Blake Allen
Generations of the Cattleman's Daughters
Danni Roan
Copyright © 2020 Danni Roan
All rights reserved
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.
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.
ISBN:13 9798637228959
ISBN-10: 1477123456
Cover design by: Art Painter
Library of Congress Control Number: 2018675309
Printed in the United States of America
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Introduction
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Introduction
With a keen sense of justice, Blake Allen has set his sights on a life of law enforcement, but as the roaring twenties break over his home state of Wyoming, he finds himself seeking help and guidance to combat the wave of outlaws determined to take everything as their own.
Darcy Stanley left her home looking for the glamour of the big city, but what she found, amidst the glimmer and shine, could not satisfy the longings of her heart. Trapped in a life of speakeasies and rough gin joints, she finds her chance at freedom a dangerous path.
Will two very different people be able to bring the house of cards crashing down, or lose everything trying?
Chapter 1
Blake eased the big roan over the high plains, a brisk breeze tugging at his hat as his amber gaze tried to pick out any sign of his quarry in the dry grass.
Leaning over the saddle, he watched, studied, listened. The sleeve of his heavy coat snagged on the saddle horn as he guided the horse around a pink granite boulder the size of a small house, and he moved his arm to unhook the distracting cuff.
Blake had been in the area of Wyoming called the Vedauwoo, a bleak barren area full of huge rocks, dusty trails, and dry grass, for nearly a week and could feel that he was getting closer to the band of outlaws with every step. The gang had robbed a bank in Laramie and Blake had been tracking them since hearing they had fled up the mountain. As one of the youngest members of the police force and used to days in the saddle, he had volunteered to make the hard ride.
Leaning further over the saddle swells to unhook the cuff of his heavy coat from the sturdy saddle, Blake didn’t catch the glint of dull-light on metal. The sound of a rifle shot cracked like thunder and something slammed into his head tipping his still form over the horse’s neck as the animal bolted down the slope toward twisted pines.
***
“Whoa,” Clayton Allen pulled his dark bay to a halt along the road to the Broken J Ranch and lifted a hand toward his son. “You dragging the whole road today?” he asked taking off his hat and running his hands through his thick black hair. “Or are you just getting some extra miles on the new team?”
Blake laughed, mirroring his father’s actions. It was hot for late summer in Wyoming, and he’d been working a four-horse team down the dirt road leading to his home for most of the day. The big drag, behind the team smoothing out potholes, ripples, and divots, was wearing him out. He ran a hand through his dark hair, sunlight glinting off the subtle hints of deep red in his nearly black wavy locks. “I thought it would be good to put Jack and Scott and the new Jack and Scott through their paces while I get the road smoothed at the same time,” the younger man spoke, looking up and studying his father. The years had been good to Clayton Allen, the Cracker Cowboy who had come to the Broken J Ranch so long ago, was still trim, his body corded with straps of muscle and his hair barely touched with gray.
At first glance, some folks would call Clay Allen wiry, but he was one of the strongest men Blake had ever known, and he sat easy in a saddle that was his second home.
“How’re they doing?” Clay nodded to the team of heavy Percherons hitched behind the strapping Clydesdales that stood easy in the road.
Blake chuckled. “They’d go better if they didn’t have the same names. I don’t know how Hank and Eric do it. If I call Scott they both flick their ears and try to pull.” The big Clydesdale on the right flicked his ears and stood straight preparing to lean into his collar while the smaller gray horse, hitched behind him, did the same.
“You know the older team could pull the drag on their own?” Clay said, his golden gaze raking his only child with a wicked gleam.
“I know,” Blake admitted. “Maybe I just like the challenge.” His eyes sparkled, a reflection of the teasing in his father’s own gaze.
“You’re a good horseman Blake, you can’t help yourself, and I’m glad to see the road get the attention it needs, the rains this year were fierce and did a lot of damage. Things have changed so much these past few years we need the road in good shape.”
The sound of a vehicle approaching made the horses shift restlessly, and Clay sidled his mount off the road as a model-A truck chugged up to stop between the two Allen men. The old Clydesdales flicked their ears in irritation, but the big grays barely reacted at all the smelly contraption. It seemed that the younger team had been subjected to motorized vehicles far more frequently than the older team.
“What are you two doing lollygagging around here?” a young woman leaned out the window on the driver’s
