at the suggestion. Zeke dropped the plate in his hand into the sink, splashing his shirt and the front of his trousers. Cursing softly, he took the towel back from Gideon and tried to save some of his dignity.

  “Who the hell suggested that? And had they been drinking, ’cause only a drunk would suggest a drunk for a sheriff.”

  Gideon pointed at Zeke’s wet shirt. “Even with your obvious clumsiness, the town council talked about it just this morning and voted to give you thirty days to prove you could do the job.”

  Zeke had spent six months showing the town exactly how useless he was and what an ass he could be while drinking. It was unlikely the citizens of Tanger would choose the drunkest, most reticent man who’d settled in town less than a year earlier.

  “They want me to be sheriff?” Zeke frowned at his cousin. “Are you sure you heard them right? And what do you mean thirty days?”

  Gideon ran his fingers through his curly brown hair and shrugged. “That’s what the town council voted on, and now that Jake is one of the members, he knows what they talk about. You see, some of them ain’t convinced you’re the right man, some are, so they want to give you thirty days to prove you are. Then you get the job permanently.”

  Zeke had never heard of such a thing. “I ain’t no lawman, Gid.” He was an experienced strategist, a planner, a soldier. Upholding the law was marginal at best during a war, and this job would force him to be very exacting in that regard. There were rules, strict rules he would have to follow.

  “You’ve never been a lawman, but that doesn’t mean you can’t be. You were a good soldier, no, you were a great soldier. You can do it. I think you should do it.” Gideon seemed to be convinced.

  God knew Zeke needed to do something, anything to remember what being a man felt like. He’d been floating along with no direction, nothing to hold onto, to be proud of. Being a lawman would likely make his battle against whiskey that much harder. However, it would also bring structure to a meaningless existence.

  “What happens during the thirty days?” Zeke found himself wanting to know more about the job, needing to know more.

  “Well, I guess you need to be a good citizen, help folks when they need it, keep the peace as best you can. I’m sure the council will give you the particulars.”

  Zeke looked out the window, considering what he’d be agreeing to. He’d be judged by what he did, or didn’t do, expected to behave, no doubt that included no whiskey or women. What would all that get him? A respectable job, something to grab onto. A purpose.

  If the town council really wanted him as sheriff, Zeke Blackwood was up for the challenge. God help them all.

  “Fine, I’ll do it.”

  Gideon smiled and smacked him on the shoulder. “I knew you would. Doing dishes would drive any man loco.”

  Zeke swallowed back the urge to celebrate with a shot of booze. He tried to grin back, but settled for a small smile. “I can’t wait to tell Lee.”

  * * * * *

  The town council was made up of an odd assortment of people, including old women, even older men, Jake and Gabby. The red-haired Devil and his raven-haired wife had to be at least thirty years younger than anyone else at the table.

  Zeke wasn’t sure what to feel, other than nervous, which he refused to allow himself to be. He said his polite hellos, grateful for the presence of Gideon and Lee in the chairs beside him.

  “Mr. Blackwood has told you about our offer?” Oliver Johnston, the man who ran the livery in town, peered at Zeke through his thick spectacles.

  “Yes, sir, he has. I’ve considered it and decided to accept.” That sounded plain enough.

  Hettie Cranston, the widow of the former hotel owner, cleared her throat. She had taken her late husband’s seat in the council when he passed two years ago. Nobody had the balls to tell her to leave, although she hadn’t been asked or elected to sit on the council. “We do expect you to cease frequenting Lucy’s saloon, its, ah, women, as well as drinking altogether. Your habits have become well known, and some of us aren’t certain you are the right choice. So, for thirty days you are to be a model citizen, help those who need it, keep the peace, and demonstrate the best judgment possible. That’s a requirement for becoming the sheriff permanently.”

  Her partner in crime, seamstress Edith White, was the most caustic of the group, which seemed unlikely considering Hettie’s sharp tongue. “We didn’t all vote to hire you, but the majority had their say.” Her beady eyes pinned Zeke to the chair. That old woman made him nervous, reminded him of the horrible nanny Gideon had for two years as a child, the one who would give him the strap for even the slightest infractions.

  “I appreciate the confidence the majority had in me.” Zeke felt like telling the old biddy to go to hell, but figured it wasn’t a very good idea. He decided to change the subject instead. “Did you all pick a new mayor yet?”

  Oliver tapped his fingers on the tabl
e. “As you know, we’ve been running the town since Phineas Wolcott’s perfidy was discovered.” The former mayor had made off with most of the town’s money. Although some of it was recovered in Kansas City, he was never caught. For nine months, Tanger had limped along with a small population and a rigid town council making decisions. Oliver glanced in Gideon’s direction. “However, the man we asked to replace Phineas said no.”

  Zeke looked at his cousin in surprise. “They asked you to be mayor? Why the hell didn’t you tell me?”

  Gideon nodded. “I’m not the right man for the job. They need someone who’s spent more time in Tanger.”

  “But I’m good enough to be sheriff?”

  “I think you’re perfect to be sheriff.” Gideon looked at Jake. “I’m obviously not the only one, either.”

  Zeke was confused by the faith these folks had in him considering his drunken binges and the amount of time he’d spent at Lucy’s. He didn’t know if he could do it himself, but he sure as hell would try his damnedest. What made them so sure it was the right choice?

  Jake finally spoke up. “Zeke, at least give it a try.”

  “Was it you? Were you the one who suggested me?”

  “No, it wasn’t me.” Jake turned to his wife, the black-haired Gabby, who had kept her distance from Zeke since the moment they met, except for one extraordinary day when she’d joined him to fight to regain Tanger, the only time they’d been united in purpose.

  However, it was a day for surprises. Gabby had always treated Zeke politely, never giving him any of the effusive hugs that were her habit since becoming deliriously happy with Jake. Not that he’d cared who she gave them to, but Gid certainly got his share. Her dark gaze met his and she smiled. Unbelievably, he felt the corners of his mouth twitch in response. It appeared Gabby had been the one to nominate him for sheriff.

  “If I’m going to be the sheriff, the town needs a mayor. I can’t be reporting to seven people.” Zeke folded his arms across his chest. “I do better when there’s a chain of command.”