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New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas has captivated readers around the world with her sweeping, heartfelt family sagas. To introduce her brand-new series, Jodi tells the story behind the unforgiving Texas landscape and how one man claims Ransom Canyon—and a timid beauty—for his legacy...
A wanderer’s life was all James Randall Kirkland had known since he was an orphaned boy in San Antonio. And while years of adventure had satisfied his younger self, now he’s longing to put down roots of his own and is prepared to go it alone. But when he sees the Apache slave woman with the startling blue eyes, the course of his journey is changed forever.
Ever since the Comanche raided her village and took her for their own, Millie hasn’t known any kind of freedom. After years of being outcast, beaten and traded from tribe to tribe, she’s unprepared for James’s patient tone and gentle ways. Still, as her handsome savior slowly earns her trust, Millie struggles between desire and fear, sure it’s just a matter of time before James tires of her and her burgeoning feelings are nothing but another wasted memory.
Winter’s Camp
A Ransom Canyon Novella
Jodi Thomas
New York Times bestselling author Jodi Thomas is a fifth-generation Texan who sets many of her stories in her home state, where her grandmother was born in a covered wagon. She is a certified marriage and family counselor, a Texas Tech graduate and writer in residence at West Texas A&M University. She lives with her husband in Amarillo, Texas.
Visit her website at jodithomas.com.
Contents
Ransom Canyon, Texas 1872
JAMES RANDALL KIRKLAND took one last look at the sun’s blinding light before heading into the canyon’s narrow entrance. Shadows danced along the jagged walls as if holding secrets and danger below. The beauty of the rocks ribboned in the colors of the earth almost calmed his fears. Almost.
The only way to get to Ransom Canyon from the south was along one path barely five feet wide and far too steep for a wagon. Midday seemed to pass into early evening in a flash as the walls grew higher above him and the temperature dropped. Winter already whispered through the fall air, warning him of how little time he had left to prepare.
The trades he’d make today would restore his staples even if the trip down into the canyon might be dangerous. James had lived with risk all his life and bore the scars to prove it.
Anyone in Ransom Canyon who didn’t want him showing up today would have a clear shot from above. But even among outlaws and Comancheros, there was a code. For a few weeks every year when nature turned from green to brown, any man could ride this trail and trade for what he wanted or needed. With the nearest trading post more than two hundred miles away, supplies were hard to come by in this part of Texas. Winter was coming on early; James knew he’d need blankets, food supplies and at least two more horses.
He had crossed the plains of this northernmost part of Texas before. Once in 1866, when the need to roam open country to clear the blood of war from his mind had grown too strong. It hadn’t worked. Dreams of drowning in blood still haunted him. He had ridden over the Llano Estacado again in 1869 as a scout for the army. Settlers were moving into Texas fast and the army knew the fort line would have to be extended to where Comanche and buffalo roamed.
James might not live to see his thirtieth birthday. A wanderer’s life was the only one he had known since running away from a mission in San Antonio at the age of twelve. All was adventure and freedom then. Now he longed for what he’d never had: roots. Deep roots so generations of Kirklands would live out their lives on the same land.
A priest had once told James he came from noble English blood. But all James knew was that his family blood must have been thin, for his father had been gunned down a few months after they’d arrived in Texas and his mother and little sister had been dead before their first winter in Texas had passed.
Now, as he and his companion, a buffalo-hunter-turned-guide, rode into Ransom Canyon, James kept his rifle over one arm and his Colt ready to slide from its holster at the slightest sound. He didn’t trust the men they were about to meet or the buckskin-clad man who rode beside him. It had taken a war and several gunfights to make James realize he couldn’t afford trust.
“I know you don’t like this, Kirkland.” Two Fingers broke the silence that had lasted all morning. “But you need horses and supplies to last the winter on the plains.” The old ex-slave, who’d lost his middle two fingers on a bet down in Fort Worth, scratched his neck with his thumb. “I can speak enough of any language we come up against in this place, but like I told you before, you’d be better off to ride south with me and
