Give Me A Texas Outlaw Bundle with Give Me A Cowboy

by Jodi Thomas, Linda Broday, Phyliss Miranda

  Teg didn’t agree or disagree with the bartender, just picked up his mug. He suddenly became interested in Morgan. The tough-as-strop-leather cowpuncher moseyed his way, as if Morgan was a long-lost cousin who just showed up for a visit. “Here for the festivities?”

  “Nope,” Morgan answered nonchalantly.

  “Need a fresh cup?”

  “Got one, thanks.”

  “Kinda cold, ain’t it?”

  “Nope. Just like I like it.”

  “Teg Tegeler, foreman of the Jacks Bluff.” He offered his hand.

  Morgan stood and the two men shook hands.

  “Morgan Payne, Esquire.” Damn, he would have preferred to introduce himself as Morgan Payne, lawman, and it twisted his trousers that he couldn’t, but he had no choice.

  “Take the weight off for a spell.” Sitting down, Morgan motioned toward the empty seat.

  “Been in these parts long?” The foreman eased his sinewy frame into the chair.

  “Nope, just got here. Come out West thinkin’ about buying a little spread and settling down.”

  “Don’t look much like you’d know anything about ranching.” Tegeler took a gulp of beer.

  “Haven’t been a lawyer all of my life.”

  Teg seemed to have sized up the stranger and figured him for a good ol’ soul. Probably dumber than hammered horse dung for thinking he could waltz into town and buy a ranch without knowing a cockroach from a cow chip.

  “Other than a couple of shoestring operations and a nester or two, most of the land in these parts belongs to the Slippery Elm and Jacks Bluff.” Teg set his mug down. “The Lazy S brand is owned by a bunch of Yankee bankers who only care about what they own, not what their riders know or who they are. They’re too scared of Texas to show their faces, but not so scared they won’t take the money from their operation.” The old timer’s jaw set. “The other outfit is the one I ride for, Jacks Bluff. I reckon you ain’t gonna find nobody wantin’ to sell in these parts.”

  “Much obliged. Just what I needed to know.” Morgan fiddled with the coins. “Guess with only two big operations around and barbed wire to keep the cattle corralled, nobody is being bothered with rustling now’days.”

  “Other than an occasional varmint who wants to show us he can snatch a beef from right under our nose, or an Indian who jumps the reservation and heads back here in need of food for survival, there ain’t much thievery going on.” Teg leaned back in his chair and stuck his thumbs in his vest pockets. “There’ll be twenty or so outfits here for the rodeo, some as far away as Nebraska, so if I get wind of anybody wanting to sell, I’ll keep you in mind.”

  “Appreciate it.” Morgan tossed the coins on the table and stood. “But think I’ll see for myself if there’s anybody around interested in selling.”

  “Good lookin’ boots,” Teg said and leaned forward, more interested in his beer than the man walking away.

  Blasted, the whole town seemed interested in the way he dressed!

  Morgan left the saloon and headed toward the bank. He wanted to take another trip down the alley but couldn’t take the chance that Miss Fancy Pants was still terrorizing the town.

  Dang it, the best place to get information was the alley. It was notorious for drunks, misfits and saloon girls out for a smoke, who were light on ambition and long on desires and who would always get loose lips when they thought the coins in his hand were intended for their pockets.

  Sometimes another bottle of booze would make information flow and the inquirer’s name be forgotten.

  Morgan made his way along the dusty boardwalk toward a café he spied earlier, trying to ignore his front sides gnawing on his backsides. A good meal with a pot of decent coffee would improve his disposition.

  Even in the short time he had spent in the saloon, the town had nearly doubled in size. The streets filled up with people, horses and carriages like a buffalo wallow during a rainstorm. Horses snorted and pranced as though coming to town was a special event for them. Women all dolled up in finery and men in their Sunday best milled around the streets. He dodged frilly parasols and petticoats as he made his way along Main Street.

  A shot pierced the air.

  That dern gal isn’t practicing again, is she? Morgan wasn’t sure he wanted to know. Besides, he thought she had more gurgle than guts.

  Suddenly, pandemonium broke out and folks scattered like cattle dodging thunder.

  Confusion spread in epidemic proportions. An uproar singed with volatility hovered in the air. Something more than simple excitement—more like fear and it was accelerating by the second.

  Women grabbed their children and darted inside the first doorway they found. A crowd of the town’s bravest quickly formed in close proximity to the Cattleman’s Bank.

  The natural peace officer in Morgan Payne sent him into action, long before his brain reminded him that at the moment he was a lawyer—not a lawman. He shouldered his way to the front, while he slipped his right hand under his jacket and touched the butt of his Colt. By that time, his brain reminded his hand to keep the weapon out of sight.

  He heard the next shot only a fraction of a second before the bullet shattered the window of the Springs Hotel.

  With his weapon drawn, a tall man edged from the hotel and darted toward the fracas with a screaming frenzy of scarlet satin following closely on his heels. The woman cried, “He’s trying to steal my daughter!”

  Morgan immediately recognized the man as McKenna Smith, and began zigzagging his way through the crowd toward the bank.

  He halted as though he was a bogged steer. A masked robber tried to overpower a kicking, clawing and biting woman. Her hat hung by its thong around her neck and her black hair flew as she continued her assault on her captor. He might kidnap her, but not without skinned shins and bruises galore. The bandit gripped her with one arm while he aimed his pistol in the direction of Smith. He seemed not to know which required the most attention, the squirming furious woman fighting for her life or the approaching gunfighter.

  A flash of red fabric caught Morgan’s eye. Recognition clutched at his heart. The hostage was the woman in the alley—the woman who had assaulted him. Although he had threatened to tar and feather her, she didn’t deserve death at the hands of an outlaw.

  Quickly, Morgan circled the crowd with the intent to come up behind the bank robber and if he could get a clear shot, he’d give it all he had to save the woman.

  Using the hostage as a shield, the gunman raised his pistol to her head and demanded that she get on the horse.

  McKenna Smith leveled his Colt and shouted something Morgan couldn’t hear.

  Unexpectedly, the girl went limp.

  Dead silence.

  In the distance, her mother screamed.

  The girl’s dead weight caught the bandit off guard, and he lost his balance but only for a second.

  Suddenly the bowels of hell gobbled up Main Street.

  The petite woman in red came from behind McKenna and shrieked, “Alaine!”

  Not paying any regard for her own safety, she raced toward her daughter and the bank robber.

  As though in slow motion, to a mind’s eye, a bluish haze circled from Smith’s revolver and whizzed by Morgan’s ear, grazing his head. Thank God for the derby hat that was the unwelcome recipient of the Guardian of Justice’s bullet.

  “Sonofabitch…” Morgan didn’t rightfully give a rusty rat’s ass if anyone heard his profanity. “Mother of Joseph…” He touched his temple—just another wound to add to his day, this one a testament to his efforts to help Alaine.

  Taking the last five feet in one leap, the girl’s mother flung herself onto the outlaw’s back and clung to his neck, riding him like she had a hold of the tail of a bucking bull. The outlaw fought the scratching, clawing woman off his back. Jumping on his horse, he raced out of town like he had a beehive up his butt, with McKenna Smith on his trail.

  One of Morgan’s concerns about his cover getting blown had just ridden off on t
he heels of the robber.

  The Little Lady, who had make it clear earlier that she was no lady, allowed Morgan to help her to her feet.

  “Thank you.” She smiled sweetly, as though she’d simply lost her footing. “You are a true gentleman.”

  Before he could respond, her mother swooped down bombarding the girl with questions.

  Morgan eased away, watching the young woman he could now put a name to—a pretty sounding one, Alaine.

  Alaine assured everyone she was fine and not in the least shaken by the experience. She had simply used a ploy that she knew would distract the bank robber.

  Dismissing her mother’s concern and insistence that she see a doctor, the fearless gal brushed herself off and sashayed Morgan’s way. Taking his arm, she leaned into him and in a voice meant only for him, she pled, “Please don’t embarrass me.”

  He clenched his jaw. Morgan touched her fingers, clinging to his arm like he was a life jacket, knowing his vow not to get involved had just been shattered.

  She turned to her mama and raised her voice, “Mother, I don’t have time for this right now. I need to repay this gentleman for his daring gallantry.”

  Morgan Payne didn’t know whether to spit or get drunk.

  Dozens of pairs of eyes, heck the whole cow town, watched as he escorted her away from the crowd as though they were going to a church social. Never veering from their noble stroll with quiet emphasis, Morgan said, “Miss Alaine, let’s get one thing clear. I have a rip in my trousers, a bullet hole in my hat, and I’m not in a mood to be your gallant anything.”

  She set a smile on her face and looked him straight in the eye, whispering softly, “Oh, but you are.”

  No doubt trying to tame this Little Lady would be nothing short of ropin’ the wind.

  Chapter 3

  Catawampus from the town square and hidden in the shadows of the hallowed storefront of the newspaper office, Alaine LeDoux sat on a bench and watched a haze of gold and purple-veiled blue sky turn into an opalescent sunset.

  She had a good view of the bandstand but just didn’t feel like joining in on the festivities. It had been two days since she had been held hostage at the bank robbery, and her mother was still furious at her. That last thing was nothing new.

  The tournament race had been grueling. Even her palomino’s rich golden body was still gleaming with sweat when she left him at the livery. His dark eyes pled to be left alone. Much like she felt at the moment.

  He had made her proud, giving her his all, blazing down a straightaway and slowing just at the right time, so she could grab rings off a bar extended from clips on poles up and down Main Street. Winning that event was girl’s play, but missing her shot in the first round of the shooting competition was true defeat.

  She rested the back of her head against the windowpane, thankful the opening ceremonies were over. Her mother was pleased with the turnout. Every politician, ranch owner and cowboy in five states had shown up to settle the question of superiority—whose ranch would win the competition. Oops, she meant rodeo. Her mother had pounded the new word into her head. A new era for Kasota Springs, Texas.

  But to Alaine, it was nothing but four days of men versus livestock, vying for bragging rights. The outlaw event, bareback bull riding, was all about guts against glory.

  Hopeful, would-be champions from various different outfits came to demonstrate their everyday working skills: riding bucking horses, roping steers, cows and calves, competing for the honor and prestige of the ranches they worked for and their bosses who owned those ranches. Even a contest for the top wild cow milker had been included.

  Added to the carnival atmosphere were chuckwagons set up at the end of the street, competing for the honor of being the outfit who made the best biscuits.

  Crowds would jostle, cheer, laugh and sing until the last day of the celebration when weary families would climb aboard creaking buckboards, dusty buggies and faithful horses and return home to the daily tasks that made up the foundation for the new frontier.

  The band kicked off its first tune. Fiddle, guitar and harmonica music filled the air. Dancers took to the wooden dance floor put up just for the occasion to cut a rug beneath the Texas sky.

  Alaine smiled, drawn between wanting to join the merrymakers and knowing if she did, she wouldn’t be asked to dance. It seemed most fellows around were either intimidated by her mother or afraid they might be tagged as her next husband. Alaine suspected some feared she might have inherited her mother’s bad luck where men were concerned. Nobody would question why a healthy, feisty woman like her mama had caused more than one man to get happy feet when they discovered that she was a five-time widow.

  Edwinna Dewey flittered by, not wasting so much as a polite hello on Alaine. Maybe the town gossip feared that her crinoline and lace might be contaminated by Alaine’s buckskin and cotton. She wanted to stick out her foot and trip the busybody, but that took more energy than Alaine wanted to exert.

  Perhaps Alaine should have taken more time with her dress, but she saw nothing wrong with her leather-fringed riding skirt in a nice mahogany color. She tugged at the matching bolero, trying to pull it together over ample breasts. Dang, she should have gone with a loose-fitting blouse, like she generally wore. But her mama had talked her into the linen V-necked contraption. Even a tiny glimpse of skin at her neckline was too much for Alaine’s liking, but it’d been a hot day and comfort won out over prudishness. If nothing else, she had hung her hat on a nail in her horse’s stall, replacing it with a piece of rawhide tied around a ponytail. Now locks of hair sprung to life around her face. The curse of having curly hair.

  Twitching her nose, Alaine drilled a stare in Edwinna’s backsides, before mentally counting the Jacks Bluff cowboys she scoped out. Blasted, who was watching the ranch? It seemed every one of her mother’s hands were at tonight’s dance for the rodeo. She smiled to herself. At least she had become comfortable calling it a rodeo.

  Teg Tegeler, all spiffied up, headed her way. Spurs jingled as he neared. His starched white shirt contrasted with his weatherbeaten features. She wasn’t in a mood for a lecture from the only man she considered a father figure.

  He slowed down just long enough to say, “Good evening, Miss Alaine.” He tipped his hat. “Cheer up, Little Buckaroo. You’re gonna win. I can promise you that.” The foreman lumbered away, headed toward the square and no doubt the group of women frothing at the mouth to dance with the legendary codger.

  Hoping to catch a glimpse of the man from the alley, Alaine studied the expanding crowd of dancers. She sighed, not particularly being proud of her actions at their first meeting. She couldn’t believe that she had shot the dandy, and then he turned around and saved her from public humiliation by getting her away from her mother. Yet, after depositing her at the Springs Hotel, he walked away with little more than a tip of his hat and a gruff, “Good day, ma’am.”

  Mr. Grouchy Trousers had done all of this for her. And she hadn’t even asked his name. She had fretted away the best part of the night thinking about what a good-looking butt the man had. Shame on her! How rude! For not asking his name or thinking about his backsides? She wasn’t sure.

  Her attention was drawn back to the dance as her mystery man came into sight. She lowered her head, not wanting to be obvious in her admiration of the devilishly handsome rascal. Guilt washed over her. Although she hadn’t taken time to ask his name, she certainly didn’t fail to recognize his physical attributes that could make any woman happy to wake up next to.

  Glancing back to the dance area, she caught eye of the dandy again. He wore a trim, neat-styled suit with pants that didn’t have a hole in them. She couldn’t help but chuckle. Maybe she should offer to buy him a new pair? No doubt in her mind that the mercantile wouldn’t have a thing in stock even close to the quality of the ones he possessed. It’d take weeks before a catalog order would reach Kasota Springs. But then the clothes he wore didn’t look like anything she’d seen in a catalog. Obviously, tailor
-made and probably imported from France.

  From his vest, her mystery man removed a pocket watch with what looked like a braided watch fob attached and checked the time. She would have expected a fancy gold watch fob for a man of such perfection.

  She watched as he moved among the crowd and sought out men to engage in conversation but never stayed long. It wasn’t as though he did it to be sociable but methodical, reminding her of a politician trying to kiss as many babies as possible a day before the election.

  He neared a gathering of women waiting for ladies-choice to be called.

  Sadness crept into her heart as she caught eye of her mother standing alone. Not far from her a group of ladies fanned themselves as though a particularly disagreeable scent invaded their space, while a threesome conversed behind fan-masked faces, most likely discussing one of the LeDoux women’s new escapades.

  Alaine had heard others talk about poor, pitiful wallflowers, but her mother was far from poor or pitiful. She was bold, outspoken and didn’t take crap off anybody. If that labeled her a wallflower, she’d be at the top of the list.

  McKenna Smith approached her mother, and said a few words. She nodded and smiled up at him, and he guided her to the dance floor. The endearing act raised Alaine’s opinion of the gunfighter two notches. He obviously was more like her mother than Alaine first surmised—he didn’t seem to give a damn what people thought.

  Suddenly, the man Alaine had wronged disappeared in the crowd. Probably to dance with some pretty woman, who would swoon over his charm. She knew he had some, but seemed to make a point of her seeing little of it.

  Movement a few yards behind Alaine unnerved her and drew her attention away from the dance floor. She listened as the voices of Clayton Snyder and a Slippery Elm hand, only known as Gimpy, became distinct. She became intensely still, not wishing to be detected. They stopped near the corner of the building, but not close enough to see her. The sulfurous scent of lighted matches and cigarette smoke assaulted her nostrils.