Wildflower

by Lynda Bailey

  “You ready to go?”

  Logan’s voice wrenched her thoughts back to the present. She looked at him and two furrows of concern appeared in the space between his eyebrows.

  “Everything all right, Matt?”

  “Everything’s fine,” she answered briskly. She picked up her plate and cup, depositing them in the wash bucket. She grabbed her coat. “Let’s ride.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Cantering across the prairie, Logan was hard pressed to keep his attention on the ground beneath Sergeant’s hooves and off his wife. She rode beside him, sitting easy in the saddle, her face relaxed, her short hair flowing back. She was so beautiful.

  The weather was again warm and she’d opened her coat. Her fleshy breasts moved in rhythm to the rest of her body. His semi-hard cock pulsed against the saddle horn.

  The memory of those breasts in his hands streamed through his head over and over. Of her rosy nipples. Her moans and whimpers. Her pussy contracting around his fingers.

  God!

  His cock swelled further as his balls tightened. He needed to think about something else. Anything else. Otherwise he’d do permanent damage to himself.

  Last night, he’d taken the first step toward convincing his wife she was beautiful. But it was just the first step. Matt was nothing if not stubborn. More time and more effort would be needed before she would truly be “his wife.”

  They crested a small ridge and Williamsville came into view. The expected jumpiness scuttled across his neck, forcing an end to his fantasizing.

  He hated anyplace that held more than a dozen people per five square miles. While a far cry from Philadelphia, Williamsville stood on a major stage line, had a mercantile, a telegraph office and ground was being broken for a new hotel.

  Situated between the Red River and Choctaw Indian land, the area boasted some of the best grazing ground, stretching as far as the eye could see. That, combined with plentiful water, had many settlers passing through on their way further west deciding to stay. Much to Logan’s displeasure.

  Though Williamsville had a sheriff, a lawless attitude prevailed. Many of the businesses had hired professional gunmen for security. And the rise in rustling didn’t help deter the trend.

  Suddenly Sergeant whinnied and pulled up short. Logan leaped from the saddle and lifted his horse’s left rear hoof.

  “What happened?” Matt asked, dismounting.

  “He’s thrown a shoe.” He rubbed a hand up the animal’s leg then patted his flank. “This muddy trail pulled it clean off.” He looked at the horizon then at her. “Think your pony can handle carrying my extra weight? Otherwise, I’m stuck waiting for Chuck and Dave in the wagon.”

  “It’s not that far. You could always walk.”

  Her impish tease garnered a mock frown. “You’re not that cussied mean, are you? Bad enough I’d have to ride in the back of that rattling buckboard.”

  She rolled her eyes. “All right, fine.”

  She swung back onto Turk and inched forward as far as the saddle horn would allow. He stuck his foot in the empty stirrup and hefted himself up behind her, worming into the saddle as best he could.

  Even through the layers of denim material, her butt cheeks pressed against his cock. It hardened more. She sat ramrod straight in the saddle like she feared touching him. In one hand, he held Sergeant’s reins and placed his other on her hip to steady himself. She clucked her tongue and Turk lurched forward.

  She kept her horse at a slow plod and the rhythmic pushing thrust of Turk’s movement reminded him of making love. Of his hips pushing forward. Of sinking into her body then pulling back. His palm tingled to slip up her body. To mold around a breast and tweak a nipple. Bring her back flush to his chest.

  He gritted his teeth together. This was torture, pure and simple. Thank God, the town wasn’t that far with the livery on the near end. She pulled to a stop at the corral and he slid off Turk’s rump.

  He placed a hand across her thigh and smiled up at her. Her eyelids were hooded and her breathing choppy. It appeared he hadn’t been the only one affected by them riding double.

  The blacksmith walked up to them. “Morning, folks.”

  Logan cleared his throat. “Morning, Gus.” He tied Sergeant’s reins to the corral and gave his attention to the stocky, bald man. Gus might not have any hair on his head, but he had more than his share on his face. “My horse threw a shoe a ways back.”

  The big man hunkered down and lifted one rear leg then the other. He unbent himself. “When’s the last time he was shod?”

  Logan rubbed the back of his hand across the back of his neck. “End of last summer.”

  Gus nodded. “I’ll need to do the right one as well. It’s ‘bout ready to come off, too. Can have ‘em ready to go in about an hour.”

  “Good. See you in an hour.”

  He waited for Matt dismount. While she tied Turk next to Sergeant, he loosened the cinch on each horse. Side by side, they headed across the street to the bank.

  Logan led the way up the three steps to the door then held it open for her. Puzzlement knitted her brow. With an encouraging smile, he placed a hand on her lower back to urge her inside. After a brief hesitation, she entered ahead of him.

  A heavy wood counter stood to one side of the room with three jail-like cubicles behind. Each cubicle hosted an immaculately dressed man in a high-buttoned, white shirt and black bowtie. On the opposite side, lounging against the wall were two rough looking gunslingers.

  Apprehension wiggled up Logan’s spine at the six-shooters hanging low on their hips. He realized they were security for the bank, but kept an eye on them anyway as he took Matt’s elbow and waited in line for the next available clerk.

  “I tell ya it’s the Choctaw that’s doing all this here rustling,” a bow-legged rancher ahead of them said around a mouthful of tobacco to his companion. “At this rate, nary a single beeve’ll be left by August.” He spat into a spittoon. “The army needs to come in and clean up the mess.”

  “Well, I ain’t waiting on no army,” the other man stated. “I’m selling out and heading back to Fort Smith.” The two men continued talking as they walked to an open cage.

  Logan shook his head. Only idiots believed the Choctaw were responsible for the recent increase in rustling. It didn’t make sense that the peaceful, agricultural tribe would abruptly turn into marauders. They were always given a percentage of the local herds as grazing fee for use of their land.

  A woman with two children finished her business and Logan guided Matt forward. “Can I help you?” the clerk asked.

  “We need to see Mr. Goldwater,” Logan replied.

  “One moment.”

  The clerk slid from his stool and walked to the other side of the bank. He spoke to a man, not the bank manager, sitting behind a big desk. Immediately the seated man swiveled his head to stare at him and Matt. He then stood and accompanied the clerk back to them.

  Suspicion inched along Logan’s neck. The man striding toward them was tall and wiry with the grandiose stature of a big man in charge of something small.

  “I’m Jules Dobson, assistant manager. Mr. Goldwater is home sick today.” He extended his hand.

  Logan shook his hand. “Name’s Cartwright. You’re new here, right?”

  “Yes, I just moved from Fort Smith last month.”

  “Well, welcome to Williamsville. This is my wife.” Logan inclined his head toward Matt.

  Dobson gave Matt a single, up and down assessing glance over his glasses, his hooked nose wrinkling with an overt, dismissing sniff. Logan’s hands clenched into tight fists, ready to give this dandy a lesson about disrespecting a man’s wife. Matt must have sensed his intent because she rested her hand on his arm.

  “How can I help you, Mr. Cartwright?” Dobson asked.

  Logan allowed his wife’s touch to quiet his temper. “Gene Townsend passed recently and the Standing T deed needs to be changed.”

  “Townsend died? When?”

 
Logan scowled at Dobson’s pleased tone. “Three days ago and, like I said, we’re here to change the deed.”

  “Of course,” the manager said, a bit too jolly, rubbing his hands together. “I’ll need to see Mr. Townsend’s will, stating whom he left the ranch to and then I can change the deed.”

  Logan took the paper Doc Bingham had written up before Gene died and gave it to Dobson. The banker gave it the briefest of glances. “This isn’t a last will and testament.”

  “What difference does that make?”

  Dobson handed the paper back. “In order for there to be a transfer of ownership, I need a legal last will and testament, written by a lawyer. I’m sorry, but this simply won’t do.”

  Logan narrowed his eyes. This vulture looked anything but sorry. “I don’t know how things are done in Fort Smith, Dobson, but here in Indian Territory we don’t have the luxury of lawyers. Gene’s wishes are spelled out and that’s his signature.”

  “Yes, but how do I know this is really Mr. Townsend’s signature? How do I know you didn’t wrangle the ranch away from him.”

  “You know because I’m telling you. If you don’t want to believe me, Doc Bingham was the witness.”

  Dobson shook his head. “I’m sorry, but my hands are tied. Without a legal document, and barring any living relative, the ranch will be sold at auction.”

  “There is a living relative,” Matt interjected. “Me.”

  Dobson looked at her. “You?” Scorn dripped off the single word.

  Logan saw red. This boot-licker was about to get a face full of fist, no matter Matt’s hand restrained his arm. He stepped to within a horse’s hair of Dobson’s face causing his eyes to bug from his face.

  Though nearly the same height, Dobson lacked any girth. Logan towered over the vulture watching, with satisfaction, as the blood drain from the banker’s pinched face. “That’s right. This is Gene’s daughter and my wife. Now apologize for your rude behavior.”

  It took Dobson several tries to swallow before he coughed, hard. “Uh, well, my apologies, Mrs. Cartwright. And condolences on your father’s passing.”

  Logan eased back and shifted his gaze to Matt. Startled surprise gleamed in her eyes as she stared at him, a flush on her cheeks.

  Her lashes lowered. “Apology accepted,” she murmured. “Thank you.”

  The banker coughed again. “Yes, well.” He stepped to the side. “If you’ll come with me, we can discuss your business.”

  Logan placed his hand to Matt’s lower back to move her ahead of him. Dobson put up his hand. “I believe this is a matter for us to discuss, Mr. Cartwright.”

  Logan was fast losing patience with the man. If Matt hadn’t been in front of him, he would have torn the prick’s little head off. “Her father. His ranch. My wife. Enough said.” He propelled Matt to Dobson’s desk and waited for her to sit before taking the chair next to her.

  The banker slunk to his chair across the polished wood surface of his desk then spent several minutes organizing the neat papers on top. Logan fought his impatience. He propped an ankle on the opposite knee and growled under his breath. Matt tapped his arm and he looked at her.

  The shy smile on her lips diffused his ire. It was the kind of smile that made him damn glad she was his wife. He hitched up his lips in response.

  “So.” Dobson’s grating voice brought their attention back. He sat with his hands folded on the desk. “I imagine the pain of losing Mr. Townsend has been difficult.”

  Neither Matt nor Logan said anything as the banker regarded them over his glasses.

  “Perhaps the best thing to do,” he continued in a tone too syrupy for Logan to stomach, “is sell the ranch. Go somewhere new. Away from the painful memories of Mr. Townsend’s death.”

  “Sell the ranch?” Logan echoed.

  “Yes.” Dobson again sifted through the paper stacks. “It might be the prudent thing to do as well, considering the rustling trouble of late. And of course there’s outstanding promissory note.”

  “What outstanding note?”

  “Mr. Townsend borrowed five hundred dollars a year ago, but only paid back three hundred. The other two hundred, along with the three percent interest, is due by the end of the summer.” Dobson’s thin lips turned up in a sickly excuse of a smile. “Selling would alleviate any further financial trouble for you.”

  Logan bit the inside of his cheek. Sell the ranch? His first reaction to the suggestion roiled through his insides. But now that he thought about it. Really thought about it…

  If he sold, he could use the money to take Matt anywhere she wanted. They could start over. Together. With nothing hanging over their heads. The idea appealed to him almost to the point where his gut didn’t churn at the thought of losing the ranch.

  But would she be willing to go with him to start fresh? She could very well vamoose for Kansas City without so much as a good-bye. He rubbed his palm across his chin.

  No. It was too big of a risk to sell. He had three months to sway Matt’s feelings toward him. He wouldn’t give up that opportunity.

  He opened his mouth to say no, but Dobson spoke first. “I would pay you a hundred dollars, clear, for the ranch.”

  Logan damn near swallowed his tongue. A hundred dollars? That’s all? Promissory note or not, the Standing T was worth a helluva lot more than that. Before he could tell Dobson where to stick his offer, Matt stood.

  “The Standing T isn’t for sale.” Her hard gaze stared down on Dobson, her plump lips pulled into a tight line. “It was my father’s ranch,” she continued. “His dream. I just lost him. I won’t lose the ranch, too. It’s not for sale. Not now. Not ever. And definitely not for a paltry hundred dollars.”

  Dobson huffed. “That’s a hundred dollars after I take care of the note.” He looked at Logan. “Mr. Cartwright, I strongly encourage you to consider what I’m proposing.”

  “Nothing to consider. You heard my wife.” He urged her back into her chair. “The ranch isn’t for sale.”

  “This is an unwise decision. In August Mr. Townsend’s promissory note comes due. Two hundred dollars is a steep amount of money.”

  Logan shrugged. “That’ll be after the stock yard sale in Abilene. We shouldn’t have any trouble paying the bank back.”

  Dobson narrowed his squinty eyes. “A lot can happen between then and now.”

  A deathly quiet came over Logan. “Is that a threat?”

  The banker cleared his throat and tugged at his necktie. “Of course not.”

  Logan drilled his gaze into Dobson. “Good. Now we need to have the names changed on the deed from Gene Townsend to Logan and Matilda Cartwright.”

  A tiny squeak of a gasp escaped his wife’s lips. He slid his gaze over and took her hand in his. She tensed and pulled away, but he held firm. Social sensibilities frowned on a man and woman touching in public, even if they were married. He could have cared less. Not taking his eyes off Matt, he said, “Now, about that deed, Dobson…”

  The heavy mahogany desk moved a full two inches when the banker shoved to his feet. He wordlessly glared down at them before stomping away. He and Matt watched him. When she looked back, laughter danced in her green eyes.

  “Think Mr. Dobson is upset?” she asked on a half-giggle.

  “I know he is. And I don’t care.” He brought her hand to his lips and kissed the back.

  She glanced nervously around the bank. “Logan,” she admonished. “Someone might see.”

  “Again, I don’t care.” He shifted closer, his voice lowering. “Wanna know where else I’d like to kiss you?”

  The prettiest blush stole up her face.

  “I’d start with your lips because they are the tastiest things I’ve ever tasted.”

  “Shh. Someone might hear.”

  “After I get done kissing your lips for all their worth, I’d move to your chin and neck. Maybe nibble an ear.”

  “Shh!”

  “Then I’d open your shirt and kiss a path down those to pearly ni
p—”

  Matt slapped her free hand over his mouth, her cheeks now a crimson red. He just winked and began licking her palm.

  Her eyes widened and desire plunged into the green depths. Her breathing went shallow. By the time he’d worked his way down to the tips of her fingers, he was panting as well. With a final kiss to her little finger, he took her hand away. “Wait until tonight, Mrs. Cartwright. I’m gonna kiss every inch of your body. That’s a promise.”

  Her eyes, large and luminescent, flitted from his gaze as her delicate throat struggled to swallow. Logan fought to cool his raging prick. If he didn’t, standing would be difficult and walking down right impossible. He studied her small hands in his larger ones, running his thumbs over her knuckles, suddenly somber. “About the ranch, Matt. I appreciate what you said, but if you change your mind—”

  “I won’t.”

  His head snapped up. “But if we sell, you’d get at least some money to go to Kansas City. Though Dobson only offered a hundred, I have another fifty. It’s not a lot, but—”

  “Are you trying to get rid of me?” She smiled at the tease, but worry also framed her expression.

  He shook his head. “Of course not.”

  “Then I’m staying. I said I’d would and I will.” Her gaze shifted to the banker as the vulture approached. “Besides, Pa wanted you to have the ranch, not someone else, and certainly not for a hundred dollars. You’ll make the Standing T the success my father always dreamed it could be.”

  Before he could say that they’d make the ranch that success, Dobson resumed his seat. Agitation rolled off his scrawny shoulders. “We can’t seem to locate the current deed,” he stated.

  Both Matt and Logan jerked upright. “What does that mean?” they demanded in unison.

  “Just what I said,” Dobson replied in terse tone. “We’ll have to send to the federal office in Fort Smith. All copies of land ownership for this area are kept there.”

  “How long will it take to get a copy here?” Logan asked.

  Dobson picked up a pen, dunked it in an inkwell and began scratching on a pad of paper. “I’m sending a telegraph this afternoon. It might take a month. Maybe five weeks.”