Love on the Range

by Mary Connealy

  “I’ll be right back with fresh bread and warm broth.”

  “I would greatly appreciate that.”

  She patted him on his good shoulder and ran out of the room. Whether to escape the embarrassing situation of waking up in his arms or because she was hustling to give him whatever he needed, it didn’t matter. Both left him oddly cheerful, and there wasn’t much cheerful that’d gone on around here lately.

  And he had no intention of staying still.

  Wyatt sat up slowly. He found he wasn’t really tied down, just bound tightly to his own body. He was careful not to move his strapped-down arm. He found his thoughts turning . . . buzzy. Like a swarm of bees filled his head. His vision did something weird, something that was darker and darker. Using his good arm, he leaned back a bit and braced himself. If he passed out, he wanted to fall backward onto the bed, not forward onto the floor. That couldn’t be good for what ailed him.

  His vision went so far down that road to darkness he thought he was going to fall over, then it stopped getting worse and began to clear. The room came slowly back to its normal sunlit self. The buzzing eased, then faded.

  All he wanted was a good, hearty drink of water, and he wanted to slip into the closet, where they kept a chamber pot.

  Gripping the head of his bed tightly, he stood, testing his strength with every move. He wasn’t being careless or reckless. But a few things a man needed to tend to for himself if at all possible.

  When he was sure his legs would hold him, he walked, leaning when he could, into the closet. He was out quick, not wanting Molly to catch him.

  He stopped by the water pitcher. His hand trembled as he poured a full cup of water and gulped it down. It stuffed his belly full to bursting. He tottered back to the bed and sat down, then lay down, feeling smug that he’d gotten away with something before his eagle-eyed doctor got back.

  He heard Molly on the stairs, and she appeared, still a bit pink cheeked, with a tray holding a bowl and some bread. He smelled the soup before he saw it.

  “I have a chicken soup for you. Mostly broth but a bit of chicken and vegetables so you can, I hope, regain your strength.” She pulled a chair close and laid a napkin on his chest, then held out the bowl and handed him the spoon. He felt an odd twinge of pride that she was going to let him feed himself instead of trying to spoon the soup in herself, like a mother would a child.

  He sat up straight and ate half the bowl before he had to stop. “I want the rest, but I need to let this settle.”

  “You’d have had room for more if you hadn’t gotten up and had all that water.” She arched her brows at him.

  For just one second, he felt like a naughty schoolboy, and he remembered she’d been a schoolteacher. No doubt able to see through floors and walls and read minds, as well.

  “Yes, I did. And used the . . . ahem . . . that is, I needed a necessary bit of privacy. I was cautious, made sure my head was clear before I stood.”

  She smiled. “And you’re a strong man, an adult, fully capable of making such a decision for yourself. No need to sneak, and I appreciate it that you didn’t try and lie to me.”

  “You’ve got a scolding tone that you use very well. It reminds me of the teacher I had.”

  “Oh, you had a pretty young teacher who cared for you and watched over you? A woman you liked and respected?” Molly sounded doubtful.

  “I had an old bat who never had a kind word to say and could tear the bark off a tree when she was correcting you.”

  Molly looked a little hurt.

  Which only made it more fun to go on. “I’m lucky I got through a single day without a whack or two with a ruler.”

  “No doubt you deserved it.” She squared her shoulders. “Well, there’ll be no ruler whacking in this house, nor in my school.”

  She leaned closer to him. “No matter how badly you deserve it.”

  Wyatt lay back as Molly set the soup aside. “Can you tell me what’s been going on around here? Is Cheyenne really married?”

  “They aren’t back from town yet, but they rode off with that intention. So I imagine by now they are.”

  Wyatt’s hazel eyes met hers. “When did that happen? I know I’ve been busy with branding, but you’d think I’d’ve noticed my sister and a man becoming . . . attached to each other.” He shook his head.

  “I never saw it coming with Kevin and Win.” Molly told him about the betrayal of RHR hired hand Jeff Wells. He didn’t remember that.

  “He didn’t have good cowhand skills. But I gave him a chance. I thought I was doing a good thing.”

  She talked about the Pinkerton agent and the search for Amelia Bishop.

  “I missed all of that,” Wyatt said. “Who is Amelia Bishop, and what is a Pinkerton agent?”

  Molly explained to the extent she knew. “I’ve spent a lot of time tending you. I’ve missed plenty of what’s going on, too. They’ve found more stolen cattle. Another whole pasture of them besides the ones that’d been stolen from the RHR and the Hawkins Ranch.”

  “I’m starting to remember some of this.”

  “Do you remember that a man from each of the area ranches was among the outlaw band?”

  Wyatt thought hard but shook his head.

  “It seems there were conspiratorial plans to kill the owners of each ranch and take possession of them. They had a decent chance with Oliver Hawkins, a man alone and no gunman. And possibly with Roger Hanson.”

  Wyatt interrupted, “Hanson’s as tough as they come.”

  “But one man alone, Cheyenne said. It would only work if his hired hands didn’t back him, and it sounds like his gunman was in on the plot.”

  “And Judd Black Wolf? He’s as mean as a rabid badger and a knowing man. He wouldn’t have men on his ranch that would betray him.”

  “It sounds like they were just conspiring to rustle cattle at first. But when all this turmoil happened on the RHR, they got ambitious. They thought if they struck hard and fast, they might pull it off. But they are fools, and now two of them are dead fools. Cheyenne and Falcon followed Percy Ralston, and he led them to his band of outlaws. The men had given up on taking the ranches and were making a break for it with their stolen cattle. Cheyenne and Falcon stopped them. They’re straightening this all up with the sheriff right now.”

  “Before the wedding.”

  Molly nodded.

  Wyatt had plenty of questions, and Molly answered what she could. When Wyatt thought he was hearing things he already knew, he paused. “What else has happened around here?”

  Molly shrugged. “I can’t think of anything more, but a lot of this has been going on with me too busy to pay it much mind.”

  Wyatt reached his working right hand up and gently touched his left shoulder. “So then, who shot me? That’s about the end of what I remember. I think we were believing it to be Hobart before Cheyenne took off and captured all those outlaws.”

  “Did you miss the part where Falcon caught Hobart sneaking into our house in the dark of night? It looked like she was coming to finish the killing she’d started.”

  “I might’ve slept through that.”

  “I came up and distracted you to keep you from noticing. Hobart convinced Cheyenne she hadn’t been the one to take the shot. She was spying on Hawkins because she’d been hired to find Amelia Bishop—who’d been missing for a long time. Hobart expected she was dead, but her father is a powerful man and wanted answers. And Ralston was tied up, so he’s not who shot you.”

  “One of Ralston’s outlaw band must’ve done it.”

  “Must have. But two of them are dead, Ralston one of them, and they haven’t got a confession out of anyone yet. Maybe Cheyenne will pound one out of someone before her wedding.”

  Wyatt had to be satisfied with that. For now.

  Molly helped him eat the rest of the soup, and he ate a slice of bread and drank more water.

  “I feel like I’ve got some energy from the food. My arm hurts like mad, and it’s useless, but
the rest of me is feeling decent. In fact, I’m feeling mighty good.”

  “Your fever has come up and gone down a few times. But you’ve never been this clearheaded nor shown any interest in eating.” With a pleased nod, she said, “You’re on the mend, Wyatt.”

  “Can I come downstairs?” He cringed a little because it sounded like he was asking permission. This was his ranch. He ran it. No one told him what he could and could not do. Except maybe his doctor.

  “Are you willing to wait until one of the men comes back? I think you should come down. You’re up to it, and it might do you some good to get out of bed for a while. But a fall down the stairs might be very serious, and you’ve only one arm to steady you.”

  She smiled and batted her eyelashes at him as if, instead of giving orders, she was trying to sweet-talk him into it. He had the sense that she was mocking him, or at least being some odd kind of flirting girl, only sarcastic under it. But it didn’t stop him from doing what she wanted.

  Truth was, with those pretty blue eyes batting at him, there weren’t many orders he wouldn’t take from this bossy woman.

  And he didn’t want to fall down the stairs, either.

  “I’ll wait.”

  Molly stood and reached for the tray and the empty dishes.

  Without really thinking, Wyatt reached out and caught hold of her wrist. She stopped and looked at him.

  “What is it? Do you need something more? You’ve only to ask.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You saved me, Molly.”

  A pink blush rose on her cheeks. “You’re a strong man, Wyatt. You were always going to make it.”

  His grip tightened. “Don’t dismiss what you’ve done for me. I appreciate it. I know you . . . you . . . well, you fell asleep beside me. . . .” He hadn’t meant to bring that up. Clearing his throat, he forged on. “You fell asleep out of pure exhaustion. Yes, maybe I’d’ve healed up all on my own if they’d’ve just tossed me on a bed and gone on about their business, chasing outlaws and getting married, but . . .”

  Her hand came and rested over his where he held on. “Doctoring you needed doing, and I knew what to do. If I lessened your suffering—”

  “Or did things that’ll help my arm heal straight.”

  She nodded. “Then it was my pleasure to do it, Wyatt. I’m glad you’re feeling better.”

  For one second, one lunatic second, his hand drew her forward. She didn’t seem averse to being drawn.

  Then he realized his focus was on her lips. His memory was of her in his arms. That wasn’t what he should be thinking of. That was no way for a man to truly thank a woman for her care.

  He let her go, and she straightened, her hand rubbing her wrist where he’d held her. The color in her cheeks going from pink to rose.

  “I’ll send someone up for you as soon as they get home. Maybe you could get in a bit more sleep.” She snatched up the tray and left so quickly it could almost be described as running away.

  He smiled as he watched her leave. Then his smile faded. With a full belly and his head clear for the first time in a long while, he settled in to figuring out who’d tried to kill him.

  Three

  Falcon Hunt stepped into Sheriff Corly’s office with three women in tow.

  Every single one of them more bloodthirsty than he was.

  Strange feeling.

  Amelia Bishop, who’d shot one of the dead men, Norm Mathers. She hadn’t killed him, but she’d opened the ball, taking the first shot. And she’d winged him a couple of times, which sent him to shooting wild. And it looked like in his aimless shooting, Mathers had killed Percival Ralston.

  Cheyenne, who’d taken the killing shot at Mathers, though not for lack of trying on Amelia’s part. But Amelia was shooting with more rage than aim.

  And the Pinkerton agent, Rachel Hobart, a cool, ruthless character if ever Falcon saw one. Hobart wanted out. She wanted to take her found-alive missing person back to Minnesota, wherever that was. Hobart probably had cash money to collect for the job.

  Most everyone involved in the search—Amelia’s pa, the state senator; her brother, the army general; and Hobart herself—had figured Amelia for dead, so taking her home alive and well, even if killin’ mad, would make Hobart a hero.

  Falcon led the three women in, hoping to make this quick because the woman who’d actually killed a man had agreed to marry up with him as soon as they were done.

  And then it got complicated.

  Oliver Hawkins showed up.

  Falcon knew Hawkins had asked Cheyenne to marry him. She’d been sorely tempted when she lost her ranch.

  Amelia, then later Hobart, had been his housekeepers, though Hobart had been what she called undercover. It sounded like the woman was a liar for a living, but she seemed to have no problem with that. Falcon decided to let that be between her and God and didn’t bother fretting.

  Hawkins strode into the jailhouse like a proud banty rooster. His eyes went straight to Amelia Bishop. “Amelia, where have you been? What is going on?”

  With a quick look between the sheriff, Hobart, Falcon, and Cheyenne—looking for safety, Falcon reckoned—Amelia moved to hide behind Cheyenne. Good choice.

  But the woman looked plumb scared. There was no sign of the bloodthirsty woman she’d been in the canyon.

  “Don’t you come near me, you foul, lecherous beast.” Her voice was high-strung, a woman near terror.

  Cheyenne’s eyes narrowed at that. Amelia had said she’d run away from Hawkins with Percy Ralston because she didn’t like her boss, but she’d never said just why.

  Falcon wasn’t sure what a lecherous beast was, but it sounded mighty bad.

  He shifted so he stood shoulder to shoulder with Cheyenne. He was inclined to hate Hawkins just ’cuz he’d proposed to Cheyenne. If Amelia hated him, then Falcon would stand between Hawkins and her.

  Cheyenne edged right next to Falcon, which was mighty nice. She whispered, “What’s a lecherous beast?”

  He glanced sideways at her and shrugged.

  “It sounds mighty bad.”

  Falcon thought he and his feisty little Cheyenne were going to be about the happiest married folks who’d ever lived.

  Cheyenne went back to standing straight, scowling at Hawkins. “We found Amelia. She’d run off with Ralston and married him. Now she’s going home to her father.”

  “But, Amelia,” Hawkins pleaded. “You were the best housekeeper I’ve ever had. I want you to stay with me.”

  “No, absolutely not. Cheyenne, don’t let him touch me,” Amelia whimpered.

  Hobart came over and stood beside Cheyenne. “He will touch you only over my dead body, Amelia. You don’t have to be afraid anymore.”

  While the women handled Hawkins, Falcon wondered if the two men left of the gang would be hanged. The outlaws had done a lot of trying and failing when it came to murder, and it was hard to say just who’d pulled the trigger on Wyatt.

  But cattle rustling was a hanging offense, wasn’t it? And they were all guilty of that. And which of them had shot Wyatt? He looked hard in the cell. Trying to judge. If they were smart, and there was no sign they were, as being a thieving rustler was, at its very root, stupid, they’d blame it on one of the dead guys.

  “Amelia doesn’t want to be a housekeeper anymore, Hawkins.” Hobart spoke loud and clear. More sensible than any of them, it seemed. Being ruthless was helping her keep her head. “She wants to return to her father and stay with him.”

  “But Amelia—”

  “Enough, Hawkins,” Sheriff Corly interrupted. “Your housekeepers have both quit. You need to stop intruding when we’ve got prisoners to hang.”

  “Hey, I didn’t hurt anyone. I didn’t even belong to this gang when they were stealing cattle.” Jeff Wells from the RHR was a weakling.

  Falcon considered him for a bit. Weaklings were often willing to do plenty of talking when a noose was mentioned. Maybe he knew who’d shot Wyatt.

  Cheyenne quit protectin
g Amelia, which wasn’t a real big job. It was unlikely Hawkins was going to hurt her or drag her out of here with—Falcon counted quick—six witnesses, including the sheriff. He probably shouldn’t count the outlaws locked up, but anyhow, there were plenty of folks who’d step in if Hawkins so much as touched her amiss.

  Falcon sure wondered what it was that Hawkins had done to set Amelia so hard against him. He’d noticed Win didn’t like her pa, either. Falcon intended to find out what was going on.

  Cheyenne said, “Drag Wells out of there, Sheriff. I want to talk to him away from Bender.”

  Corly moved fast. Maybe he thought it was a good idea, or maybe he just knew he had a dangerous woman on his hands.

  Sonny Bender, the other survivor of yesterday’s shootout, shouted, “Wells, you’ll keep your mouth shut, or you’ll be sorry.”

  “I’ve got two cells. I’ll put you in one of your own.” Sheriff Corly had a firm grip on Wells, who showed no sign of resisting. Everyone but Bender went outside.

  They were far enough from Corly’s door not to hear the yelling anymore when a man galloped in with five riders. The leader looked like every other cowboy except his short hair, which only showed around his ears, was midnight black, his eyes black as coal. His skin a shade that didn’t come from any suntan.

  He swung down off his horse with a move Falcon swore to himself he’d learn. As graceful and powerful as a big, dangerous wildcat.

  “Judd? Judd Black Wolf?” Cheyenne had thought she might see Judd before this was over. She was surprised how nice it was to see the kid—though he definitely wasn’t a kid anymore.

  The fierce look on the man’s face faded and turned into a smile. “Yep, and you’re Cheyenne Brewster from the RHR? I haven’t seen you in years.”

  Cheyenne strode forward and stuck out her hand. Judd grabbed it and just held it. They’d had enough in common back in the day, with Indian blood flowing in their veins in a world being conquered by the white man, that she’d always felt a strong connection to him.

  “You found cattle stolen from my place?”

  “I was in on finding it.” She quickly ran through enough of what had been going on, then she jerked her head at Falcon, who’d come up beside her. “He helped. We’ve got Sonny Bender locked up inside.”