He felt another tug on his pant leg.
Hazel’s liquid brown eyes stared up at him. “Do you have any food at your camp?”
John’s throat tightened. His whole life he’d been surrounded by the suffocating pressure of family. But he’d never gone to bed hungry.
And he’d never been homeless. “When was the last time any of you ate?”
Hazel shrugged.
John studied each of the girls in turn, their personalities already forming in his mind. Sarah kept her face downcast, as though asking for help was an imposition. Tony met his questioning gaze straight on, challenging. Darcy remained hesitant, uncertain, caught between rebellion and desperation.
Moira’s eyes haunted him most of all. A curious shade of pale blue-green, the color of the tinted glass of a mason jar, translucent and ethereal. Hopeless. The foreign emotion resonated in his heart. You couldn’t mourn for something you’d never had. What had Moira hoped for, and lost? She hadn’t hoped for someone like him, that much was certain. She’d made her disdain of him apparent. Yet the desolate look in her eyes was hauntingly familiar. He’d seen that look once before.
Years ago, Robert had lost his wife during a bank robbery gone sour. He’d never forget the agony his brother had suffered. The pain of loss his niece and nephew had worn from that moment on. The death of their mother had bent them like saplings in the wind. They’d survived the tragedy, but they were irrevocably changed.
Robert had changed, too. He’d been married and widowed young. A man who’d grown old before his time beneath the weight of tragedy. Four years separated the brothers in age, though it might as well have been forty. He couldn’t bridge the chasm between them—because knowing why Robert had changed and getting along with him were different things. After their last fight over how to run the family ranch, John had known he could no longer stay without tearing the rest of the family apart.
He rubbed his forehead. He had enough food back at camp to feed four hungry crewmen. Certainly enough for a few scrawny females.
He was well and truly trapped by his own conscience.
One night, he repeated. What was the harm in sheltering the girls for one night? Yet the past two months had taken its toll on his endurance. Even the most basic problems had multiplied, popping up like wild mushrooms after a spring rain.
Impatient with his indecision, Hazel took his hand. “Why are you taking your cattle for a walk?”
“It’s not a walk,” John patiently explained. “It’s called a drive. I’m driving them to Cimarron Springs.”
“How come?”
“Because I was tired of trying to prove myself,” John grumbled beneath his breath.
Hazel’s innocent questions struck too close to the heart of the matter. He didn’t have any strength left to pretend he didn’t care. Feigned complacency took energy, and he was plum out of flippant answers. Everyone in a family had a role, and John’s role had been determined before he’d toddled off the porch and cut his chin. A scar he still bore. A preconceived legacy he couldn’t shake.
He was the one who dove in headfirst without heeding the dangers. He was the most impulsive of his family, the most easygoing, too, as far as he could tell. Which meant his brothers rarely took his ideas seriously. When he’d declared his intent to purchase his brother Jack’s plot of land in Cimarron Springs and drive his share of the herd north before Kansas closed its borders against longhorns, Robert had scoffed.
You’ll lose your shirt.
John hadn’t lost yet.
He did have an idea how to stop the girls’ incessant questions. “You can stay with me tonight.” A body couldn’t talk while eating. “I’m coming back to town tomorrow. We’ll find help during the day. There’s nothing else we can do this late.”
The relief on their faces disgraced him. “Can any of you ride?”
Tony and Darcy nodded.
Moira shrugged. “Some.”
He’d earlier judged Miss O’Mara’s age as early twenties. Old enough for courting and pretty enough for dozens of marriage proposals. John pictured the girls back home with their giggles and coy smiles. Moira could easily pass for one of those girls. She had a sweet face, pale and round, with a natural dusting of pink on her cheeks. Her lips were full and rose colored, perfect for kissing. But despite the natural innocence nature had bestowed on her face, her eyes held a jarring, world-weary cynicism.
John plucked the hat he’d lost during the fight from the ground and dusted the brim. He slanted a glance at the prone man who lay where Moira’s discarded pitchfork had rendered him senseless. Their pursuer would come to soon enough, and he’d be spitting mad.
They didn’t have much time. “I’ll take you back to my camp. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”
Moira moved protectively before the girls. “Is there anyone at camp besides you?”
“Yes,” John answered truthfully.
She pursed her full lips and he glanced away from the distraction.
Moira tsked. “Then the answer is no. I’ll take care of the girls myself.”
The return of her elusive temper buoyed his spirits. That was more like it. “I’ve got a cook. His name is Pops and I’m pretty sure he’s as old as dirt. And ornery. But he makes good grub.” John laughed drily. “Too bad you weren’t a bunch of boys. I’d hire you on as my new crew and save myself another trip into town.”
His joke fell on deaf ears. A myriad of emotions flitted across Moira’s expressive face. Doubt, hope, fear. She wanted to trust him, she didn’t have much other choice, but he sensed her lack of faith. Not for the first time he wondered about Miss O’Mara’s background. What was her story? She was at once an innocent girl and a jaded woman, and he couldn’t help but wonder what forces had shaped her.
“I’ve got five horses I need delivered back to camp,” John continued. “You’d be helping me out.”
Hazel appeared crestfallen. “If I can’t ride, does that mean I can’t go?”
His heart heavy, John knelt before the little girl. “Of course you can go. You can ride with me.”
He marveled at their expressive personalities. Darcy was petulant and defiant—he’d keep an eye on that one. Sarah was meek, with a thread of steel behind her shy demeanor. Tony pressed her independence, but she wasn’t as brave as she appeared. Nothing prevented Tony from leaving. She’d stayed instead. And Hazel. What kind of heartless person discarded a little girl because of a simple mistake?
John faced Moira, the unspoken leader. Her eyes drooped at the corners and he realized she’d reached the end of her rope.
He knew that feeling well enough. “Trust me.”
Her eyes sparked with emotion. “For tonight,” she replied, her voice a telling mixture of exhaustion and determination. “Just for tonight.”
The kidnapper stirred and groaned. John crossed the distance and looped his arms beneath the prone man’s shoulders. Heels dragging tracks through the dirt floor, he dragged the dead weight into an empty stall. A glint of silver on the man’s coat caught his attention. John flipped the lapel aside and groaned. The silver star knocked the wind from his lungs. The words stamped into the metal flickered in the lamplight: Deputy Sheriff.
John staggered back a few feet and braced his hands on the slatted walls. Hang it all. He’d gone and decked a lawman. A burst of anger flared in his chest. None of this nonsense would have happened if the fool deputy had declared himself a lawman right out. The drunken man had never once identified himself. Pacing the narrow enclosure, John considered his options. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he knew well enough this situation had gone from bad to worse.
His stomach grumbled. Time enough tomorrow for facing the consequences. As hungry as he was, the girls must be ravenous. Sorting out the details when they were all exhausted and near starved would on
ly make matters worse.
He briefly considered waking the deputy before he caught another whiff of the alcohol. Moira and her charges were too vulnerable for a man who was bound to wake up mean. Keeping his gaze averted, John slid shut the stall door and dropped the T-bar into place.
He motioned toward Moira. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
With no other choice but to move forward, John gathered his five horses and had them saddled and ready in short order. Growing wearier by the moment, the girls groggily followed his orders, stifling yawns behind patched-elbow sleeves. Their eyes blinked slower and slower.
While the horses stamped and snorted, he quickly emptied his men’s saddlebags into a burlap sack. When that task was completed, he cinched a rope around the top and placed the belongings with the livery owner for safekeeping.
The elderly man jerked upright from his half doze and accepted the parcel. “Your men ain’t gonna be too happy when they come back and find their mounts gone.”
John braced his knuckles against the doorframe. “They can keep their gear and the pay they earned this far. The horses are mine. They’re well aware of that.”
“You don’t have to convince me.” The livery owner kicked back in his chair and closed his eyes.
John set his jaw. He’d been second-guessed his whole life by his own family, he wasn’t paying a bunch of two-bit cowhands for the privilege.
As the girls clustered in the moonlit corral, John took stock of their attire. Each of the younger girls wore warm coats buttoned to their throats. Not Moira. She wore only her thin cotton dress with its too-short hem—a dress more suited for a sultry summer evening than a crisp fall night. How had she wound up crawling out the window of a brothel? Why had the deputy stashed the girls in such an unlikely place? Snippets of girls’ conversation rattled around his brain.
I was doing fine on my own until I was caught...
I got sloppy...
I only wanted an apple...
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too weary for the answer. Too cowardly to face what his questions might uncover. Tomorrow would come soon enough. He’d get his answers then. None of them appeared injured, at least not physically, which meant any questions he had could wait. A good night’s sleep would make the reckoning that much easier.
Moira blinked at his lengthy silence.
John tilted his head and considered Miss O’Mara. The more time he spent with her, the more he realized she wasn’t like the girls back at home at all. She didn’t fill the silence with chatter. She hadn’t asked for anything. Not food or help or even money. Certainly money would solve their most pressing problems. The fact remained, she hadn’t asked and he wouldn’t offer. He’d accepted responsibility only for their safety, at least for this evening. A guarantee he planned on keeping.
A light mist gathered on Moira’s eyelashes, sparkling like tears in the moonlight. A delicate shiver fluttered down her arms. He realized she’d been holding herself rigidly, hiding her discomfort.
Feeling like a first-rate heel for letting her suffer in the chill night air, John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to her. “Take this.”
She caught the material against her chest with a shake of her head. “I mustn’t,” she protested, but he couldn’t help but note how she clutched the material, her knuckles whitening. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got a slicker in my saddlebags.” Her obvious gratitude roughened his voice. “That’ll be good enough.”
She should have been chastising him, not thanking him. His mother had taught him better. No matter the surroundings or the circumstances, he’d been raised a gentleman.
Moira glanced up shyly, staring at him through the delicate fringe of her eyelashes. She fingered the charred hole in his pocket and a mischievous grin lit her face. “Are you certain you trust me with your best coat?”
Heartened by her teasing, he replied, “Just don’t set it on fire. Again.”
For a moment her guard slipped. She smiled at him, a wide grin that plumped her cheeks and lit her eyes. His heart sputtered, an irregular beat as though it was searching for a new rhythm. Miss O’Mara was beautiful, though not from the perfection of her features. Her lips were too full, her nose too pert for classic beauty—yet her smile was captivating and her eyes tipped and exotic. Her brilliant red hair shimmered in the moonlight, a ruckus of curls tumbling over her shoulders, torn free from its moorings by the night’s activities. She was perfect in her imperfection, and his addled brain grappled with his unexpected fascination.
Worrying that he’d give himself away at any moment, John tore his gaze away and cleared his throat. “We should, uh, the night’s not getting any younger and neither am I.”
Her expression faltered at his abrupt dismissal. As she turned he reached out his arm, then let it drop. It was better she didn’t see him as her rescuer. A misty haze of desolation surrounded her, unsettling his judgment. She’d seen more of the world than was meant for one so young. More of the darkness.
John shook his thoughts back to the task at hand.
Having studied the girls while they saddled the horses, he had a fair idea of their experience. All of his mounts were trained and relatively well mannered. He’d broken them himself. He’d always kept his own horses on the ranch, all of them raised from foals and trained by his own hand. A gentle touch resulted in the best mounts, a theory mocked by many of the ranch hands. He ignored their jeers because his results spoke for themselves. His horses were sought out from Illinois to Nevada. Through his brother Jack’s contacts, he’d even provided trained mounts for the Texas Rangers.
As with all animals, each of them had a personality, and he matched the girls accordingly.
“Mount up,” he ordered, watching them from the corner of his eye.
Tony, the most experienced of the group, effectively scurried into the saddle. John swung up behind Hazel and found the other three standing uncertainly beside their horses.
“Mount up,” he ordered again.
Sarah shifted and spread her hands. “Um. I don’t think I can.”
John paused and assessed the problem. The stirrup hit at her shoulder. Between the height of the saddle and her confining skirts, she was stuck. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Because I don’t usually ride out of a livery at midnight with a bunch of girls, that’s why, he reminded himself. Men, he understood. He’d been raised on a ranch full of men. Women, not so much.
“I’ll help.” John swung off his mount. He touched Hazel’s leg and met her questioning brown eyes. “Wait here and don’t wiggle too much.”
The little girl patted the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Bullhead.”
“How come?”
“Because he’s bullheaded.”
“I don’t like that,” Hazel scowled. “I’ll call him Prince instead. I like that better.” She leaned forward and one of the horse’s ears swiveled in her direction. “You like that better, too, don’t you?”
The horse nickered, as though in approval. Hazel grinned triumphantly. “See? He likes his new name much better, don’t you, Prince?”
Another nicker. John rolled his eyes. “Whatever strikes your fancy.”
Not like the name was going to stick. She could call the horse Pretty Britches for all he cared. By tomorrow evening, he’d have Bullhead back.
A half smile at Hazel’s antics plastered on his face, he gave Darcy and Sarah a leg up, then paused before Moira. She’d reluctantly donned his coat, and the sleeves hung well below her fingertips. Her scent teased his senses and he searched for the elusive source. It was floral, and familiar, inspiring a sense of peace and well-being. He pictured a summer’s day, white moths fluttering above a field of bluebells, a gentle breeze whispering through the grass.
Peonies. That’s w
hat had struck a chord. She smelled like peonies.
He lifted her hand and turned back the cuff, then repeated his action on the other side.
Keeping her eyes narrowed, she remained stubbornly quiet during his ministrations. John recalled what he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He reached out and Moira started. He stilled immediately, then moved more slowly, approaching her as he might a frightened animal—gradually, gently. She was as skittish as a newborn calf. Cautiously reaching into the pocket of his coat, he lifted his hand and revealed the rag doll he’d found earlier.
Moira’s face lit up. “That’s Hazel’s doll! Where did you find it?”
“In the mud beneath the window.”
She took the doll from him, cradling the soft material in her cupped hands. She glanced in the direction of Hazel and Bullhead—newly christened as Prince. The little girl murmured softly, petting its neck. Fascinated with the horse, she certainly wasn’t missing her lost doll.
Moira thoughtfully stroked the braided yarn, absently fingering the hand-sewn stitches. Her fingers moved reverently, lovingly, as though the fabric was silk instead of muslin.
Her rapt interest gave him pause. “Did you have a doll like that growing up?”
He didn’t know what had inspired his question, this wasn’t exactly the time or place for casual conversation.
She shook her head, her face melancholy. “No. I never had anything as fine as this.”
John choked off a laugh, certain she was fooling around. When her expression remained somber, he cleared his throat. “You should keep it safe. Until we’re back at camp.”
“She needs a bit of washing, that’s all. A little scrubbing and she’ll be good as new.”
“Of course.” He floundered. “She’ll be as bright as a brass button.”
Lost in a world he didn’t understand, Moira carefully wrapped the doll in a faded red handkerchief and gingerly replaced the bundle in the pocket of his jacket. For a moment the ground tilted on its axis and the world turned topsy-turvy. With Moira, the feelings sputtering in his chest were foreign, tossing him out of his element. This wide-eyed sprite carried a mixed bag of reactions. One minute she was chastising him, the next moment she was teary-eyed over a battered rag doll.
The Cattleman Meets His Match Page 4
