Wyoming Territory, 1883
One hand clutching her valise, the other flattened atop
her ivory bonnet to prevent the biting wind from snatching
it away, Cora Mae Tindale charged through the dusty, pitted
road of Slippery Gulch. Horses and wagons clamored through
the small strip separating the parallel rows of buildings.
She leaped onto the crowded boardwalk. Folks swarmed like
bees as the stagecoach driver continued to toss parcels and
crates down from the stagecoach that had brought her this
far.
Only twenty more miles.
Cora drew her
carpetbag of dusty traveling clothes against her aching ribs
and forged her way through. Her corset pinched beneath the
straining fabric of the yellow gown her mother had starved
her into just one agonizing month ago. Lord, what she'd give
for a full breath. She hadn't inherited her mother's petite
build, but the raving woman wouldn't relent.
There was
nothing to be done for it now. This was the nicest dress
she'd managed to stuff into her trunk. She couldn't arrive
at the Morgan Ranch appearing a vagabond in need of
charity.
Keeping her gaze on the livery just a few
shops down, she quickened her pace. Beyond the noise and
bustle of the crowded strip, tiny canvas-topped homes
spotted the uneven grasses. Miles of rolling hills rippled
into the distance like great green waves. Farther out,
snowcapped mountains spiked up into the clear
blue.
Cora's heart constricted painfully. The imposing
view made it all too clear that this settlement was nothing
but a tiny speck in a vast expanse of hills and sky. She'd
heard Wyoming Territory was largely unsettled, but hadn't
imagined Tucker and Chance would have built their ranch so
far out into sheer wilderness.
She wouldn't be
discouraged. She'd waited so long to see them again, though
these were not the circumstances she had envisioned.
An instant burn of tears stung her eyes at the
thought. The eight years she had spent at the textile mill
had truly been a kindness. She'd been such a fool to believe
her mother had summoned her home because she had missed her.
Had she even suspected—
"Miss Tindale?"
Alarmed
by the foul scent of bourbon on the breath so close to her
ear, Cora swung around.
A tall cowboy shifted his hat
over curly black hair. "Name's Wyatt McNealy. I hear you're
headed to the Morgan Ranch and are, uh, in need of my
services."
Cora took one look at Wyatt McNealy's smug
grin and winking eye and knew she'd crawl the twenty miles
to the Morgan Ranch before she'd travel in the company of a
man carrying the stench of alcohol.
"You are
mistaken, Mr. McNealy. I am not in need of any
services."
"Spud tells me you're headed out to the
Morgan place. I happen to be traveling in that direction. No
sense in you having to struggle with a cart across such
rugged ground."
Cora squared her shoulders. "I
appreciate your concern, but I'm quite capable of handling a
horse and cart. After traveling for weeks without
altercation, I'm sure I can manage another twenty miles."
She attempted to move past him. "Good day."
He
sidestepped, blocking her way.
Fear nettled beneath
her skin. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her
carpetbag, preparing to knock him out of her way. Her other
hand curled into a fist, just as her stepbrothers had taught
her.
"You kin to the Morgans?"
"We're a kin of
sorts," she said, hoping Chance and Tucker still thought of
her as such.
"Well then." His fingers closed around
her elbow. "I know they'd want me to make sure you reached
their homestead safe and sound."
Cora wrenched her arm
from his grasp.
"Wyatt!" boomed a voice from behind
them. "You black-hearted son of a bitch!" The cracking of
knuckles against Wyatt's jawbone punctuated the hard-spoken
words. Wyatt dropped to the boardwalk. The crowd around them
dispersed like a clutch of spooked chickens. Cora swallowed
a shriek and backed against the building as Wyatt's attacker
brushed past her.
The dark figure seemed a giant, well
over six feet and covered in dried mud. He turned toward his
companion standing in the road. Wyatt started to rise. The
giant tossed something at him, knocking him back down with a
loud clunk.
A dead foal caked in mud pinned him to the
boardwalk. Cora clamped her hand over her gaping
mouth.
Wyatt groaned and shoved against the weight.
"I'll be sending you a bill for that foal and any
others should they die from the stress you put them through.
You better pray they make it, Wyatt."
Wyatt shifted.
Cora saw his hand going for the hilt of his gun. Before she
could shout a warning, a younger man stepped forward and
pointed his rifle at Wyatt's head.
"The kid's known to
have an itchy trigger finger," said the muddy rogue. "I'd
hold real still if I were you."
Her pulse thundering
in her ears, Cora glanced beyond the giant pillar of dirt
and his young accomplice, toward the spectators gathered at
a safe distance. Most watched with mild interest, while
others continued on about their business.
Where was
the sheriff?
The beastly rogue moved closer. Cora
pressed her back against the rough wood of the building,
holding her breath as his filthy trousers brushed across her
yellow skirt.
He knelt beside Wyatt. "You got anything
to say for what you did?"
"I didn't do—" Wyatt's
whimpered words ended in a squeal as the man grabbed his
boot and wrenched it up.
"Sure looks like the dainty
boot prints we saw in that riverbed, don't it, Garret? A
notch in the left heel."
The younger man spared a
glance, his hazel eyes taking in the notched heel. "Sure
does. Matches perfectly."
"You so much as kick a
pebble into that river to divert water from my land again,
and I'll be gunning for you, Wyatt. That's a
promise."
"You're the one bent on using that devil
wire!"
"Got tired of waiting for you boys on the Lazy
J to learn your alphabet. Our brands are distinctly
different. I've been patient with your boss, but if you
don't catch on, I'll have no choice but to believe you're
rustlers. Stupidity's forgivable, Wyatt. Stealing isn't." He
lifted Wyatt's gun from its holster and tucked it into his
own grimy waist-band. "Just a precaution to keep you from
filling my back with lead." He straightened and turned away,
stepping out into the street.
Cora released a hard
sigh of relief but found herself stuck between the building
and Wyatt's sprawled legs, the rest of him still struggling
with the muddy carcass.
"We didn't mean to startle you
so," the younger man said, his gun now lowered at his side.
"Let's get you out of harm's way." He flashed a gentle smile
and offered his arm.
Cora nodded and allowed him to
lead her around Wyatt.
"I sure hate that you were
caught in the midst of our quarrel." Reaching the road, the
young man stepped away from her and removed his hat,
revealing short cotton-white hair. The dirt on his trousers
didn't go past his knees. "I hope you'll accept my
apologies."
"Of course," she said, forcing a tight
smile.
"Garret!"
Cora jumped at the harsh shout
and spotted the other man standing on the boardwalk across
the road.
"I's just apologizing to the lady for
scaring her half to death," Garret shouted back.
The
beastly man tugged off his hat. His matted hair was just as
dirt-filled as the rest of him. He batted the hat against
his thigh, scattering dust and chunks of dried mud. "If
she's looking for formal socials and tea parties, she bes'
get back on the stage. There's nothing but backstabbers and
mudskippers around these parts."
He was obviously a
mudskipper, Cora thought, watching him shove his hat back
onto his crusted hair. His sharp green eyes burned with
irritation before he turned and walked into the general
store.
"Don't mind him," said Garret. "He's just
havin' a real bad day. You be careful, now." He tipped his
hat to Cora, then turned and darted across the busy
road.
Cora didn't waste a moment. She hurried to the
livery at the end of the road. Rounding the corner, she was
pleased to find a large bay mare hitched to a cart just
outside the open double doors. Her trunk had been secured to
the back. She tossed her bag onto the seat, then stepped
into the shadows of the large stable.
"Mr. Spud?" she
called out.
"Miss Tindale." Mr. Spud stepped from a
stall. His stringy gray hair poked out in all directions
from beneath his battered brown hat.A grin pushed high into
his whiskery face. "Don't you look pretty as a spring
daisy," he said, brushing his hands across the front of his
striped shirt as he walked toward her.
"You're too
kind," she said, certain the old man's eyesight must be
failing. "May I assume my cart is ready?"
Mr. Spud's
bushy gray eyebrows pinched. "Didn't Wyatt find
you?"
"Yes. He's been detained. As I said earlier, I'm
quite capable of handling a cart."
"I can't send you
out into those hills by your lonesome. The Morgans
won't—"
"You've given me explicit directions. I can
assure you—"
"Hey, Spud! You in there?"
Cora
tensed, recognizing that strident voice. Not
again.
"Well, speak of the devil," Mr. Spud said as he
peered toward the open double doors, "and he's bound to
surface."
Coated with dirt, the man did look as though
he'd crawled up out of the earth. Garret walked in behind
him. When he spotted her his young face beamed with a
smile.
"What in thunder happened to you?" asked Mr.
Spud.
"Had to pull a few colts from a muddy riverbed.
I was told you've got the feed stocked up in here. I paid
for six bags."
"Sure do. Right inside the door there.
Help yourself. Now that you're here, I won't have to worry
about finding the lady an escort."
"That's quite all
right," Cora quickly cut in. "I don't need an
escort."
Cold green eyes raked across the length of
her. "If you're headed in our direction—"
"No. Thank
you. I really do not require an escort."
His broad
shoulders shifted, creating tiny avalanches of dust and
dirt. "Your choice."
"But that don't make no sense,"
said Mr. Spud. "Not when—"
"I can manage," Cora
insisted. "Thank you, Mr. Spud. I'll be on my
way."
"You heard the lady. Let's get these loaded,
kid." He turned away and hoisted four large sacks of
feed.
"Nice seeing you again," Garr...
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