by Jillian Hart
"He said another week or two but if he had a man to take orders from, he might stay. He is good to the horses and to us. Did you hear from Amberley?"
"Yes, she's going to meet us in town tomorrow for shopping and lunch. I want to get in as much time with you and our cousin as I possibly can. I miss you both so much when I'm home and you two are here, shopping and having fun without me."
"Yes, we hardly miss you. Although, truth be told, nothing is ever right unless you're here." She rolled her eyes, unable to keep both the teasing and the grand affection out of her voice.
Her gaze drifted to the window, covered by the lovely floral curtains she'd bought in town so there was no possible way she could see outside. But she could remember the man riding away with his hat slanted at a confident but unrelenting angle, his shoulders set and firm, his back straight and strong.
She didn't dare point out to herself that she could not make thoughts of Brennan Mosley go away. No matter how hard she tried.
There he was, right in the center of her brain, in her thoughts, dominating them with his hint of a smile, that solid steady depths of heart in his dark eyes and his gentle horseman's hands.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Likely because he'd made quite an impression.
She couldn't help pulling back the edge of the curtain to gaze out at the night-glazed glass.
The yard and trees, the pastures beyond lay silent mysteries, lost beneath the layer of clouds moving in, darkening the sky one star at a time.
The back of her neck prickled. Foreboding blew over her like an icy breeze.
Goosebumps broke out on her arms, and she shivered.
It's too bad Brennan Mosley had turned down the job. She needed a hired gun on her land, not only a horseman.
She needed someone she could rely on, who wasn't family, who wouldn't coddle her or send her back to Philadelphia.
Tears burned in the back of her eyes, unshed and unfallen.
The sorrow she felt might never go away, but here, in Wyoming Territory, she felt free.
Her chin went up. She would simply need to hire someone else.
Her stomach knotted into a tight, hard first. There was that feeling of foreboding again, as if she were being watched.
Targeted.
Something was definitely wrong.
* * *
Now I've got you. Brennan Mosley dismounted, careful not to make a single noise. No creak of leather, no pad of his boots to the ground, no jingle of the bridle bits.
This hadn't been tough. Then again, he'd guarded more than one gold shipment, riding rough and armed as security, and also on more than one high stakes cattle drive, and made his living hunting bounties for a bit.
Here he'd thought going back to horse training would be a safer job.
Normally, he would do more watching, to make sure others weren't lurking out in the dark. But he was exposed here, and there was no extra time for scouting.
He might as well take care of the problem right now. Brennan shook his head, drew his revolver and thumbed back the hammer, silent as the night.
The numbskull didn't even bother to look around. He didn't even see him coming.
Brennan felt no mercy or pity for the men lurking in the fallow grasses near the fence line.
He took a moment, keeping as silent and as dark as the night, to search the surrounding landscape.
Nope, no sign of any other gunman that he could see lurking on the edge of cleared meadow.
His feet carried him forward into the lighter shadows, going quietly. Piece of cake.
He pressed the metal nose of his revolver against the middle of Judson's shoulder blades.
"Drop the gun." he bit out.
6
Surprise shook through the villain, and Judson stiffened. His revolver landed with a thud in the rustling grass.
"Now your friend can disarm himself." Brennan kept his eyes sharp, taking in his surroundings, aware there was a gunman unaccounted for. "Throw it down. Do it now or I shoot."
Thud. The gun hit the grass, leaving the two trespassers safe to him. For now.
"Now your backup weapons. Let's go," he barked out, meaning business. He nudged Judson in the back so the man understood it.
The coward, lurking in the dark, likely spying on the woman. Or calculating on how to get at her expensive horse.
"You ain't much, Stranger." Judson tossed down the extra gun, which landed beside the other two. "Or too bright."
"You'd be wise to be quiet."
"You haven't figured it out, have you? You're making me angry, Outlaw." He paused while his buddy added another gun to the pile in the dark. "You don't want to get my ire up."
"That's funny. You should be scared of me, you're obviously not smart enough to know it. Hands behind your back." As far as he could figure, there were chains in the barn, which he was gonna need, and a hired man to help, who lived out back in the bunkhouse.
This was more successful than he'd figured on. Wasn't that a bonus? Thinking of his contract, he grinned, shook his head at the dumb louts in the grass tossing down their extra weapons.
Better keep a close eye, too, on the dark and shadows. He couldn't ignore the nagging sense of doom that kept dogging him. He rolled his eyes. This is what he would do for a woman, one he didn't even know.
It was those big vulnerable eyes. He couldn't say no to her. Just to her. That little beauty was going to get him into trouble. He just knew it.
The bullet whizzed through the night, plunging into his arm with a numbing hit and then a fiery shock.
He reeled back a step. Whew, not the first bullet he'd taken, but he wanted it to be the last. The breath punched out of his chest, he went dizzy and down he went.
His knees hit the ground, the breath punched out of him when he hit, but his gun remained steady. Whew. Good thing. With his heart pounding and his vision blurring from the pain, he saw a shadow in the dark coming closer.
The gunman! And it wasn't the only shadow. He bit back a curse and climbed to his feet. "Skye! Turn around. Get back in the house!"
"No, I can't do that because I heard a gunshot. Is someone hurt?" She hurried closer, her shadow becoming substance, and swept through the grass toward him.
She clutched a revolver in both trembling hands. "Judson, is that you? And your hired man? What are you doing on my property?"
"Answer her," Brennan demanded, fighting to remain upright. "Who fired the shot? Careful, Skye, whoever he is, he's still out there."
"Oh, well, it's probably another drunken lout." Her voice wobbled with fear, but her chin went up. All determination. And completely unaware of the danger and what was going on.
This was no place for a pretty, sheltered lady. He fought down the encroaching darkness threatening to take over, ignored the blinding pain and kept his resolver steady.
He cleared his throat. "Skye, I want you to run and get your part-time worker and have him bring chains. He needs to ride with me and take these louts to the sheriff. I need backup."
"Don't listen to him, lady, or you will be sorry." Judson's threat rang as cold as a winter storm. "You turn around like a smart piece of calico and go back in your house."
"You're the one trespassing on my land." Skye's chin went up higher and she took a step back. "Oh, Brennan. You've been shot."
That's all it took. That one moment of inattention. His gaze flew to her, concerned for the fragile and vulnerable woman, and the varmints made their move.
They were mostly harmless, since they'd been disarmed, and they ran, disappearing into the black night. The wind gusted, and they were gone. He took a step to go after them, and his foot gave out. He landed on his knees again.
"You are not okay?" Her hand curled around the curve of his shoulder, soft and comforting. "That is a lot of blood. I can't believe you're still somewhat upright. You need a doctor."
"Not interested in a doctor. I'm fine." Not exactly the truth, he thought, but he had work to do. Like l
ocating the gunman who'd shot him. "I just need a knife to dig out the bullet and some light to see by."
"You're delusional, Mr. Mosley."
"Practical, sensible and I've done it before, Miss Weatherby."
"Sorry, but that is not acceptable." She hunkered down before him in the grass, her face furrowed with concern.
Wasn't that a nice thing? He wasn't much used to that kind of thing, a man used to being on his own. What a nice thing it was to know she cared, even a little bit.
"You are not as tough as you think, Brennan. You are going to bleed all over my field, if I don't get you taken care of."
"It's a matter of me deciding I'm fine. Any minute now, this bleeding will stop. I'm sure of it."
"Yep, you are tough, but you're still human. You aren't fooling me one bit." Before she could say more with that sweet, kind voice of hers, a horse whinnied, interrupting them.
Orville broke out of the dark shadows, wading through the rustling grass.
The big stallion halted in front of his Skye, nosing her with concern.
"What are you doing out, handsome boy?" She grabbed hold of the cheek rope of the halter. "Are you hurt, too?"
Orville pushed his nose into her other hand, seeking some affection.
It spoke well of their bond, Brennan thought, scanning the horse from ears to hooves, heart palpitating with a note of fear at what he might find.
No obvious harm. The horse looked a little frightened but not hurt.
"Brennan, how am I going to get you on your feet? I've got my hands full." She had to curl her free hand around the stallion's other cheek rope. "What about you?"
"I'm, uh..." Words failed him. Huh. He seemed to be listing to one side. He just might be a tad worse off than he could admit. As weak as a kitten. And as cold as an early spring morning.
He began to tremble. Looked like shock was setting in.
"Okay, Brennan, don't you pass out on me. If you do, I just might have to hold it against you," she said, wading closer through the growing grasses. "You're a big man. You would be a lot to attempt to get into the house."
"Your house?"
"Sure. Someone's got to take care of you. It looks like it will have to be me."
He couldn't remember anyone saying anything that warm and caring to him at all, not in his adult life.
That mattered to him. He gulped in air, feeling wet creep slow and hot across his shirt. She was right, he was bleeding pretty good. He wheezed out air, fighting to keep conscious. He couldn't seem to move his left arm.
Light tumbled through an opening front door. The brightness stung his blurry eyes.
"Skye? What was that strange noise?" a woman asked from the doorway. "What's going on out there?"
"Samantha!" Relief softened the strained notes of Skye's's soft alto. Such a pretty voice. "Hurry! Come here. I need your help."
The light from the parlor tumbled over the porch and across the lawn, and the faint gleam of it seemed to brighten some of the dark.
Skye stepped between him and the light and he could see the woman for who she was. Warm and gentle, truly a caring soul. So much sweetness.
His heart twisted. His chest cinched up tight. He couldn't rightly say, but it was nice to have someone care whether he lived or died.
It spoke well of her to think he mattered. He didn't know how to thank her as the darkness stole every thought from his brain. All went black.
* * *
It hadn't been easy getting him into the house. Claude had helped, by taking one end of the wool blanket Samantha had fetched from the parlor.
Skye's heart cinched up tight again, remembering the grit of the dust in the air, the cool chill of the breeze and how gently she'd rolled the big, granite-hard mountain of a man onto the blanket.
Remembering, she blew out a sigh. What an unexpected and terrible way for her day to end, which had started off with shopping in town, then swinging by the train depot to pick up her packages from her catalogue purchases, and finishing with grabbing lunch at the diner for her and her sister.
Oh, the fun she'd had driving Orville home at a fast clip before the roast beef sandwiches cooled off. The wind had been warm, tree leaves were just slight buds of color against the white-cloud sky and the sun had struggled through by the time she reached home.
Recalling how Samantha had tumbled out the door, so busy with her letter writing to all her friends and family back home, where she lived with their parents, that she'd stolen a package of stationary she'd been waiting on out of the bag of purchases and took the food to heat up.
It had gotten cold, after all.
There was no way for her to have known that in less than seven hours she would have an injured man in her guest bedroom, where her parents stayed when they oh, so frequently visited.
Skye filled two water cups from the pitcher, standing in the lamplight's glow. Fear for Brennan still pounded through her.
They'd hauled him into the house, Claude took off for the doc and she'd been relieved to finally see the stranger's wound in the lamplight. Not a grave injury, but he'd been hurt enough.
She could still feel how hard adrenaline had rattled through her as she'd pressed a towel against the bullet wound in his upper arm. She'd been afraid, fearing for his well-being. It has been only a handful of minutes, for the doc lived just down the road, before he'd burst through the doorway with medical bag in hand.
Starlight glowed on the back of the closed curtains, adding a silvery sheen to the lamplight in the bedroom. Her shoes rang in the silence as she paced toward the bed. Brennan slept beneath the quilt, his raspy breathing was a reassurance that everything would be fine.
Sprawled on his back, he dominated her attention and seemed to pull all the light from the room. The doctor had removed the bullet, stitched up the wound and done a perfect job.
He'd promised to get ahold of the sheriff about what had happened, although Claude had already informed him.
What was going to happen next? Troubled, she sat down in the bedside chair and set one of the cups on the nightstand, wishing she could say this would turn out well. She worried about Brennan.
And doubted she would stop.
He'd taken a bullet on her property. A bullet. That meant she was responsible for him. Why had Judson and his friends been on her ranch? She thought of the recent break ins in the barn, just two, and Orville's upset.
Her chest felt tight as she listened to Brennan breathe. Slow, deep, rhythmic. At least it hadn't been a chest wound. He lay so still, as if in deep sleep. His face, so relaxed, showed a kind of noble quality that she hadn't noticed before.
But it showed plainly now. Her fingers wanted to reach out and touch him. She couldn't explain the swift longing.
His face was ashen, not flushed. That meant no fever. That was a relief. She did her best not to admire his handsome features: high intelligent forehead, sculpted cheekbones and a straight slope of a nose.
A day's growth shadowed his jawline and carved chin, making him even more impressively masculine as the golden light washed over him, caressing him in a way her fingers itched to.
Good thing she held back. She curled her fingers upward, making two fists. Best not to touch him, she thought. He would never be hers, so it was only smart to stay reserved.
The faint bong of the mantel clock downstairs announced the hour. One o'clock.
She'd been here a long time. Her mouth tasted like sand, so she lifted her cup and took a sip. The cool water sluiced across her tongue and rolled down her throat.
She swallowed again, feeling the cold all the way to her stomach and shivered. If she would have been smart, she should have left the fire burning downstairs to heat the house.
Who knew that she would decide to stay up? The doc hadn't said Brennan needed careful, bedside tending, just a check on now and again until the laudanum wore off around morning.
She set down the mug, unable to forget the coward's way Judson had chosen when he'd slinked off into
the night.
She wrapped her arms around her middle, finding no comfort. She really should get on her feet and scoot down the hall to her bedroom. Her warm, comfortable and cozy bed awaited her, but the dark of night no longer felt friendly. And for some reason, she didn't want to be alone.
For some reason, she felt content here at his side. Safe. As if the darkness that had lurked outside, at the moment she'd heard the gun fire, would never return again.
She heard the faint whoo-whoo-whooing of an owl from the stand of aspens along the edge of the lawn. If she waited long enough, she heard the more distant call of a coyote out on the high rolling foothills.
She missed the sounds of the daytime when birdsong serenaded her throughout the day and the muffled whoosh of a horse's breath would accent the sounds of their grazing.
She liked to look out the window at the horses in their safe, wooden-fenced paddock. There were her dreams, and in the emptiness, as well.
She wanted more horses. But she couldn't say exactly how that would turn out now that she had such trouble finding a good, quality horseman to hire. And men after her stallion.
She cut her gaze to the man sound asleep in the bed in front of her. He'd turned down her offer of employment. She kept one ear to the window, since she was up, listening for regular nighttime sounds in reassurance.
The owl silenced. The coyote's song ended. Veiled moonlight crept around the edges of the curtain panels, calling to her. Then the quiet drum of distant thunder had her hopping to her feet, silent as a wraith, and whisking to the window.
I see them, the mustangs! Her heart leaped at the shadowed smudge of movement against the background of black and iridescent darkness from the light above.
A distant blur of movement grabbed her attention and awe filled her, as it always did. Which herd would it be? The black stallion's? The paint? Or the white stallion?
She felt sheer wonder at the beauty of the running horses and curiosity about what had spurred them into a night run. The shadowed stallion, black, led the small band toward the eastern reaches of her unfenced ranch and kept on running. They were poetry and masterpiece against the background of meadow and mountain, moon and starry skies.
