The Chief Offered Him a Valley for a Bride. When Maverick Lifted Her Veil, He Discovered the Land Was Never the Real Prize.

Maverick Cole had crossed three days of burning Arizona desert for a piece of land, but before sunset he would be asked to trade the rest of his life for it.

His horse was stumbling by the time the valley appeared.

For miles, Maverick had seen nothing but stone, thorn, dust, and white sky.

Heat shimmered over the ground so fiercely that distant ridges seemed to melt into the horizon.

His lips had split.

His shirt had dried stiff with salt.

The canteen hanging from his saddle held barely enough water to wet his tongue.

Then he guided his exhausted gelding through a narrow passage between two red cliffs.

And stopped.

Below him lay impossible green.

A river curved through the valley like a silver ribbon.

Cottonwoods leaned over the water.

Grass moved in long emerald waves beneath the afternoon wind.

Beyond the river stretched dark soil so rich Maverick could almost smell it from the ridge.

A man could run cattle there.

Plant corn.

Raise horses.

Build a house strong enough to withstand winter storms and summer heat.

A man could finally belong somewhere.

Maverick removed his hat.

For five years, he had carried one dream across half the frontier.

Land with his name on it.

Not another bunkhouse.

Not another ranch belonging to a wealthy man who paid him thirty dollars a month to mend fences.

Not another bed he could be ordered out of because someone richer had changed his mind.

His father had died owning nothing.

His mother had died in a rented room.

Maverick intended to be different.

Inside his shirt rested the creased map that had led him here.

Across the lower corner, written in faded ink, were three words:

Cole Valley Claim.

He touched them with two fingers.

“Found you,” he whispered.

His horse snorted.

Maverick smiled for the first time in three days.

Then a voice behind him said, “You found nothing.”

Maverick turned slowly.

Six riders stood along the ridge.

He had not heard them approach.

Apache men watched him from horseback, silent and motionless beneath the punishing sun.

Rifles rested across two saddles.

Another man carried a bow.

None pointed a weapon at Maverick.

They did not need to.

Maverick raised both hands.

“I’m not looking for trouble.”

The oldest rider studied him.

“That depends on what you are looking for.”

Maverick glanced toward the valley.

“Land.”

The man’s face became unreadable.

And that was how Maverick Cole entered the camp of Chief Lobo Negro.

The chief listened without interrupting.

He was older than Maverick had expected, perhaps somewhere beyond sixty, though age had not softened him.

Silver streaked his long dark hair.

Deep lines cut across his face, and his eyes possessed the unsettling stillness of a man who had survived long enough to recognize lies before they were spoken.

Maverick sat across from him beneath a cottonwood shelter.

Between them lay Maverick’s map.

Beside it rested another document.

An agency ledger.

And another.

A territorial survey.

Maverick had nearly stopped breathing when he saw his own surname written across one page.

COLE.

Whatever mystery surrounded the valley, his family had touched it before.

“I came to purchase whatever acreage is available,” Maverick said.

Lobo Negro looked toward the river.

“The valley is not sold to strangers.”

“Then I can lease.”

“No.”

“I can trade cattle.”

“No.”

“I’ve got money.”

“No.”

Maverick’s patience frayed.