November 1892 Knotty Pine, Texas
The reedy voice coming from inside Wylie's Livery and Bridle
Shop thrummed with outrage. "You can't take those horses
'til you settle up with Joe."
Ryland Lassiter halted outside the entry and swallowed an
oath. Sounded as if a disagreement was brewing inside.
The last thing he needed was another delay. This trip had
already taken too long. He wasn't about to sit cooling his
heels, waiting for the railroad tracks to be cleared—not
when he was this close.
Ry reached into his coat and fingered Belle's letter.
There'd been an air of desperation in her plea to see him, a
sense of urgency that gnawed at him. And the closer he drew
to Foxberry, the stronger that feeling grew.
Pushing back the worry, he tugged on his shirt cuffs. Might
as well wade in and do what he could to help settle matters.
The quicker he could get going again, the sooner he could
find out what was going on with Belle.
A burst of rough laughter from inside the stable added
impetus to his decision. That first voice had been a boy's,
but these sounded older and about as friendly as cornered
badgers.
In the space between one heartbeat and the next, Ry stood
inside the wide doorway. His jaw tightened as he spied a boy
of ten or so squaring off against a pair of sneering thugs,
looking for all the world like David before Goliath.
Unfortunately, this would-be giant-slayer didn't have so
much as a sling to do battle with.
The larger of the two men, a barrel-chested brute with a
scraggly mustache, shoved past the boy. "Outta my way, kid.
Those are our horses and we aim to get 'em."
The man's heavy-handed move forced the boy back a step, but
the youngster kept his balance and gamely thrust out his
jaw. "You can't take them until you settle your bill," he
insisted, hands fisting at his sides.
Ry silently applauded the boy's pluck.
But the pair of philistines didn't share his admiration. The
second oaf, whose crooked nose and scarred cheek gave him a
more villainous appearance than his partner, scowled. "Like
we already said, we settled up with Joe this morning." The
man's voice rasped like a dull saw on a stubborn log.
The boy crossed his arms. "Joe didn't say nothin' about it."
Mustache stopped in the act of opening a stall gate. "You
calling us liars?" He swiveled toward the boy, jabbing his
fist into his palm with a forceful thwack.
That did it. Ry couldn't abide bullies. And he was pretty
sure the good Lord hadn't put him here at this particular
moment just so he could stand by and watch.
Clearing his throat he strolled forward, casually nabbing a
pitchfork from a pile of straw. "Good day, gentlemen. Is
there a problem?"
The pair froze, then turned to eye him suspiciously. Ry held
his genial smile as he mentally gauged his options.
As he'd expected, once they got a good look at his tailored
clothes and "citified" appearance, their cocky grins
reappeared. Better men than these had mistakenly equated
polish with softness. His years at law school had added the
polish, but he was still a born and bred Texan, able to
stand with the best of them.
"No problem," Scarcheek finally answered. "The boy's
confused is all. You just stay out of the way, and we'll be
done in a minute."
Not likely. Another three unhurried steps placed Ry
between the youth and the two men. He pulled out his pocket
watch and flicked it open with his thumb.
As expected, both men's gazes latched onto the gold-cased
timepiece with a covetous gleam.
"I don't know." Ry glanced down, then closed the heirloom
with a snap. "It appears this is taking a good deal longer
than a minute, and I've already wasted more time in Knotty
Pine than I cared to."
Scarcheek met Ry's relaxed opposition with a lowered brow.
"Unless you want to get them fancy duds and that pretty-boy
face of yours messed up, you'd best stay out of matters that
don't concern you."
Ry flashed a self-deprecating smile. "Well, now, that could
be difficult. You see, it's an unfortunate failing of mine
that I find there are so many matters that do
concern me."
Scarcheek drew his pistol and pointed it at Ry's chest.
"Don't know where you come from, Mister, but around here
that's not a very healthy attitude."
Ry's smile never wavered as he coolly calculated his next
step. Using the pitchfork to knock Scarcheek's gun out of
his hand would be an easy maneuver. Handling Mustache, who
was just out of reach, was a bit trickier. He'd hoped the
sight of his watch would tempt the bully to step closer.
Still, a few agile moves and a bit of finesse just might
help him avoid a bullet while he disarmed the man.
He hoped to handle this without drawing his pocket pistol—
the fewer bullets zipping around, the less chance of the boy
getting caught in the crossfire.
Bracing himself, Ry shifted his weight and tightened his
hold on the pitchfork. No time for doubts. But, as his
mother had liked to say, there was always time for prayer.
Lord, I know I don't say it often, but Your help is
always welcome, and right about now would be a good time to
provide a distraction.
No sooner had Ry formed that thought than the metallic click
of a cocked rifle sliced through the tense quiet of the
livery. "What's going on here?"
"Joe!" The boy's shout signaled both relief and warning.
Then everything happened at once.
Scarcheek spun around, gun raised, just as the boy started
toward the newcomer, putting himself directly in the line of
fire.
Fueled by concern over the boy's safety, Ry swung the
pitchfork with a speed and force that surprised even him.
The blow connected with Scarcheek's wrist, drawing a yelp
and string of curses from the man as the gun went flying.
Before the gun hit the floor, Ry dropped the pitchfork and
dove for the boy, tackling him to the ground. Covering the
boy's back with his own body, he left the newcomer's line of
fire clear to take care of Mustache if need be.
"Hands where I can see them." The rifle-wielding local's
command carried the cold hardness of a marble slab.
With the sunlight at their rescuer's back, Ry couldn't make
out many of his features. All he got was the general
impression that this Joe fellow was a wiry young man who
radiated a give-no-ground toughness.
Deciding it was safe to let the squirming stableboy up, Ry
stood, though he kept a restraining hand on the lad's
shoulder. Now that everything seemed under control, he was
actually feeling a bit proud of the way he'd handled
himself. He still had it in him, it seemed.
Joe's gaze shifted briefly toward the two of them. "You
okay, Danny?"
"I am now." The boy rubbed an elbow as he glowered at
Mustache and Scarcheek. "They was fixing to take off without
paying what they owe."
"Is that right?" The inquisitor turned back to the surly
pair, tightening his hold on the rifle. "You two planning to
leave town without settling your bill?"
"Look here, no need to get all riled up." Scarcheek cradled
his wrist against his chest. "Clete and I were just pulling
the kid's leg a bit." He shot Ry a hot-for-vengeance look.
"Before this stranger stuck his nose in, we was about to pay
up."
Danny stiffened. "Hey! That's not—"
Ry squeezed the boy's shoulder, cutting off the rest of his
protest. Joe was obviously in charge of the livery and it
would be best to let him control the stage for now. Ry did,
however, slip his free hand into his coat, palming his
pistol. Wouldn't hurt to be ready if things turned ugly again.
He felt rather than saw Joe's gaze flicker his way.
Apparently his movement hadn't been as subtle as he'd thought.
Then the livery operator's focus returned to Scarcheek and
Mustache. "Well, you can hand over the cash now or decide
which horse you're going to leave as payment."
Scarcheek scowled, then called over his shoulder. "Pay up,
Clete."
Mustache reached into his pocket and pulled out some
crumpled bills. He took a step forward, but halted when Joe
shifted the rifle, pointing it dead center at his chest.
"Just set it on that barrel." There was a flash of teeth as
Joe gave a wolfish grin. "Being as you two are such reliable
souls, I'll trust it's all there."
Confident and cautious. Ry's assessment of the man
raised another notch.
"Now, get your horses and gear, and move on." Joe lowered
the rifle, but Ry doubted anyone in the stable thought he'd
lowered his guard. "And don't plan on doing business here
again."
With dark looks and muttered oaths, the men complied, and in
short order were leading their horses into the street. The
look Mustache shot Ry as he brushed by was pure venom.
Ry released his hold on Danny and the boy bolted to Joe's side.
The livery operator dropped an arm around the lad's shoulder
never taking his gaze from the unsavory pair as they rode off.
Retrieving his hat, Ry brushed at the brim. He'd give them
another minute to reassure themselves, then maybe he could
finally get down to the business of renting a rig. Now that
the little melodrama was over, he was more anxious than ever
to be on his way. While Novembers in Texas weren't nearly as
cold as those in Philadelphia, the days were every bit as
short. He needed to make good use of what daylight was left.
Belle had said in her letter that he was her last hope—an
ominous statement coming from the down-to-earth girl he
remembered. She'd been like a sister to him back when they
were growing up and he still felt that old tug to look out
for her.
As he watched the man and boy, something about their pose
niggled at him, like a faintly off-key passage in an
otherwise flawless aria. What was it…
He shook his head, letting go of the puzzle. He was not
going to get diverted again.
They turned and stepped into a pool of light, giving him his
first clear look at the rifle-toting, overall-wearing,
hard-mannered livery operator.
Ry stiffened and felt his world tilt slightly off-kilter.
It couldn't be.
But the proof was there, standing right in front of him—
barely perceptible curves under masculine attire, long
lashes over flashing green eyes, ruddy but smooth cheeks
that a razor had obviously never touched. And if he needed
further proof he got it when Joe's hat came off, releasing a
long, thick braid.
No, not "Joe," but "Jo."
He'd let a woman face down two brutes while he just stood by
and watched.
Josephine Wylie marched back inside the livery, still madder
than a dunked cat. If those two mangy curs had done anything
to hurt Danny—
Her eyes lit on the fancily-dressed stranger, and she
suddenly had a target for her anger.
He stood staring at her with a dazed look—like he'd just
swallowed a gnat. But then he smiled and stepped forward. "I
believe introductions are in order. I'm Ryland Lassiter."
She ignored the hand. "You're also a flea-brained fool. What
in Sam Hill did you think you were doing?"
He stiffened, slowly lowering his hand. "I was coming to the
aid of that stalwart young man at your side."
Hah! Did he think he was going to win her over with his
highfalutin talk and that toe-tingly deep voice of his? She
planted her fists on her hips. "By going up against two
gun-toting varmints with nothing but a pitchfork?"
"Now see here—"
She didn't give him a chance to finish his protest. "Mister,
you might be the biggest toad in the pond where you come
from, but that don't mean beans around here. If you want to
risk your own hide, that's your business, but your blamed
fool actions put Danny in danger, too. That's either
pebble-brained stupidity or grizzly-sized disregard for
others, neither of which I can stomach."
"Nor can I." The man's words were controlled but she didn't
miss the flash of temper in his storm-gray eyes. "I also
can't abide bullies. When I arrived, Danny was already
trying to face them down. I only—"
"What!" Jo's heartbeat kicked up a notch as she swung
around. "Daniel Edward Atkins, is that true?"
Danny's face reddened even as he thrust out his jaw. "They
owed us for a week's feed and stabling. With Thanksgiving
and Christmas coming up, we need that money."
This was her fault. She shouldn' t have left him alone
knowing those two polecats had mounts stabled here. He could
handle a lot of the work right enough, but at eleven he just
wasn't old enough to understand all the consequences of his
actions. If anything had happened to him while she was at
the feed store…
Jo leaned forward, baring the full force of her frown on the
unrepentant boy. "I've told you before, nothing's worth
getting shot over. If someone gives you this kind of
trouble, let it go and we'll get Sheriff Hammond to handle
it afterward."
The boy kicked at a clod of dirt. "I'm big enough to hold my
own."
Jo blew the stray hair off her forehead with an exasperated
huff. If only that were true. Someday, Danny would be old
enough to take over and she'd finally be free to go her own
way. But today's actions only proved how far away that day was.
Offering up a quick prayer for patience, she placed a hand
on his shoulder. "Danny, I got to know you're going to mind
what I tell you when I leave you in charge."
He gave a reluctant nod, then glanced past her, reminding Jo
they weren't alone.
And that she had some crow to eat.
Someday, Lord, I'm going to learn to get all the facts
before flying off the handle. Your teaching about thinking
twice before speaking once is a sure-enough tough one for me
to learn.
Squaring her shoulders, she turned to the gent who'd
introduced himself as Ryland Lassiter. "Looks like I owe you
an apology, Mister. And a big thank-you to boot." She thrust
out her hand, not sure if he'd take it after the way she'd
lit into him.
But he seemed willing to let it go. Taking her hand, he gave
a short bow before releasing it. Well, wasn't he a
fancy-mannered gent.
"Apology accepted. And there's no need for thanks. It's you
who actually saved the day. Miss…" He cocked his head to one
side with a questioning smile.
"Wylie. Josephine Wylie. But everyone just calls me Jo."
"Well, Miss Wylie, I'm glad I could be of service."
Miss Wylie—she couldn't remember the last time someone had
called her that. Certainly not since her pa died and she
took over the livery.
She was suddenly very aware of just how unladylike she
looked in her overalls and boots. Certainly not like any of
the prim-and-proper misses a fancy gent like him must be
used to.