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  Romantic Times Praises New York Times Bestselling Author Norah Hess!

  SNOW FIRE

  “Ms. Hess fills…each page with excitement and twists. This warm and sultry romance is a perfect dessert for a cold winter day.”

  LARK

  “As with all Ms. Hess’s books, the ending is joyous for everyone. The road to happiness is filled with wonderful characters, surprises, passion, pathos and plot twists and turns as only the inimitable Norah Hess can create.”

  LACEY

  “Emotions leap off the pages and right into the reader’s heart. You’ll savor every word.”

  FLINT

  “Ms. Hess has once again created a memorable love story with characters who find a place in readers’ hearts.”

  FANCY

  “The lively action…from the talented Ms. Hess is sure to catch your FANCY.”

  RAVEN

  “Ms. Hess has again written a steamy love story [that] moves along as fast as a herd of buffalo. There’s evil, laughter, sexy romance, earthy delights and a cast of characters to keep the reader turning the pages.”

  MAKE BELIEVE BRIDE

  “So what do we do now?” Flame asked, her tone anxious.

  “Well, the way I see it,” Stone answered thoughtfully, “we can go on like we’ve been doing and in the meantime I’ll go back to that house where I found you…see who lives there, ask some questions.”

  “I guess that’s a good idea.” Flame agreed, although her tone said that she wasn’t quite sure. She had a feeling she didn’t want to know the people who lived in that house.

  There was a long silence, then she asked, “What if you don’t learn anything about me? What then?”

  “Don’t fret about it.” Stone grinned. “You’re a married woman, remember. You’ll stay right here with your husband,” he teased with a laugh.

  Flame was silent for a moment; then she asked in a serious tone, “Don’t you have a woman in your life?”

  “No. No other woman.” Stone stared out into the darkness.

  “You understand, don’t you, Stone, that it’s all pretend?”

  Pretend? A hot wave rushed through Stone. There was no pretense in the way he felt about her, the way he wanted her, dreamed of having her every night. How long could he feign mere friendship? This constant ache he felt all the time would have to be soothed before long….

  Other books by Norah Hess:

  MARNA

  CALEB’S BRIDE

  LARK

  LACEY

  TENNESSEE MOON

  FLINT

  RAVEN

  SAGE

  DEVIL IN SPURS

  TANNER

  KENTUCKY BRIDE

  WILLOW

  JADE

  BLAZE

  KENTUCKY WOMAN

  HAWKE’S PRIDE

  MOUNTAIN ROSE

  FANCY

  WINTER LOVE

  FOREVER THE FLAME

  WILDFIRE

  STORM

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Text copyright © 2000 by Norah Hess

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.

  Published by Montlake Romance

  P.O. Box 400818

  Las Vegas, NV 89140

  ISBN-13: 9781477839867

  ISBN-10: 1477839860

  To my favorite son, Bob.

  This title was previously published by Dorchester Publishing; this version has been reproduced from the Dorchester book archive files.

  Contents

  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 One

  It was just before dawn, as the sky was beginning to turn silver, when a tall man stepped out of a large frame house standing proudly beneath a wide cottonwood tree almost a hundred years old. It had been only a sapling when his grandfather had planted it.

  His shirt and pants were faded, his boots dusty and run down at the heels. The hat he held in his left hand—he always kept his right hand free in case he had to draw his Colt—had seen many seasons of rain and snow. A stranger seeing Stone Falcon for the first time would never guess that he owned one of the largest cattle ranches in all of Colorado.

  He was a ruggedly handsome man with strong features and black unruly hair that hung to his shoulders. His steel gray eyes, however, detracted a little from his good looks. They were as cold as ice on a river in January. He was thirty-five years old, born of a wild breed high in the Rockies. Friends and enemies alike said that he was part puma and part rattler. What they didn’t know was that his grandfather, old Stonewall Falcon, had taught him that if he was in the right, it didn’t matter how dirty he fought.

  He breathed deep of the clean, pure air. He had borne the long lonely days of winter holed up on his ranch during blizzards and snow that fell at least once a week for four months. There were spots where the snow had drifted seven feet deep.

  Spring had finally arrived now, sending melt water down the mountain and thawing out the passes that had kept him isolated from the rest of the world. He was tired of having no one but his cowhands to talk to.

  Stone stretched his long, lean body, then looked up at the towering overhead mountain. Most folks believed there was only one way up the mountain. He knew differently, however. He and his Indian friend, Shilo, had found half a dozen ways to come in and out. They had practically lived on the mountain as boys.

  He turned his head and peered down the path that led to the Ute village a couple miles away. He hoped that his friend would get back from his hunting trip in time to bid him goodbye.

  There was no sign of the tall Indian. Picking up the gear and bedroll he had brought outside with him, Stone walked down the muddy path to the stables where his Palamino was housed.

  The stallion was a handsome devil with pale gold hide and ivory colored mane and tail. He was a mean-eyed mountain horse that only Stone could ride. Stone was very proud of Rebel. He claimed that the stallion was better than a watch dog when it came to watching over a camp site. The big animal had raised many a ruckus that had probably saved his life.

  He had just finished saddling the big horse and was leading him outside when, from the corner of his eye, he spotted his friend loping down a much worn path that had mostly been put there by the two of them.

  Stone smiled. His boyhood friend was an arresting looking male. He was dressed in fringed buckskin, including his knee-length leggings. He wore a red cloth sash around his lean waist with a gun and a wicked-looking knife stuck in its folds. He was an expert in handling both weapons. His hair was raven black and hung halfway down his back
.

  “So you’re going to try to find her,” Shilo said when they met, faint derision in his tone.

  “You know that I am.”

  The Indian shook his head as if in disbelief. “You see this maiden one time, and at a distance, and you want her.”

  “Yes, I want her and I intend to have her.”

  “You stupid fellow, did it ever cross your mind that she may not want you?” Shilo asked, serious now.

  Stone looked blank for a moment. Of course she would want him. His feelings for her were so strong, she’d have to return his sentiments. He looked at his friend and said with confidence, “She’ll want me.”

  “I hope you’re right, Stone,” Shilo said quietly, then asked, “How long do you think you’ll be gone?”

  “It’s hard to say,” Stone said, then grinned and added, “I’ve never courted a woman before.”

  Shilo’s black eyes glittered with humor. “You’re not noted for having a silver tongue, so I’ll look for you when the geese fly south in the fall.”

  Stone’s eyes crinkled at the corners. Shilo was right. He had no trouble talking with light-skirts, but when it came to polite conversation with decent women, he was like a mumbling idiot. “Very funny, friend,” he growled. “However long it takes, will you check on things around here once in a while? See if the house has been broken into. The cowhands will take care of the barn and outbuildings, but I can’t trust them to remember the house.”

  Shilo nodded that he would, and with a wave of his hand he turned and walked toward his village. He shook his head at his friend’s foolishness. This Indian knew more about white women than Stone Falcon did. About decent women, that was. He had scouted for wagon trains a few times and the white women traveling across the country were a far cry from the whores and loose women that Stone was used to. He wouldn’t have the slightest idea how to go about courting a lady. She’d have his tongue tied in knots within five minutes.

  The poor dunderhead, Shilo thought, feeling sorry for his friend. Stone was going to be mighty disappointed.

  The air grew warm as Stone let the stallion choose his own pace. It had been a fickle spring. There had been thaws that two days later would freeze over again. But by every indication winter’s back was finally broken now. The aspens showed green leaves budding out, as did the willows along the many creeks and streams.

  Stone nudged the stallion to a faster pace. He wasn’t sure how far he would have to ride in his search. This was a trip that he looked forward to with mixed emotions. The question of whether the young woman would want him niggled uneasily at his brain despite his earlier assurance that she would.

  As the stallion loped along, Stone fell to thinking of the girl who had been on his mind all winter long.

  It had been in late November when he saw her. He was on his way to the nearby town of Dogwood to get in a last few days of carousing in the saloons and several visits to Miss Opal’s fancy girls at the Red Lantern. Once the blizzards began to roar across the range, blocking all passes, there would be no more riding to town until spring, when most of the snow had melted.

  He had been thinking about Opal as Rebel topped a hill just outside town. He’d quickly reined him in and out sat staring at a feminine figure riding toward him at an easy canter. He didn’t know what had made him back Rebel into a clump of pines that hid him from the girl’s view.

  As she rode nearer, the first thing that struck him about her was the color of her hair. It was a rich, burnished mahogany. Then the sun slid from behind a cloud and flames seemed to shoot off the long tresses that hung down her back.

  As she came opposite him, Stone had leaned forward so that he could study her face. He had stared and stared. Never had he seen a woman so beautiful, or so graceful, he added mentally, watching the way her willowly body moved with the little black mare.

  There had grown inside him the sure knowledge that this woman was meant to be his lifetime mate. Next spring, as soon as the snow melted, he would come back here and discover where she lived; then he would court her. He had not wanted her to see him then. He’d looked like a saddle bum. He hadn’t shaved in four days and his hair was in need of a trim.

  When the girl rode out of sight, he had ridden on into town, picked up his mail, then ate lunch at the Sage Hen cafe. He’d returned home before dark. The desire to spend time with Miss Opal’s girls had left him.

  As Stone rode along, the unwelcome thought his friend, Shilo, had brought up continued to nag at his brain. What if the young woman wouldn’t have him? It had never entered his mind that she wouldn’t, but now, thanks to Shilo, he had to consider that possibility.

  “Damn you, Shilo,” he muttered. “Why did you have to put that thought in my head?”

  A few minutes later Stone drew rein at the South Platte, the river that flowed from northern Colorado. He sat in the saddle, studying it. It was a treacherous stream, he knew. It was given to unexpected floods and had beds of quicksand. A very dangerous water to cross. The only good thing about it was that it never ran dry.

  After watching the current a minute or so, Stone lifted the reins and urged Rebel into the water. He was confident that the stallion would avoid the pockets of sucking sand.

  When Rebel reached the opposite shore, Stone guided him up the hill where he had first seen his mystery girl. He paused there, debating the best way to go about finding her. Should he make inquiries in Dogwood, or search the outlying ranches first? Deciding to begin in town, he turned Rebel’s head in that direction.

  After a day spent questioning everyone he came across, Stone was beginning to feel like a fool. No one knew anything of a girl with hair like flame who rode a little black mare. His last hope was the trading post ten miles down river.

  It was growing dark as the stallion approached the long log building only a few feet away from the river’s edge. He reined Rebel in and sat for a minute, scrutinizing the six horses tied to the hitching post. He recognized a couple of the horses as belonging to mountain men. They mostly minded their own business, only occasionally getting drunk and raising hell.

  It was well known that some of the men who frequented the post were barely on the right side of the law. Actually, he felt pretty sure that a couple had stepped over that line a few times. With the exception of the mountain-bred horses, all wore brands and looked well cared for. Their owners were not the type that would be running from the law.

  Stone decided that he wouldn’t have to watch his back if he entered the saloon. He dismounted and tied Rebel to a tree, well away from the other mounts. The big devil was always ready for a fight. To be on the safe side, he checked his Colt to make sure both cylinders were loaded. They were, and shoving the gun back in its holster, he stepped up on the narrow porch and pushed open the trading post door.

  The big room was crudely constructed and was poorly lighted by a few hanging lanterns. His gaze skimmed over the room. He was surprised at the number of men lined up at the bar of rough planks supported by three barrels. He realized then that probably half the men had arrived by boat. There were several trappers mingling with the men he knew.

  Stone’s attention was drawn to a group of four tables in the back of the room. One was unoccupied. The other three were peopled by a group of men, each of whom dandled a scantily dressed saloon woman on his knee.

  As maudlin laughter rang out from the drunken women, Stone strode through the dirt and sawdust-covered floor and found himself a place at the bar. Big Cal Broden, the owner of the place, greeted him with a wide smile and a loud, “Stone Falcon, you old wolf. What brings you so far away from your ranch?”

  The men at the bar came to attention at the name, Stone Falcon. Each man there either knew, or had heard of the big rancher. They all knew he was not a man to cross. Some spoke to him, others gave him a friendly nod.

  “I’ve got some business to take care of in the area,” Stone said in answer to Broden’s question. But when he went on to describe the girl he was looking for, no one coul
d recall seeing her.

  Knowing better than to ask Stone what he wanted with the girl, the bartender didn’t press him, and poured him a glass of whiskey. When he put the cork back in the bottle, he asked a safe question instead. “What kind of winter did you have? Did you lose any cattle?”

  “It was pretty bad.” Stone picked up the glass. “We were snowed in tight for three months. Couldn’t get through the passes. Lost a couple dozen head of cattle. Some to the weather and some to the wolves,” he added before tossing the fiery liquid down his throat.

  “It was bad here, too,” Broden began, then stopped. The outside door had banged open and he and the other men at the bar stared at the four men who noisily entered the post. They pushed two Indian women ahead of them.

  “Hell,” the bartender muttered, “I wish them Jackson brothers would stay the hell out of my place. I’ve told them a dozen times not to bring Indian women in here. It riles up my girls. They don’t want any competition.”

  “The young one doesn’t look more than thirteen years old,” Stone said, studying the thin girl. “And she’s scared to death,” he added as one of the twins sat down at the empty table and jerked her onto his lap.

  Stone frowned when the man began to roughly fondle her, running his hand over her small breast and sliding his other hand up her doeskin shift.

  The older woman being pawed by two of the other men watched anxiously as the young girl fought to push away the rough hand that squeezed her tender breasts while the other one tried to pry her legs apart.

  Anger began to grow inside Stone as the girl struggled against the man, who only laughed at her small fists beating against his chest. Stone gritted his teeth but kept his mouth shut. He told himself that the maid hadn’t been struck, that maybe the bully was just having sport with her.

  Suddenly then everything changed at the table. One of the girl’s hard little fists connected with her tormentor’s eye. The laughter died on his face, replaced by black anger. He jumped to his feet, dragging the girl up beside him. With an arm around her waist holding her fast, he called out to Broden, “I’ll be using one of your rooms for a while, bartender. The little squaw here is gonna let me have a poke.”