Deception and Disguise in the West (Preview)

Chapter One

Peter Kellogg had enjoyed too much bitters, his balance happily off-center. The songs had all been sung, though he stumbled out of the Show Me Saloon with the piano jangling behind him and the smell of perfume still in his nose.

The women were flirty with him, but he knew it was only because he was an easy mark. A man past fifty, a widower with a fine local farm. He had some extra time on his hands and some extra money in his pockets, and that was more than enough for any of the girls there.

Peter wasn’t particularly proud of his nights at the saloon, but he wasn’t about to let himself be ashamed of it, either. A man needed release, a bit of time off of the unending, hard work of being a farmer. With only his hired hands and his daughter, Imogene, Peter had lost most of his family and was beyond raising another one. But he did have Imogene, a sweet tyrant in blonde curls. If she had her way, Peter knew he’d never make it to the saloon, or just about anywhere other than church.

But she was respectful of her father, supportive. Despite her contentious temperament, Imogene had been raised not to contradict the man, not on any of his decisions, either professional or public.

And they hadn’t all been great decisions, Peter had to admit to himself as he pulled himself up onto his brown paint Quartermane and headed down the street toward the outskirts of Jefferson City.

Maybe I should have sold out to Reardon when he made the offer. He didn’t like that I refused, and I don’t have much interest in getting into a war over it.

War, he thought again, looking out over the dark Missouri landscape. Sixty years into the eighteen-hundreds, the young nation was barely out of its cradle when it had begun to tear itself apart. Notions of rights and philosophies that seemed so strikingly different cast doubt on whether the experiment that was the United States could indeed prosper and flourish. It almost seemed two groups of states, united in their own interests. The factions weren’t going to be able to go much longer without violence, Peter didn’t think. And Missouri would be caught in the middle of the conflict. The laws favored free citizens, but not every person in the state felt that way, not by a long shot. And if the rumors were true, it would be a war of brother against brother, playing out in living rooms and on street corners as well as on traditional battlefields.

But nobody seemed to be under any delusion that war would not break out. It seemed a certainty that the states aligning themselves with a new Confederacy were hellbent on asserting their independence, and keeping the considerable financial rewards from their current labor system. In the north, the abolitionist movement had become much more than just an intellectual and philosophical exercise. There were protests and riots, buildings burned and people massacred. Neither faction seemed willing to coexist with the other. Only one way of governing was going to prevail if the country could truly be called the United States, and that country was getting bigger all the time. There was more land to work and to govern, and more laws to decide upon.

More slaves to buy and sell.

Red cedar and raw hawthorn rose on either side of the road heading out of Jefferson City, a wooded area leading up to the cleared farmland on the other side.

Peter personally found the notion of slavery distasteful. There were white men enough who needed good-paying work and more modestly rewarded labor. He could see the economic benefit to slavery, of course. And there was no certainty that the confederate forces wouldn’t prevail in the coming conflict. Missouri would have to abide by the laws, whatever they were.

But Peter would not have to remain in a business he felt went against his notions of right and wrong, and certainly not one so heartily against his daughters. She was adamant on the issue, and he guessed she’d even contest her father on the issue, were he to take a position against her and in favor of slavery.

Things go that way, Peter thought, Reardon could have it and welcome! We’d get a fair price, perhaps do some traveling, find her a nice husband.

Peter didn’t like the way Ronald Reardon looked at Imogene. She was still young, only nineteen, with a few lingering traces of adolescence to offset her new womanly beauty. Her blonde hair and blue eyes were gifts from her mother, whom she favored. Her mother had been a beauty, too.

Imogene had to be protected, whatever happened around them. Men on either side of a civil war, if that was what the country was truly facing, could be hard men and cruel, whatever ideology they were fighting for. They trounced across the countryside like locusts, eating and drinking and looting, helping themselves to the local women with as much vim as they liked.

It was what happened when you invested small men with even a tiny portion of authority. And the winds of war themselves were known to infect the minds and hearts of such men, emboldening them to do terrible things, all in the name of their political cause while those things were entirely beside the point.

And the military wasn’t the only peril. For all his relative tolerance, Peter had never actually met or conversed with a slave, and he’d only had perfunctory interactions with freed blacks of the state. And the stories he’d heard of the slaves were indeed horrifying. They were big from lifetimes of hard work. They were kept ignorant, overworked, and allowed to foster both a seething hatred for the white man and an uncontrollable lust for white women. That was the scuttlebutt, in any case, and Peter wasn’t interested in having to discover that for himself firsthand.

There was also the matter of Ron Reardon. He wasn’t likely to just leave matters lie. But with the coming struggles, nobody seemed willing to make any dangerous plays. There was too much uncertainty in the air, on the streets.

Still, there was little ignoring the fact that Reardon had the advantage. He had more hands, more land, more chickens. If things went on the way they were, it was possible that he’d be about to overtake the Kellogg farm by simple market forces. That would be a better tack, even for a man like Ronald Reardon. He was a man in conflict with his own lesser nature, and that was one that favored fast, deliberate action over slow and certain manipulation.

The men lurched out of the shadows, their horses suddenly blocking the road. Two more men rode out of the gray dogwood behind him. Peter stopped and turned, seeing that he was surrounded. His experience searched for a reasonable explanation, but there were too many options to consider and too little time to consider any of them.

“I’ve got money,” Peter said. “I won’t fight you for it.”

All the men wore bandanas around their faces, and each had his Winchester rifle or Colt pistol drawn and aimed directly at him. Peter thought for a moment that, if he ducked into the woods on the side of the road quickly enough, the four men might actually just gun each other down. But Quartermane was too old, and so was he. They’d both be shot to pieces and Peter knew it.

It made just as much sense to pull his billfold from the breast pocket of his waistcoat. He held it up, plainly seen even in the dark, and tossed it onto the road in front of his horse. One of the men climbed down from his horse, the others holding Peter at gunpoint. He stepped over to the billfold and picked it up, peeling it open with one thumb to check its contents.

“Big loser at the tables tonight?”

That gave Peter some pause. It was a reasonable enough guess to assume he was returning from the saloon, or it could also be that the men knew who he was and where he was spending his time.

The man on his feet pocketed the billfold and approached the side of Peter’s horse. “What else?” Peter hesitated, but the man barked, “C’mon—watch, cuff links, let’s go!”

Peter pulled out his pocket watch, along with the gold chain, as well as the links keeping his cuffs pinned. He handed the baubles to the gunman, who kept his Colt trained on Peter’s gut.

The man said, “Gun?”

Peter gave it some thought, sighing. It was a mistake to hand over his gun, but with four arms pointed at him from just about every angle, Peter didn’t have a choice. He reassured himself that guns were valuable, and disarming him wasn’t about anything more than booty.

“That’s all I have,” Peter said.

The men glanced at one another as the man on foot stepped away from Peter’s horse. “Not all.” The men slowly repositioned their horses, creating a single line that couldn’t fire into itself.

There was no way for Peter to fight his way out of it. They took his goods, but he knew instantly that it wasn’t just a matter of his money. They wanted it to look like a robbery, to cover up something else.

“You’re Reardon’s men,” Peter said. “I… I can pay you more—”

“Sorry, Kellogg, you gotta go.”

Bang! The first shot tore into Peter’s chest, sending a vibrating numbness through his upper body. Bang! The second one sent the horse bucking in a panic as it found Peter’s shoulder and smashed through the tendons and bone.

The horse ran out from under him and Peter fell back, the drop to the hard ground long and terrifying. He landed hard, pain shooting through his mangled body, agony replacing the numbness. He strained to breathe, writhing on the ground, unable to push himself up. There was no reason to waste his last gasps in the feeble attempt, however. There was no escape, no survival.

He felt sure they were Reardon’s men, taking action just as Peter feared he might. And as his own life wound down, he could only think of his daughter. She would be vulnerable to Reardon and his men, vulnerable in every conceivable way. There could be men at his farm even at that very moment, ravaging the poor girl. He could almost hear her screams in the back of his head, fading with the sound of his own futtering heartbeat.

One of the men leveled his Colt directly at Peter’s face. His thumb pulled back the hammer, the gun steady in his hand.

Imogene, Peter thought, I’m so sorry, so… so sorry.

“Adios, old man.”

Bang!

Chapter Two

Imogene was stunned, unable to stand. She could barely speak or even follow what the burly, red-haired Sheriff Taylor McClintoch said as he sat on the other side of her dining room table.

“I know this can’t be easy for you, losing your pop like this.”

Imogine nodded. “I… thank you for coming out to see me like this, Sheriff, I… I just don’t think I could make the trip into town.”

He nodded back with what must have seemed to himself like reassurance. “It’s quite a blow. But you’ll recover… in time.”

Imogene tried to smile, but it took all her effort. It seemed almost like he was interested in lending his own shoulder, only for her own sense of comfort.

The sheriff went on, “Anyway… it’s hard to say. There were four men, took his gun, his money—it’s road agents from the look of it.”

“You don’t know who’s… who works the forests or… or whatever you call it.”

“No, Miss Kellogg, I don’t. My job is to run such men out of town, or into shackles… or to the end of a hangman’s noose.”

Imogene knew good and well what the man’s job was. But whether he was doing that job in good faith was something else again. Her own dear father had made mention of the fact on more than one occasion, that those who enforced the law were uniquely positioned to successfully break it.

Though it was hard to see what the sheriff would gain from her father’s death. The farm would be her inheritance, and the only way to secure control of the property would be to marry her.

Imogene was concerned about Ronald Reardon’s devices in this regard. She’d seen how he looked her, though he was almost thirty years her senior. There seemed to be something about her youth that attracted him, and his disgusting leers had only been thinly veiled by courtesy or protocol.

But the thought of marrying Ronald Reardon was an abomination to Imogene in every way. Her father had been aware of the man’s attraction to her. He’d tried to keep them apart as she grew older and grew up, warning her against any impromptu visits he might make when Peter himself was gone.

And Peter had hired hands who would be there to witness any goings-on. They were good and strong men who wouldn’t shrink from a fight. There were other ways to get more than just her body, and Ronald Reardon seemed to have found it.

“Have you looked for the men, these… these road agents?”

The sheriff shook his big, round head. “They’re probably long gone by now.”

“Couldn’t they be lurking in the area, waiting to strike at some other poor passerby?” Imogene watched the man’s expression closely for some sign of truth behind whatever his answer would be.

“I didn’t realize you knew anything about sheriffin’,” he said, looking her over.

Suddenly self-conscious about even being alone with the sheriff in her house, not to mention fatherless, Imogene said, “I just… what if these men decide to come and strike here, at the farm?”

“That’s always possible, Miss Kellogg, I won’t lie to you.” After a dubious pause, he said, “Maybe it’s time to… to reconsider things.”

“Reconsider? Things?”

The sheriff shrugged, as if merely thinking out loud. But Imogene had a strong feeling that there was more to what he was saying than merely some cold comfort.

He said, “You’re not thinking of running a farm like this on your own? I mean, even with your hands. And who knows how long they’ll want to hang around, with all this… this sudden lawlessness around here.”

“But… you’re the law.”

“And there’s only so much I or any man can do. Your father’s… sacrifice must surely have shown you that.”

Imogene could see clearly what was going on. The sheriff was going to cover up what had happened, no doubt on the payroll of the more successful farmer, Ronald Reardon. He was clearly in league with the man and would be involved in enforcing Reardon’s will upon Imogene and her father’s farm, if the sheriff didn’t impress his own will upon her first.

“Ronald Reardon made us an offer not long ago,” Imogene said, careful to check the sheriff’s feigned surprise.

“Is that so?”

“It is,” she said, feeling her temper rising. She knew better than to show it, but she couldn’t help but feel it. At that point, it was wiser to let the sheriff speak.

“Well, there you go,” Sheriff McClintoch said. “He’s a good man.”

“Is he?”

The sheriff shrugged. “No criminal record. Why not just sell? I’m sure you’ll bring a handsome return. That’s what your father would want, I’m sure.”

“Are you?”

“Aren’t you?” The sheriff looked around and then leaned forward just a bit, even though they were alone in that room. “I don’t mean to speak of the dead, of course, but… I knew your father, from his moments… in town.”

Imogene knew just what he meant, and it didn’t garner any of her further respect or trust.

“He made no secret of being… of a certain mind. Not all farmers agree, or anybody.”

Imogene was struck by what he was suggesting, and she knew she needed to hear more.

It was easy enough to sit there, stunned, and let him go on to say, “He made enemies; hard to say who. But he was just about ready to pack it in, least that’s how I took it.”

“He loved this place,” Imogene said. “It’s where he raised his family.”

“And it’s where he lost his family. I’m sorry to be so… so frank, Miss Kellogg, but… maybe this isn’t where God wants your family to be.”

“What do you mean, a… a curse?”

Sheriff McClintoch shook his big head, red curls fading to gray. “Unlucky,” he said. “You know what they say, Miss Kellogg… a change is as good as a rest.”

He set his hand on hers and gave her a little tap, and Imogene’s skin flinched and seemed to crawl on her body. He bid her a courteous farewell and promised to make an appearance at her father’s funeral, set for the next day.

Chapter Three

Imogene sat in the front row of the First Presbyterian Church. The other pews were filled with the respectfully silent men and women and even some children of Jefferson City. It was a show of respect, and it brought a bittersweet tear to the corners of Imogene’s heart to know her father was so well-liked and would be so sorely missed.

She wondered if Peter Kellogg knew that himself. He’d been a man to take his pleasures, but he was generally soberminded and very charming, willing to share his modest success with others in the way of free food from the farm, generous pay for hard work, and even offering the occasionally needy citizen a place to live, such as he had to the man Marvin Monahan after his house burned and before he perished from a cancer.

Pastor Dudley Abernathy read from a copy of the King James bible. He wore a solemn expression, as always, befitting his position. Imogene couldn’t help notice the poor man was being worked harder and harder, with weddings and, even more commonly, funerals.

“Then I saw a new Heaven and a new Earth,” he read from Revelations, “for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and the sea was no more. And I saw the holy city, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband.”

Imogene couldn’t help think of her farm, her city, her country. It all had been bursting with such promise and possibility. But it had seemed to turn sour, no longer the dream of a holy city. The sheriff’s words rang in the back of Imogene’s memory, as deplorable as she’d found them then and found them still. She didn’t believe in curses; she believed in God. She believed in hard work. She believed in standing one’s ground against in justice and unfairness. She believed that good people gave up their ground to men of wickedness, that the wicked would ultimately prevail. Her impulse was the same as her father’s had been: to stay and protect their family homestead.

The pastor read on, “And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, ‘See, the home of God is among mortals. He will dwell with them; they will be his peoples, and God Himself will be with them; he will wipe every tear from their eyes.’”

The verses seemed to be coming from the lips of the Lord Almighty, the Son, the Holy Spirit. They seemed to be telling Imogene that the land didn’t matter, or the house. What mattered was the Lord, for wherever she found Him, she would be home.

“‘Death will be no more,’” Pastor Abernathy went on, his long face somber, “‘mourning and crying and pain will be no more, for the first things have passed away.’”

Imogene could feel the gazes of the other citizens weighing on her, one in particular belonging to Ronald Reardon. She didn’t turn back to see, but she could tell he was staring at her with those wanton brown eyes. It was even possible that the men he or the sheriff had hired to kill Peter were there in the very church where they celebrated the man’s life.

“And the one who was seated on the throne said, ‘See, I am making all things new.’”

Imogene took those words to heart. Again, she felt as if the verses were speaking directly to her, urging her on to something new, to kick the dust off her heels. She couldn’t be sure, and to make the wrong choice would be to cast her own life into a pit. It wasn’t only about her future, but her father’s past, hard work, and good name. Those things would have to live on, as a tribute to him and the sacrifices he’d made for her.

Pastor Abernathy read on, “Also, he said, ‘Write this, for these words are trustworthy and true.’ Then he said to me, ‘It is done! I am the Alpha and the Omega, the beginning and the end. To the thirsty I will give water as a gift from the spring of the water of life.’”

Imogene took heart in that, that God would always be her ultimate reward, as it was for her father and the rest of her family. But Peter was with his wife and children, in the presence of the Lord, and their strife upon the Earth was over. They’d found peace, reunion at long last.

“‘Those who conquer will inherit these things,’” the pastor read on, and a chill ran up her spine, “‘and I will be their God, and they will be my children.’”

After the services, Imogene stood by the grave while the pallbearers lowered her father’s casket into the grave. He sank further and further away from her, and Imogene could only stand alone, never feeling more isolated. She looked around at the pitying faces of the men and women of Jefferson City. It was easy to feel badly for her, Imogene knew that, and she didn’t relish it. But that pity would fade. Everyone in Jefferson City, and everywhere else in the country and in the entire world, suffered losses and heartaches. Even Imogene herself felt hardened to it. Nothing had hurt more than putting her mother into the ground, her young siblings. With her father, Imogene felt she was burying some part of herself, the last of her childhood.

Another glance at the mourners suggested to Imogene that her future could yet be even more complicated than her past. Ronald Reardon looked at her from nearby, hands folded in front. He gave her a friendly nod, blinking slowly, frown unmoving on his face to show the utmost sorrow for her loss.

Once the pastor closed his bible on the life of Peter Kellogg once and for all, he joined her on a walk back from the cemetery.

“Excuse me.”

Imogene stopped at the sound of that familiar voice. She sighed, having expected it. But she’d also hoped the man would show the good sense and good taste to leave her alone on that sad day.

“Miss Kellogg,” Ronald Reardon said, tipping his hat, “Pastor Abernathy. A very stirring oratory, if I may say.”

“Good of you,” the pastor answered.

“I thought the heavens themselves might just open up above us,” Ronald went on, “to unravel the seven scrolls right before our eyes.”

Imogene said, “We’re all very lucky to have such a worthy pastor.” She turned, but he spoke again to stop her.

“As we were to have a man such as your fine father, Miss Kellogg. I wonder, after all this time, if I might not… call you Imogene?” She didn’t answer, and after clearing his throat, Ronald went on, “Anyway, Miss Kellogg, I… I just wanted to reassure you that I always had the utmost respect for your father. We may have butted heads occasionally, but… I never had anything other than admiration for his… his moral standards.”

Imogene knew what Ronald meant by that. He sided with most others when it came to the divisive question of slavery. Once again, the sheriff’s cryptic words rang in the back of her mind.

“I wanted to take a moment to reassure you, Miss Kellogg, that I am here as your neighbor and your friend. If there’s anything you need, any way in which I can be of service, please do not hesitate.”

Imogene looked nervously around the street, the cemetery behind and the main thoroughfare ahead. “That’s… that’s very kind of you.”

“A young woman in your position, you’ll have a lot of… decisions to make, challenges.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” Imogene said.

Pastor Abernathy interjected, “And she’s got the full support of the community, of course.”

The subtext of the remark didn’t seem lost on Ronald. He asked Imogene, “Have you given it any thought at all?”

Pastor Abernathy said, “Perhaps… another time? I’m sure our Miss Kellogg will pay a visit to your offices, should she have the need.”

Imogene was grateful for the assist and was quick to back the pastor’s play. “I will, yes. It’s a very generous offer.”

Ronald nodded, glancing from Imogene to Pastor Abernathy and back again. He nodded, as if sharing a joke with himself, and Imogene felt she knew just what that joke was.

“Anyway,” Ronald said, “I know you have a lot to think about. My doors are… always open to you, Miss Kellogg. God bless you both.”

He smiled and walked away, slipping his black top hat on his head. Imogene looked at the pastor, and she could see the same cold dread in his eyes she knew smoldered in her own.

Chapter Four

Earl Hayes marched with the seventy-second battalion volunteer army, to serve the North under Capt. Victor Beals. They’d trudged down from Wisconsin, collecting more willing fighters than they were losing. Any man with a gun and pair of rags clinging to his back or feet was welcome. Earl had seen two dozen join the ranks, swelling their numbers to nearly one hundred willing young men, and some of whom were no longer that young.

Some had joined for love of the cause, though they were few. Many more had little else to do and were eager for whatever pay they could scrape up. The general temperament among the men was that the rumored war wasn’t nearly so close as everybody thought, if it was to happen at all. As many as not were just happy to be free of the complications of their lives back wherever they left. There would be some money to spend, various spoils of war along the way, even a way to eke out a career. It was a big part of the American Dream, and great men from Col. David Crockett of Tennessee on down had taken military careers straight to the halls of power. In Crockett’s case, of course, it wasn’t such a sunny resolution. But few people doubted that if the naturalist and marksman had somehow escaped from that massacre in Texas, he would have wound up one of the most beloved Presidents the United States had ever seen.

They were on the move south to the Ozark Plateau, and Earl was eager to get out of Hannibal. The men were getting too comfortable. The entire exercise seemed to be an indulgence, a way to eat and drink and sleep on the government’s dime, even if there weren’t that many of them.

Instead of meeting hardened champions of slavery, Earl and the others had encountered meek farmers and storekeepers. They’d helped themselves to whatever they’d come across. And that was perfectly lawful and reasonable. Most were eager to offer whatever they could spare.

Coming upon one farm south of Hannibal, the men made themselves comfortable. They wiped the place nearly clean of produce and dairy, barley leaving any chickens at all to help rebuild the reserves.

It was a farmhouse much like any other, with plenty of room to bivouac. This farmhouse happened to have a particularly pretty girl living with her family, which also included several children.

Earl spotted his captain nearby, surveying his men. Earl approached, glancing around with what he hoped would seem like a casual air.

“Captain Beals, sir.” The captain turned and recognize Earl as he approached. “Permission?”

“At ease. It’s… it’s Hayes, isn’t it?”

“Earl Hayes, yes sir, signed up in Des Moines, sir, Iowa.”

The captain nodded. He stood with a noble bearing, chest out and shoulders back, his long blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail under the rear brim of his hat. “Beautiful country up there.”

“It is, sir, yes.”

The two men stood in the calm of the night, crickets chirping in the background.

“You have family back in Des Moines, Hayes?”

“Lost them in the Indian Wars, sir.”

“All of them?”

Earl nodded. “We were heading west. Apache hit us while my father and I were out hunting. By the time we got back, they’d… well, we gave chase. Neither my mother or sister survived it.”

“Savages.”

“Hard to argue the point of that, sir.”

“I’m sorry, Hayes.” Earl nodded, and the captain clapped a friendly hand on his shoulder. “And your father?”

“Killed in the chase too, sir… along with the Apache.”

Captain Beals nodded his understanding. “By your hand, I estimate.” Earl nodded, and no other answer was necessary. His captain asked Earl, “You came here to tell me that?”

“No real purpose, sir. But I do have to say, these stops, farm after farm—”

“An army travels on its belly, Hayes.”

“And we have reserves. Anyway, we oughtn’t be traveling on our bladders, sir. All the wine?”

The captain’s voice snapped, “These men are about to offer up their lives in the service of freedom, Hayes!”

“That doesn’t mean they can encroach upon the freedom of other people. These farmers, helpless children, terrorized like this.”

“It’s war, Hayes, war for all of us.”

“But it’s not war, not yet. And if the rumors are true, there won’t be a war. And all this, it’s just some… just a reason to go pillaging, as if we were a bunch of Vikings.”

The captain looked Earl up and down. “You’ve got quite a frank way about you, young man.”

“Sometimes frankness is required, sir.”

“But not now,” Captain Beals said. “I can’t have any pugnacious farm boy telling me how to run my brigade! Still your tongue now, boy, back among the ranks. And what happens in my unit is my business.”

“Yes, sir, but wouldn’t a tighter rein on the men give them more order when we finally reach the battlegrounds?”

“If they’re still with us at that point at all. We’re just lucky we’ve got the seasons on our side.”

“Yes, sir, but—”

“I’m sorry about what happened to your family, Hayes; you’ll have plenty of chances to avenge them against the Confederates. But not against your own men, your own unit, not under my command… and not against me.”

Earl knew what his new captain was saying: to act against the unit was to act against him. But Earl already knew the men he was with were capable of too much—things he wasn’t going to be able to ignore.

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“Deception and Disguise in the West” is an Amazon Best-Selling novel, check it out here!

When her beloved father is murdered by a neighboring ruthless rancher, Imogene Kellogg falls to pieces. As if this wasn’t enough, the very same criminal sets eyes on her and the land Imogene’s father poured sweat to preserve. Desperate to escape certain death, she disguises herself as a man and joins a passing volunteer brigade on the way south to prepare for the Civil War…

Will this be Imogene’s salvation against a man sworn to spread terror wherever he goes?

Imogene’s luck finally changes, when Earl Hayes, a fearless fighter, comes into her life and soon realizes that Imogene is a woman in disguise. From that point, he becomes her loyal protector, but very soon something even more than that… However, fate seems determined to put Imogene and Earl in a path of hardship, fear, and death. What is Earl willing to sacrifice to protect his newfound love, when the dangers of this wilderness become more than the group bargained for?

An epic journey that tests their courage and strength at every single turn…

Savage native tribes and dangerous animals will be only a few of the obstacles Earl will have to overcome in order to keep himself and Imogene alive. To make matters worse, Imogene is still being pursued by her merciless tormentor, who is unwilling to let her go. Will Imogene and Earl take out of the picture a treacherous murderer and land-grabber for good, or will tragedy consume both?

A pulse-pounding drama, which will make you turn the pages with bated breath until the very last word. A must-read for fans of Western action and romance.

“Deception and Disguise in the West” is a historical adventure novel of approximately 80,000 words. No cliffhangers, only pure unadulterated action.

Get your copy from Amazon!