“You want me in spite of everything?” Her dimples winked.
“In spite of, regardless of, and because of all that you are and all you can give a man like me. Isn’t gonna be easy trying to teach an old dog like me to take to the leash.”
McKenna bent his head and kissed her long and hard. She tasted like fine wine, fermented, aged to perfection and very heady. He could spend a lifetime with her. Tempest was nothing like his mother. She’d taught him a thing or two about the need to forgive the past, take what he could from life and make the best of it.
“You asking me to marry you, McKenna Smith?”
“I am for a fact…unless you object.”
“How soon? I have to think of Alaine and the ranch and—”
“Rein up on them horses, lady. Don’t go stampeding on me.”
“No harm in making plans.”
He laughed and kissed her again. There’d be no changing her. “You still have a bee in your bonnet about seeing Montana?”
“Yes, I do.”
“How about going along with me to Horse Creek, then we can ride on to Montana? Who knows where we’ll decide to settle down. Figure we’ll marry here first of course. Alaine should be at her mother’s wedding. Only fitting.”
“You sure you want me? I have this cloud of bad luck hanging over my head.”
“A person makes their own luck and, yes, I’ll always want you.”
Three days later they stood in front of the preacher. Tempest wore a brand new hat at McKenna’s insistence. Alaine, Morgan and Teg sat in the front row. Pony Boy, whose bank account had grown from three dollars and thirty-two cents to over one hundred and eleven dollars, grinned like a silly fool who’d inherited the kingdom of God.
Tempest glanced up at husband number six. There was a quickening in her heart as his lips lowered to hers, sealing their vows with a kiss.
She was a lucky woman. This marriage would endure everything life could throw at them. She felt it in her bones.
Leaving the church, they walked toward the fancy buggy McKenna had rented for the occasion. Old shoes, empty cans and cowbells were tied to the back. They’d leave the buggy at the ranch and collect Hard Tack and Ace High.
The matched set, Angus, Doc and Phinneas Jenkins stood blocking their path.
“Well, I see you lassoed yourself another husband, Tempest,” said Angus. “How long you figure this one’ll last?”
McKenna stiffened; his jaw becoming hard as steel. He stepped forward. “Already taking bets, gentlemen? If you are, you’re gonna lose. Not any of your business, but I plan on lasting forever. And I have a very long memory. One day I may ride this way again and settle up on my wife’s behalf.”
The trio ducked their heads and headed for the saloon.
Tempest grinned as McKenna lifted her into the buggy. “You shouldn’t scare them like that. They might just believe you.”
He draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her close. “They better believe it. Be unhealthy if they don’t. I’ll show ’em what happens when they poke a bear with a sharp stick.”
“I hope you don’t regret taking up with me.”
“Darlin’, when I rode into this town and saw you in the cemetery, I was thinking about dying and leaving nothing worth a damn behind and not a single soul in the world to care. I was a legend without a legacy. Now I know my legacy is tied to a slow waltz under a starry sky and my own Texas Tempest in my arms.”
ROPING THE WIND
PHYLISS MIRANDA
To my Aunt Martha,
who taught me to be a lady, and
Lola, my mother-in-law,
who taught me how to be a woman.
Special thanks to Bobby Thompson,
a real-life rodeo star who is
not responsible for any of my rodeo faux pas!
Chapter 1
Kasota Springs, Texas
Fourth of July Rodeo, 1890
“What in the…” Morgan Payne wasn’t sure whether to cuss or fight. “Son of a…” He stared across the alley at a young woman holding a bow. He damn sure knew where her arrow had ended up.
“Lady…” He flinched in pain. He’d been shot at, and even hit more times than he could remember, but never by an arrow launched by a slip of a gal barely out of her teens.
“May I please have my arrow? They are quite expensive.”
“Do I look like I’m in a mood to give you anything but a hard time?” He pulled the sharp point from the crotch of his pants. “My suit is damaged and all you care about is this dern stick?”
“I think someone woke up grouchy.” There was a faint glimmer of humor in her eyes.
“Little Lady…”
Her brows knitted together and her eyes, the shade of sun-struck amethyst, lost their humor and now flashed in anger.
Whoa! He’d apparently hit a nerve, but he continued, “I haven’t been in town long enough to even eat my first meal, and I can already see that this place is nothing but trouble.”
He stepped forward, while she seemed to ponder his comment.
“Nice trousers,” she finally said.
Damn, she didn’t seem to think she owed him so much as an apology. Morgan Payne hadn’t done anything to deserve having an Indian weapon planted way too close to his privates for his liking. A man who loved the chase and was happiest running down desperadoes, rounding up rustlers and busting bank robbers, he hadn’t ever been this poorly treated by an outlaw.
It was bad enough that his assignment as a Pinkerton agent required him to go around looking like a damn Eastern dandy—a little too soft for his liking. The worst part, he couldn’t wear his gun belt in sight, making him feel naked. Not that it would have helped in the situation he seemed to have gotten himself into. Shooting a female was pretty much against his religion even if she’d almost neutered him.
But so far his initial exposure to Kasota Springs, Texas, deep in the heart of the Panhandle, had flabbergasted him.
First the Springs Hotel had no beds to rent because of the Fourth of July festivities. He’d been thankful to find a room no bigger than a jail cell above a saloon. Where no doubt he’d share the floor with soiled doves and rowdy cowpokes looking for a good time, but he’d call it home until his mission was accomplished.
Morgan Payne was an expert horseman and could shoot the sweat off a rattlesnake at twenty paces. He enjoyed his reputation—a man who lived by the Old West’s motto of fair play and quick justice.
Right now he was only interested in locating a hemp committee to help him tame the gal who seemed to now direct her anger toward his trousers. If he hadn’t been a tad bowlegged, he’d have the dern piece of jagged flint in his cojones instead of only a nick in his thigh.
He studied her. Tall and slim and about as suntanned as he’d ever seen a woman, the gal stood there staring at him like an angel—with horns obviously hidden beneath a brimmed hat that sagged because of age. Buckskin thongs hung from the brim. Strips of rattlesnake skin were threaded through slits near the edge. He suspected she might have skinned the rattler with her sharp tongue.
A mane of midnight black curly hair flowed over her shoulders from beneath the buff felt hat, and a wicked look shone in her eyes.
Her fitted jacket with buckskin fringe and leather pants surely made all the old maids shudder. But the scarlet sash around her tiny waist—he was certain his hands could fit around it nicely—caught his attention. He’d seen Wild Bill Hickok wear a similar sash, but it had a purpose: to hold pistols hidden beneath his jacket.
Now Morgan was the one to shudder, wondering if it’d be worth the effort to haul her pretty little butt over to the sheriff’s office and let him handle her irresponsible actions. On second thought, it seemed the whole dern community couldn’t decide on anything. So why would the sheriff be any different?
When Morgan first arrived in town the banner hanging across Main Street read “Cowboy Competition.” Then by the time he rented his room it had been changed to “Rodeo.” Hellf
ire and brimstone, if they couldn’t decide what to name their cowboy reunion, how would they handle this gal?
All he wanted to do was get the job done, put the bad men out of business and get back to being a lawman.
“You should be apologizing, not discussing my trousers. You came close to ee-masculatin’ me.”
“Hm. You’re lucky I was using a bow instead of my rifle.”
Then he noticed her strong voice. Boardinghouse English tinged with a lazy Texas accent.
“You shoot a gun in town?” he asked.
“Only when I’m practicing.”
“What are you practicing for?” Morgan knew he probably didn’t want to know but seemed to want to humor the girl.
“To be as good as Annie Oakley.”
“It’s obvious that isn’t bound to happen. Didn’t anybody tell you she uses guns, not a bow and arrow?”
“The townsfolk don’t much like it when I practice with a gun.” She held up the bow. “Shooting this contraption cross-alley gives me the perfect distance and better accuracy. It doesn’t make any noise, so nobody cares—just as long as I don’t use my gun. But sometimes I use this.” She whipped a knife from a sheath hung on her belt sash.
Steel flashed in the sunlight. There went his bright idea of taking her to the sheriff. The whole town was in cahoots and ignoring her unruly behavior.
Morgan twirled the arrow he held. His thigh stung like hell, and he felt a draft but was uncomfortable examining himself. A tad difficult with her staring intently at his crotch. He wasn’t sure whether to return the thing or break it in half, but resisted the urge to do the latter, remembering that he had to remain detached and try not to draw too much attention to himself.
He was supposed to be a visiting flannel-mouthed Philadelphia lawyer who wanted to buy a small spread of his own. The ruse would at least get his foot in the door, where he could hold talks with locals about their operations.
Capitalizing on the famous Texas hospitality, he knew the folks of Kasota Springs couldn’t resist helping a damp-behind-the-ears dumb Eastern dandy.
“I doubt you’re as skilled at shooting or throwing steel as you think you are.” He decided to go for broke and see how she’d react. “Most women aren’t.”
“I’ll have you know, I’m very good. The best around—”
“If you’re the best, then everybody better stand back or they’ll get their toenails pared with a butcher knife,” Morgan retorted, eyeing the knife in one hand and the bow in the other.
“If I hadn’t intentionally missed your family jewels, you’d be riding sidesaddle for the rest of your life.” Her chin set in stubbornness. “You were just in the wrong spot at the wrong time. And if you know so much about tossing steel, then teach me.” She offered him the knife with a smile.
Something in his mind screamed caution. “How stupid do you think I am?”
“I don’t know, I just met you.”
“Give me the knife!” He took two long, purposeful strides toward her before she handed it over, handle first.
Accepting the dang thing, Morgan squared his shoulders and shifted his weight to the ball of his right foot. Taking aim at the bale of hay across the alley, he effortlessly nailed the target and offered some sage advice. “Keep your wrist stiff. Stretch your arm out completely, but be careful not to stretch it to its fullest or your muscles will get sore.”
“Thanks. You don’t look like someone who would know about tossing knives or firearms.”
“Just a piece of advice I picked up somewhere in my thirty years of living.” He realized what he had done. Letting her know he was crafty with a knife was a mistake that could blow his cover and get him killed.
He corrected his blunder. “Any man worth his salt knows how to hunt.” Cautiously keeping his eye on the arrow, he added, “If I return your weapon and go on my way, will you promise not to shoot me in the back?” He tried to keep his sarcastic tone controlled, but knew he failed miserablely.
“If you promise not to tell who shot you.” She gave him a mischievous look. “And, by the way, nice-looking rear end.”
Surprised at her brazen comment, Morgan decided to quit while he was ahead. He needed a drink in the worst way. He flashed a reserved smile, the best he could scrounge up, and handed over the weapon.
“Good day, Little Lady.” He tipped his derby hat to the young thing with way too much woman in her to deny. “That’s a good nickname for you. Think it fits?”
“I’m nineteen and no lady.”
“You got no argument from me.” Morgan Payne headed down the alley toward Slats and Fats Saloon, praying that she didn’t shoot him in the butt to punctuate her displeasure.
Chapter 2
Morgan Payne hotfooted it toward Slats and Fats saloon and was greeted by a bartender with shoulders barely coming up to the edge of the bar. He made up for his lack of height with girth. Morgan wasn’t sure where Slats was, but he could pretty much account for the Fats’s side of the partnership.
Nodding politely to the man, Morgan ordered a mug of coffee with a side of whiskey, paid him two bits and ambled toward a table in the corner. Far enough away from the center of the hubbub yet close enough to get the lay of the land without drawing a lot of attention. Even a greenhorn agent would never sit with their back to a door. Not one that planned to survive long. Damn, he wanted a beer, but he was a stickler for the rules—no alcohol for a Pinkerton. His mouth watered a tad. Maybe this was the time to bend the rules, but he wouldn’t give in to temptation.
Morgan quenched his thirst by downing the lukewarm coffee, leaving little more than grounds before he added the whiskey, and set the cup aside, hoping nobody noticed he hadn’t consumed the fiery liquid. He sure didn’t need his cover blown this fast.
He removed a couple of coins from his vest pocket and fiddled with them, as if they would draw his thoughts away from the gal in the alley whose image he hadn’t been able to shuck.
Settling back in the chair, his elbow touched the Colt .45, the peacemaker, hidden in his shoulder holster beneath his waistcoat. He smiled to himself, comparing his situation to the girl with the red sash who concealed a knife under her own jacket. The woman he couldn’t get out of his mind.
He listened to first one, then another local discuss the annual ranch competition that was on tap for the weekend.
A middle-aged man, a black leather apron hanging over his paunch, darted into the bar and announced, “McKenna Smith just rode into town.” He vanished just as quickly as he had appeared.
All ears perked up. “The gunslinger?”
Not looking up, the bartender dried a shot glass.
“Yep, the Guardian of Justice they call him. Bet he’s on the bankroll of one of them English money outfits,” someone Morgan couldn’t see alleged.
Mumbling and nodding in agreement, the men were stirred up. Whether they agreed from fear or excitement, Morgan didn’t know, but he knew one thing for certain, he planned to steer clear of the notorious gunman. Morgan knew McKenna too well to get within spittin’ distance.
A young buck, wearing a dirty Stetson that had seen better days, tossed back a slug of whiskey. From the looks of his shaky hand, it wasn’t his first drink of the afternoon. “I’ve got money that says Buckaroo LeDoux could best him. The kid’s a shoo-in for the sharpshooting competition. Nobody can—”
“Clayton Snyder, you better quit calling that kid Buckaroo. At least not while any of those Jacks Bluff riders are within earshot,” said the bartender.
“Who’s gonna make me?”
Eyebrows raised at the challenge, and even the silence seemed to await an answer.
Clayton must’ve got the message. He turned all of his attention to his empty shot glass.
As though only taking a momentary break in the action, the hullabaloo in the saloon resumed.
“Sure-fire alive, no doubt the Slippery Elm cowboys will win the competition,” bellowed a cowpuncher.
“Rodeo,” another butted in.
“Now they’re calling it a dadgum rodeo, not a com-po-tition or a challenge.”
“It’ll never last. Need to go back to the ranch roundup. I bet in a hundred years nobody will even know what a rodeo is,” spouted another cowpoke.
“I guess Tempest LeDoux has been up to her usual shenanigans.”
“Yep. Should of known when they put her in charge of the shindig she’d demand the stripe off a skunk and make him happy to oblige.”
Obviously unable to hold his tongue any longer, Clayton mumbled loud enough for everyone to hear, “And her kid, Buckaroo, is bound to win if that bunch of mother hen cowpokes from the Jacks Bluff have anything to say about it.”
“I’ll put two bits on the Jacks Bluff boys,” spouted a patron with a handlebar mustache that would put a full grown longhorn to shame. He tossed coins on the bar.
“Four bits on the Slippery Elm.” A newcomer dug in his pockets to add to the pile.
“That’s sour grapes, Angus Murdoch. You’re madder than a hornet ’cause you locked horns with that unpredictable Cajun LeDoux woman. You know the Slippery Elm doesn’t have a chance against the Jacks Bluff,” the bartender added.
“Ain’t so. Here’s another four bits to prove it.” Cowboy Mustache butted in and plopped down his donation. “That widow woman who thinks she knows about ranching is flat crazy…” He trailed off, taking heed that trouble was brewing.
Morgan looked up in time to see the batwing doors open into a full swing, allowing a tall, lanky man to enter. The weatherbeaten codger filled the room with his presence. Voices hushed, as though the men expected to be blessed out by the newcomer.
“Go ahead and say what’s on your mind, you bunch of honyocks. You stick together like flies around a bull’s butt anyways. But jest don’t forget I ride for that brand.”
“Hey, Teg, they don’t mean nothin’,” the bartender said, as he shoved a beer in the ranch foreman’s hand.
The territorial hierarchy had just been established, leaving no doubt in Morgan’s mind that the Jacks Bluff Ranch ran the railhead. Now he had the first piece to the puzzle.
Give Me A Texas Outlaw Bundle with Give Me A Cowboy Page 59
