Besides, he had no idea where Teg might be lurking, just waiting for him to make another mistake with Alaine. Not easily intimidated by any man, Teg griped the hell out of Morgan.
He had to think of something to talk about fast or his whole conversation would exist of “thank you” and “fine.”
“Did I understand you correct? Are there twenty outfits entered in the rodeo?”
“Yes. Mama is rather pleased. With that many, the winning purse is quite respectable.”
“Presume the Slippery Elm donated the same as everyone else?”
“Oh, yes. Ten head.” Alaine covered a yawn with her hands, and smiled sheepishly at him. “Pardon me.”
“So that’s what Clayton Snyder and his cohort were talking about when they said they had to move some heifers?”
“I found that comment strange, Morgan. They had brought in their donated stock to the pens days ago, so I didn’t exactly know what Clayton meant.”
“He’s their manager, so he outta know.”
“No. Their manager is Gimpy. The one with the lame leg.” Her eyes blinked, surely not trying to flirt but from the need to sleep.
“That answers some questions.” Morgan set his cup on the table. “As much as I’d enjoy visiting longer, I need some sleep.”
After helping her to her feet, he walked to the door and put on his hat. He reached in his pocket and fingered the dice.
“Here.” He placed them in her hand. “I forgot to return these.”
“Thank you.” Her face blushed a hot pink. She seemed hesitant to continue. “Are you still going to be my partner?”
“Of course. I’m a man of my word, but Alaine, if you want me to teach you to be the best marksman you can be and put my life on the line to partner with you at the rodeo, you have to be honest with me.” A single thread of understanding formed between them. “And, if you can’t, at least be honest with yourself. Otherwise, you better find yourself another calf to rope.”
“I understand.” She bit a quivering lip. “I know I wasn’t exactly honest with you. And, I don’t want to find another calf to rope.”
“Just remember lack of confidence in the rodeo arena can get you killed.”
She smiled but didn’t answer. Her amethyst eyes drew him. Her sweet, irresistible charm made it impossible for him to be near without touching her.
Common sense abandoned Morgan, and he pulled the pretty lady into his arms. Crushing her to him, he claimed her lips, sending spirals of ecstasy through her. His passion was more persuasive than she cared to admit, and his moist, firm mouth demanded a response.
Alaine returned the kiss, savoring every moment, realizing it was as challenging as it was rewarding.
He suddenly released her.
“Good night, Alaine,” he said, as if such physical affection was a customary farewell.
“Sleep tight, Morgan.” She hesitantly closed the door.
Morgan shut the screen, thinking how the hunger of her lips had shattered every ounce of calm within him. Why had he touched her in the first place? Especially with every cowboy on the ranch taking turns as chaperone.
Deep in the shadows he saw Tegeler’s towering silhouette.
Meandering closer, Teg stepped forward and shoved a gun belt into Morgan’s hands. “Figured you might need this.” The ol’ coot let loose with a string of tobacco juice, almost hitting Morgan’s boots. “Be ready to ride at first light. Gotta keep you away from that gal—one way or another.”
Chapter 7
Morgan didn’t get much rest and woke long before sunup. He’d pretty much had his fill of the odor of musky old newspapers insulating the bunkhouse walls and the assortment of foul smells that would insult a skunk—sweaty men, licorice-smelling tobacco chaws and dirty feet. Then add snores that could wake the Devil, and a rooster who didn’t seem to know night from day—Morgan had tossed and turned before giving up on sleep.
Mulling over the day before, he sat on a wooden barrel outside and watched as the sun barely cracked the horizon.
The lawman in him had a character flaw he detested. Everything had to come to a satisfactory conclusion before he could proceed further. So what if he had weakened? Hopefully he had driven his point home to Alaine—she must have confidence in herself if she wanted to be a winner.
Up in the main house, lamplight flickered in the corner bedroom upstairs and Morgan watched as a shadow crossed only a second before the room darkened. He never saw another light come on in the house except in the kitchen where the smell of bacon frying wafted through the air.
He leaned back and enjoyed daybreak. One thing about the Panhandle he had quickly learned to like: although it might’ve been hot enough to sizzle the legs off a grasshopper during the day, by evening the constant West Texas wind cooled things down.
Coffee sure did sound good. Pulling to his feet, he stood and stretched, trying to ignore the soft scent of roses. Only a woman rancher like Mrs. LeDoux would plant flowers around a bunkhouse. Morgan fingered a petal—a Seven Sisters rose, one of his mama’s favorites.
The old ache in his heart twitched. He suddenly had a desire to go home and check on his sisters. To hell with solving some crappy rustling case for British moneymen who were so greedy that they had offered him a nice bonus if he could find more land to add to their portfolio.
Morgan was beginning to like the folks in Kasota Springs, some more than others—particularly one pretty lady—and figured the syndicate owners had enough land. Besides, he didn’t see anything just right except for the little spread between Jacks Bluff and the Slippery Elm.
On his next trip to town, he had to finagle a meeting with the Slippery Elm’s foreman and manager. Snyder was bossy and Gimpy seemed easily influenced. The information the owners back East gave the Pinks didn’t jibe. But after overhearing the Lazy S duo talk about Alaine’s mama in such a disrespectful fashion, the last thing he needed was to get into a confrontation with the stupid asses.
Blasted, Morgan had a job to do, get the information he had acquired back to Philly so the owners could take the necessary steps to protect their investment. His personal opinion on how they operated didn’t count.
He was losing his objectiveness, damn it! His orders were to investigate cattle rustling on the Slippery Elm. He had a cardinal rule: never get personally involved. But the one element nobody figured on was a beautiful, dark-haired, sassy-butt daughter of a rancher.
The sound of gunfire ripped into the tranquility, but it didn’t seem to stop the ungodly snoring coming from the bunkhouse. Morgan glanced over his shoulder. Teg’s cot was empty.
Deciding to look into the commotion, Morgan headed in the direction of the gunfire, just as another shot rang out. Passing the barn, he followed a path beyond the corrals toward a pasture where the dangest thing he’d ever witnessed came into view. He couldn’t resist stopping and taking in the breathless sight.
There stood Alaine in her nightclothes, complete with a red sash around her waist, taking potshots at a bullet-riveted target nailed to a post—more a piece of shredded timber than a bull’s-eye.
He cleared his throat and called out a customary warning before approaching from behind. “Morning.”
“Back-atcha, Morgan.” She reloaded and took another shot, pulverizing a sliver of wood barely hanging on. “Heard you coming.”
Alaine lowered her gun and offered a friendly, good morning smile. “You were right. Since you suggested that I change to a 20-gauge, I’m much more accurate.” She smiled with an air of pleasure. “Thanks.”
“No thanks needed. Just practice and keep the confidence.”
“I saw Teg slewfooting it toward the main house about an hour ago. Probably trying to get in good with the cook, so if you want any breakfast, better shake a leg,” she bantered. “Don’t want him to catch you with me in my unmentionables, do you?”
“No, ma’am.” He headed for the house, hungrier than he’d been in ages. And it wasn’t just the thoughts of biscuits and gr
avy that whet his appetite.
Today was bound to be tough but not as difficult as if he got caught ogling the wild child of Kasota Springs with a shotgun in her hand, wearing nightclothes—red sash and all.
Breakfast was tasty and ample, no doubt one of the reasons the Jacks Bluff ranch hands were so loyal.
Teg stuffed the last bite of biscuit in his mouth and washed it down with coffee. He stood and barked, “We’ve got work to do.” He wiped his mouth and grabbed his Stetson. “Tuffy, make sure Alaine gets to town safely. She’ll fight you tooth and toenail, but you know what I want.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tell her we’ll be comin’ in town tonight like I said.” Teg finished off his coffee. “I’m taking Payne with me. Don’t expect to be back before supper.” He motioned toward Morgan, indicating he was ready to leave. “I sure as hell ain’t gonna get in a predicament where I have to eat one of those box suppers that Miz Tempest is wantin’ us to buy.”
Bobby spoke up, “Last night, I ended up with Edwinna Dewey and you wouldn’t believe the horsemeat she tried to pawn off as good vittles.” He shuddered. “Won’t do it again, not even for Miz LeDoux.”
“And, Payne, I’ll warn you, don’t go playing poker with her either. She cheats,” Jimmy piped up.
“Don’t forget whose brand you ride for, boys.” Teg shot over his shoulder as the back screen slammed shut. “If they can’t be loyal to their brand, they need to call for their time and ride outta here.”
“Just old-time cowboy joshing,” Morgan remarked and then laughed. “So the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
“Where gamblin’s concerned, like mother, like daughter.”
Nothing more was said until Morgan and Tegeler entered the privacy of the barn. There Teg mumbled, “Payne, gotta admit, you’re one helluva muleskinner. If you ever need a job, I know a freight company who could use you.”
The old man punched him on the shoulder, and a flash of humor crossed his face.
“You ol’ egg-suckin’ dog, I could knock you on your butt again if I had a mind to,” Morgan retorted. “I knew when you headed directly for me in the bar that my gig was up.”
“You’re too good of a lawman to let that happen. Besides I trained you, so figured whatever brought you here was none of my concern.” Teg took a plug of tobacco out of his vest pocket and chewed off a piece. “Jest glad to see you, son.”
“You were one of the best Texas Rangers around. Never knew what happened.” Morgan glanced sideways.
“The Rangers weren’t the same after they reorganized. After I served my time training honyocks like you to be the best trackers around and experts at catching rustlers for the Pinks, I hired on with Jack LeDoux down in New Orleans and followed him up here. Spent many a year trying not to look back on the days of cold coffee, rations not fit for a prairie dog, and women who cried every time they saw the backsides of her man ride off not knowing when he’d be back or if he’d be back.”
“You still do the Texas Rangers proud, Teg.”
Obviously finished talking about history, the foreman opened a stall gate and walked out a big bay who neighed and shook his black mane in welcome. “Sniff’s nice and gentle. A good thinker. He needs somebody like you to challenge him.”
Teg opened the next gate and brought out his stallion.
The men said little while they saddled the horses, and once finished, rode north past the area where Alaine had been practicing her sharpshooting.
A tinge of regret settled in Morgan’s gut. The right and proper thing to do would have been for him to have spent more time with Alaine, although he still figured her confidence level, not her skill, was her enemy.
“One thing, Payne. Our little Buckaroo has to win the shooting competition for her mama’s sake. Think that’s possible?” He spit tobacco to the offside of his horse.
“Just because a chicken has wings doesn’t mean it can fly.” Morgan chuckled and spurred the bay, who seemed to know exactly where they were headed. “But, she’s improving.”
“Good. Didn’t do very good in the first round, but she has a second chance,” Teg said. “Just make sure she wins.”
They rode across the gentle rolling plains sprinkled with Russian thistle and mesquite brushes. Scrunch grass crumpled under the weight of their horses’ hooves.
In the distance Morgan watched as the banks of the Canadian came into sight. Fringed with wild berry bushes and plum thickets, both sides sloped into the river. Huge cottonwoods towered over a coppice of smaller trees and shrubs scattered along both of its banks.
Morgan had seen most of Texas, but he couldn’t think of a place closer to heaven than the Canadian River.
With their backs to the sun, they rode the fence line, checking for broken posts and cut or downed barbed wire.
“Didn’t want to bring this up back yonder, and it’s none of my business what brought you to these parts, but we could use your help, if you wanna stick around,” said Teg.
For a big man Tegeler rode easy in the saddle.
Morgan knew Teg would show him common courtesy and not press him for details, but maybe he could repay the hospitality of the LeDouxes by helping out, if he could. “What kind?”
“Rustling.”
“But you said you weren’t having any problems.”
“That we know of. But the whole kit-and-caboodle don’t add up. There’s something going on and we need it stopped before it boils over into a full-fledged range war.”
Morgan figured this was a good opportunity to needle the ol’ rascal. “If you wanted my help, at least you could’ve found me a decent horse, not a pack donkey.”
“You’re undercover, so thought it was fittin’.” Teg laughed. “Plus you smelled worse than that dang donkey.”
Teg reined up beside Morgan. “See that.” He pointed to a bull tangled in barbed wire and downed fence post. “Now that’s a heap of trouble, son.”
“You’re not running cattle in this pasture. Why’s he out this far?”
“I can bet a double eagle he ain’t ours.”
They dismounted and Tegeler opened his saddlebag, producing wire cutters, and the two men went to work.
The blasted bovine wasn’t in much of a humor to be saved and sent both cowboys grabbing air more than once. “Notice anything odd about his brand?” Teg asked, trying to catch his breath while attempting to cut away more barbed wire in order to release the varmint.
“Definitely a Lazy S bull, but he’s hair branded. And I don’t think it’s as old as it looks.” A barb tore into Morgan’s arm. “Sonofabitch.”
“Yep, cold brand, slow brand, all the same.” Teg struggled with the barbed wire and cutters. “Should’ve worn heavier gloves.”
“If you can keep this bastard from killing us before he kills himself, we’ll have him free in a minute or two.”
Just another day covered with manure and blood, Morgan figured, as he tore away the last of the fencing, giving the bull his freedom. “Damn sure glad he wasn’t any older than a yearling.” Morgan had to stop and take a deep breath before continuing. “Only one reason to hair brand, Tegeler.”
“Yep.” He wiped sweat from his brow. “Only one reason.”
Morgan wrangled his way through the twisted barbed wire and stepped over the downed fence, carefully trailing the animal for several hundred yards before calling back to Tegeler, “Bring our mounts, you ol’ geezer. We’ve got work to do.”
Tegeler led the horses toward Morgan, lagging behind him knowing exactly what needed to be done. Besides Teg, Morgan was one of the best trackers around, and if there were any telltale signs to be had, between the two of them, they’d find them.
“See what I see?” Morgan pointed at a mound of ashes. “Certainly not Indians.” He leaned down and picked up some coals and rubbed them between his fingers. “Probably went out late yesterday afternoon.”
“No campfire for sure.” Teg’s brow furrowed. “A branding fire. Cattle’s been though he
re not long ago either.”
Morgan nodded toward a trail of mashed-down pasture. “Grass has been bruised and is still crunched down. Had lots of weight on it.”
Tegeler poked at the ground with the toe of his boot. The dust stirred easily. “Four horses here. None carrying more than a man’s weight.”
Inch by inch, Morgan examined the brush around the branding fire, not discounting any possibilities, while Teg took the opposite side for signs.
“Might be what we’re looking for.” Teg pulled away from a mesquite bush and squatted. Separating a limb, he picked up a piece of burlap. “Yep, jest as I suspicioned.”
Morgan neared and took the cloth. “Ol’ rustler trick, using damp burlap between the cow’s hide and the hot iron to make the brand look older than it is.” He smelled the fibers. “Smokers, too.”
Teg knelt down and took a whiff. “Yep, for sure. Reckon it to be tobacco.”
“Whatcha learn from the tracks?”
“Four riders. One with a limp.” Teg moved a little to the right and pointed to boot prints. “Twisting on the sole and drove his lame leg’s foot deeper into the ground than the other one. Bad left side, I’d say.”
“Know anybody around these parts who fits that bill?”
“A gimpy leg is the sign of a working cowboy. Let’s go. Wanna follow this trail and see where these cattle end up.”
Both men swung into their saddles and followed the trotted-down grass until they came to a clearing where a herd of cattle leisurely grazed.
“Hope to hell if we get caught out on Slippery Elm land, they don’t shoot first and ask questions later, Teg.”
“Ain’t Slippery Elm pastures. We came off it back at the fork. This here’s that shoestring operation they call Rocking J.” Teg stood in the stirrups, took off his hat, and wiped the sweat with his sleeve. “Whatcha see, Payne?”
“A herd of lazy, fat cattle ready for market.”
Give Me A Texas Outlaw Bundle with Give Me A Cowboy Page 64
