Texas, 1874. Long ago, Scout Proffitt gave up on ever being a man of honor like his Civil War hero brother Clayton. But when Scout steps foot on the rundown remnants of the Circle C ranch, he wonders if maybe―just maybe―the Lord has something different intended for him. Rosemarie has lived most of her life doubting her worth and shouldering the blame for her brother’s death. But when a stranger rides onto her ranch, claiming he owns it, she suddenly is given a choice: either keep looking at the dark side of life . . . or dare to dream. Sometimes heroes are disguised as gunslingers . . . and sometimes the most unlikely dreams really can come true. Shelley Gray's first Amish novel, Hidden, was nominated for the Inspirational Readers Choice award. Her book Simple Gifts won the Reviewers Choice Award. Shelley’s novel, The Protector, recently made the New York Times bestseller list. A native of Texas, she earned her bachelor’s and master’s degrees in Colorado, and taught school for ten years. She lives in southern Ohio where she writes full time. A Texan's Choice Book 3 of the Heart of a Hero series By Shelley Gray Abingdon Press Copyright © 2012 Shelley Sabga All rights reserved. ISBN: 978-1-4267-1465-8 CHAPTER 1 November 1874 West Texas They'd been waiting five days for her father to die. Only a strong sense of duty drove Rosemarie back into the darkened room, where the scents of whiskey and sickness grabbed her the moment she crossed the threshold. When she coughed, in a half-hearted attempt to adjust to the dim, thick air, six faces turned to her in surprise. The seventh occupant was oblivious. "Sorry," she murmured around yet another cough. "Didn't mean to startle y'all." "Rosemarie. Hush now," her mother ordered. "You're gonna disturb your pa." "Yes, ma'am." Yet—as much as Rose could tell—Pa continued to lay motionless. The only sign he was still alive was the faint fluttering of the collar on his nightshirt. Though she hadn't been invited to do so, Rosemarie edged closer to the bed. It wasn't easy to do with too many people packed into a too-small bedroom, and the place had never been much anyway. Of course, it went without saying that their whole house had never been much. Her father had built it from a slew of cast-off boards from someone else's broken barn. Judging by the gaps in the planks, Rose had always assumed the former owners had known what they were doing when they'd left the wood for scrap before heading back east. Her family had settled into the fifty-acre farm eight years ago, in the midst of the war. It lay just outside the borders of Broken Promise, a sorry little town if there ever was one. But it had become home. Her father had used every cent he had to settle them in and had promptly named the ranch "Bar C." Though the red dirt and loads of dust didn't look like much of anything, Pa had said the land was as good as any. He was happy to settle and escape the fighting, though Rose had never understood exactly what was wrong with him. Her mother had slapped her silly the one time she'd asked. Now, though, her father seemed dwarfed by his past as much as by the old iron bed frame above his head, the pair of oak rocking chairs to his left, and group of bodies surrounding him. Rosemarie stood in the perimeter, looking in, trying to see her father's face. But all she saw was the jumble of covers covering the majority of his chest. A wide splotch of brownish liquid had soaked into the warring rings making up the quilt. The once pristine white and soothing pink rings looked like faded replicas of what they'd once been, and that was the truth. His breathing turned labored. "How is he doing? Any change?" she finally asked, unable to bear the silence anymore. Unable to bear the idea that the waiting would continue. And continue some more after that. "Ah, Rose." Doc glanced her way over a pair of wirerimmed spectacles. "I'm afraid I have no good news for you. He's about the same." "His breathing slowed," her mother added somewhat hopefully. With a weary nod, Pastor Colson nodded. "I believe it has. He'll be with the Lord soon, Rosemarie." "That's good." The comment had come from a sense that too much had happened that could never be repaired. They'd known for days now that their father wasn't going to get better, and since they'd begun the deathwatch, the atmosphere among all of them had turned into a helpless sense of inevitability. And sickness. Actually, the air in the room was so thick with the mingling of warm bodies, the light so dim, and the smell of sickness and despair so overpowering, Rose knew death would have to be better than the current situation. But she probably should never have acknowledged that. To her right, her sister Annalise gasped. "Rose, how could you say such a thing?" Though Rose knew Annalise had probably felt the same way—as did everyone else in the room—she apologized. "I'm sorry. I spoke out of turn." "You certainly did." "However, I dare say that h