The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  She looked hard at the men listening to her every word. “Those two things are loyalty and respect. Mr. Jessup has shown neither, and as of now he’s dismissed from his duties here. And anyone else who feels as he does is free to leave, because I don’t want people on this ranch who won’t be loyal to me. Those of you who choose to leave will be paid as soon as I return from Tucson with the money. Those who stay will have bonuses in addition to their regular pay, and they will also have my appreciation. But stay or leave, I won’t tolerate grumbling and complaints. Those who do so will quickly follow in Mr. Jessup’s footsteps—straight off this ranch. Is that clear?”

  For a moment there was shocked, tense silence. Then Rusty Jessup began swearing furiously, but Judge Hamilton still held him firmly in his grasp.

  The young blond wrangler was grinning from ear to ear. Suddenly, he let out an earsplitting yell.

  “Whoopee, boss!” he crowed, drawing reluctant smiles from the other wranglers.

  The men began eyeing Bryony with new respect as she waited on the porch for their reaction to her speech. She’d exhibited a toughness today that they hadn’t expected from such a young woman, and it seemed they were beginning to believe that she really might make a go of running the ranch. One by one they began doffing their Stetsons to her, informing her that they would stay on and wait for their money—and the accompanying bonuses.

  Bryony thanked them, and sent them back to work. As the group broke up she turned to the young wrangler as he leaped jubilantly from the porch.

  “Just a moment!” she called, and he turned back to her, his warm brown eyes sparkling.

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “What’s your name, cowboy?”

  He swept his dusty Stetson off his head in a comic salute. “Buck Monroe, ma’am, at your service.”

  “Thank you. I appreciate your efforts to help me, Buck.” Bryony smiled, disarmed by the cowboy’s earnest friendliness. He was staring at her as if he’d never seen a woman before, his eyes glowing with admiration. Unlike Rusty Jessup’s lewd appraisal, though, Buck Monroe’s attitude was sweet, and very flattering. She went on swiftly, “I’m going to need a new foreman for the Circle H, and I wonder if you have any suggestions.’’

  “Well, now, ma’am, it just so happens that I’d be perfect for the job,” he informed her brashly, swaggering toward her. “And you shore won’t find a more loyal man—I was tickled silly when you told off those ungrateful varmints!”

  Bryony couldn’t suppress a laugh at his infectious smile and comical way of speaking. Buck Monroe had temporarily made her forget the heavy cares of this afternoon. Before she could reply to his words, though, he spoke again in a more serious tone.

  “Actually, ma’am, if you really want my advice, I wouldn’t hire no one for Circle H foreman but one man: Shorty Buchanan. He’s got a few years on me, y’know, and he’s got the kind of experience the other boys will respect. Shorty’s a wily old cowpoke—born and raised in California, rode herd for years up the Chisholm Trail. He’s worked for your pa about three years now, and he’s as fine a man as you’ll ever see.” He regarded her solemnly. “Shorty is shore the best man for the job.”

  “Was he here this afternoon?”

  “Shorty? Naw, he’s out on the south range checking up on a calf that took sick yesterday mornin’. Shorty doesn’t have time to sit around and get riled up by the likes of Rusty Jessup!”

  At these inflammatory words, the incensed foreman, who still stood on the porch between the Judge and Matthew Richards, began swearing and struggling anew in an attempt to reach Monroe.

  “I’d like to meet this Shorty Buchanan,” Bryony stated. “Will you ask him to come see me early tomorrow morning?”

  “I shore will, ma’am. Glad to help.” Buck grinned roguishly. “And if you change your mind about Shorty, I’m right here in line for the job. Never let it be said that Buck Monroe wouldn’t be ready and willing to aid a lady in need!”

  Bryony laughed. “I’ll remember that. Thank you.”

  Buck carelessly plopped his Stetson on his sandy head, grinned at her, and sauntered cockily off in the direction of the corral, where the black mustang still fretted. She sensed instinctively that the cowboy was honest and reliable, and would be a valuable friend. She was smiling as she turned away, but the smile quickly faded from her lips as she saw Rusty Jessup glaring at her from the porch.

  The Judge and Matt Richards released him, the Judge advising him to pack his gear and get out, but instead, the ex-foreman advanced threateningly toward her.

  She froze, watching his livid face in alarm.

  “I have nothing more to say to you, Mr. Jessup. You may leave my property at once.”

  “Your property!” His eyes narrowed. “We’ll see how long this ranch remains your property! Unless I miss my guess, lady, you won’t last a month. You won’t live that long!”

  Bryony gasped, and Judge Hamilton quickly grabbed the red-haired cowboy’s arm. “Now see here, Jessup, that sounds like a threat,” the Judge growled.

  Jessup glanced from the Judge to Matt Richards’s frowning face and back again. He shrugged. “Take it any way you want to,” he replied, and wrenched away from Judge Hamilton’s grip.

  Stalking across the porch and down the steps, he turned back for a moment, his thin lips twisted into a malicious smile. He pointed one lean finger at Bryony in warning.

  “All I have to say is that we’ll meet again, fancy lady. And when we do, I reckon you’ll be mighty sorry!”

  Spinning about, he stalked across the dust toward the bunk house. Bryony and the others waited uneasily until a few moments later, when they saw him emerge from the building and strap his bedroll to his pinto horse. He swung into the saddle and rode off at a hard gallop.

  Bryony turned back to the ranch house, her face pale and drawn from the strain of the afternoon. The Judge and Matt followed her into her father’s study, but to her relief, the Judge spoke only a few encouraging words, then took his leave, promising to call the next day to drive her into Tucson.

  By the time she thanked him and watched him depart, she wanted desperately to be alone with her thoughts, but Matt Richards remained, watching her with concern as she dropped wearily into a brown leather easy chair.

  Bryony felt too drained even to speak. All she could think about was the venom she’d seen in Rusty Jessup’s eyes. She’d made an enemy of the man, a dangerous enemy, and it was not at all a pleasant thought.

  She felt shaken, and exhausted. But she managed a small, wan smile for the man who had been her father’s friend.

  “Are you all right, Bryony?” Matthew Richards asked, coming over to stand beside her chair. “I hope you haven’t let that hombre upset you too much. Men like Jessup are full of idle threats. But there’s no reason to worry about it—he’ll probably drink himself out of his rage and forget everything he said by tomorrow.”

  “Do you really think so, Mr. Richards?” She gazed up at him hopefully, comforted by his reassuring words and his strong, solid presence. With his powerful, thickset physique and dark good looks, Matthew Richards seemed like a man who could take care of any situation. She trusted his judgment, and felt that if he believed Jessup was only talking, then almost certainly it must be true.

  “I’ve got a hunch everything will work out just fine.” Smiling, he pulled up a chair beside her. “And won’t you call me Matt? I sort of hoped we could be good friends, and I hate to stand on ceremony with my friends.”

  “Yes, of course,” Bryony agreed warmly, her heart lifting. If there was one thing she needed in Winchester, it was friends—and Matt Richards would be a welcome one. The rancher was kind, handsome, and a powerful, well-liked figure in town. She’d seen that when he’d accompanied her to the gunsmith earlier that morning. Everyone they’d encountered on the street had greeted him with deference—and the gunsmith had treated him with the utmost respect, even more so than he had Judge Hamilton.

  She was pleased that Matt had
chosen to befriend her, especially since she’d refused to sell him the Circle H in the first place and had instead claimed it for her own.

  She’d wondered if he might be angry about that, but when she mentioned it hesitatingly, he laughed.

  “Angry? With you? That’s nonsense! Sure I wanted the ranch—it’s a valuable property, and would make a fine addition to my own land. And I hardly expected you to want it—I thought you’d be happy to be rid of it and have the cash instead. But I’m sure not mad because you wanted to keep it.” He smiled frankly. “I’ll tell you the truth, Bryony, I never expected you to come here like this—to make the Circle H your home. It’s the damndest thing I ever saw, but I admire you for it!”

  She blushed. “Thank you. I’m glad you understand how much this ranch means to me.”

  “I do. And I have to tell you, the way you handled those wranglers this afternoon reminded me of your father. He had that same kind of determination you showed today. Building this ranch into one of the largest spreads in Arizona meant more to him than almost anything. Maybe that’s why he and I got along so well. You see, I feel the same way about my Twin Bars ranch.”

  His voice trailed off and he seemed lost in contemplation. When he continued, he seemed to be talking almost to himself. “The Twin Bars had only three, maybe four thousand head of cattle when I started it years ago. But I worked hard—damned hard—and now I’ve got thirty-five thousand head of the finest cattle you’ve ever laid eyes on. I built that spread into one of the best ranches in the territory, and I’m not finished yet. The Twin Bars will grow even more—it’s going to make me the wealthiest cattleman in the whole west before I’m finished—”

  Breaking off abruptly, he smiled apologetically at her. “Damn, I’m sorry. You must be tired and hungry, Bryony, and here I am going on and on about my own affairs.”

  “Oh, no, it’s fascinating! I’m sure you’ll succeed with all of your ambitions, though from what I’ve heard, you’ve already accomplished more than most men do in a lifetime. The Twin Bars must be a magnificent ranch.”

  “It is.” Matt beamed at her in a pleased way. “I hope you’ll come visit me sometime and let me show you around the place.”

  “I can’t think of anything I’d like more.”

  She rose as he got to his feet and prepared to take his leave, but before turning toward the door, Matt paused a moment and stared earnestly into her eyes. He took her small hand in his large, calloused one, holding it tightly.

  “I must ask you one thing, Bryony. Don’t ride out alone if you can help it. Arizona isn’t exactly the safest place in the world for a man, let alone a woman. There’s real danger not just from Indians, but from all kinds of natural hazards—mountain lions, rattlesnakes, Gila monsters. And there are plenty of lowdown hombres who wouldn’t hesitate to attack a woman alone—men like those who brought you to Gilly’s. So please, be careful. And feel free to call on me if you need anything, or if you’d like me to accompany you someplace. I’ll be happy to oblige anytime.”

  Touched by his concern, and by the generosity of his offer, Bryony thanked him warmly, and watched almost fondly as he strode down the porch steps, vaulting easily into the saddle of the gray gelding. He waved back at her once as he rode off, and she felt a tiny surge of regret at being left alone.

  She liked Matt Richards, and she felt safer when he was around. But she realized almost immediately that she couldn’t let herself depend on him too much—or on anyone else, for that matter.

  Now she was in Arizona, and she had to learn to depend upon herself.

  It was much later that evening when Bryony knelt by the window of her bedroom, staring out at the darkened valley. A chill breeze from the distant, shadowy mountains ruffled the blue silk curtains, and caused her to shiver involuntarily as she pulled her dressing robe closer about her body. But she lingered by the window, heedless of the comfortable brass bed waiting to receive her weary form, and of the pleasant prettiness of her room, which she had scarcely taken time to notice.

  She was troubled by thoughts and feelings for which she had no explanation, and her mood grew ever more lonely and serious as she gazed out at the dark wilderness beyond her window.

  A few hours earlier, she’d devoured a dinner of thick juicy steak and chili beans, served by a silent Rosita, and then she’d wandered aimlessly for awhile about the ranch house—exploring the rooms and hallways, trying to gain some impression of her father by examining her surroundings.

  She hadn’t succeeded in learning much, other than that her father had excellent, expensive taste in furnishings. There were three bedrooms upstairs—his own—a massive chamber decorated in dark woods, with a handsome mahogany bed frame, a thick tan carpet, and bronze lamps—and two other bedrooms that were apparently available for guests.

  The one Bryony had chosen to make into her own quarters was a spacious room with a gleaming parquet floor adorned by an Aubusson carpet. There was a blue silk quilt upon the plump bed with its brass frame, and pretty fruitwood furniture, including a wide chest of drawers, a night stand beside the bed, a dressing table, and the hand-carved rocking chair in the corner by the window. In the opposite corner was an attractive Oriental screen behind which was a porcelain hip bath.

  It was a very comfortable room, she’d concluded.

  And a very lovely house.

  But Bryony was less interested in the physical trappings of her surroundings than in the gloomy mood that had descended upon her after the sun disappeared in a bloody red fire over the western mountains. She had no explanation for this sense of desolate foreboding; she only knew that it was as thick as a heavy mist, and just as intangible.

  Outside her window, dark, scudding clouds rolled ponderously through the moonless sky, seeming to weave a murky pattern of their own mysterious design. They obscured the stars that had brightened the desert the previous night, and only the dim, jagged shapes of the distant mountains were discernible in the resultant blackness, looking like eerie shadows on the horizon.

  She shivered again as the wind whipped at her loose cloud of coal-black hair, sweeping it away from her face as her eyes searched the darkened wilderness for some clue as to the source of her newfound sense of foreboding. But she found none.

  Her thoughts shifted gradually to the people she’d encountered that day, and the events that had taken place.

  She pictured Judge Hamilton, with his weathered, friendly face and reliable good sense, and then thought of Matt Richards: suave, handsome, kind-hearted. The memory of lanky Buck Monroe made her smile, but when Rusty Jessup’s cruel, narrow face swam into her mind’s eye, a cold finger of fear brushed her spine.

  She didn’t understand why he’d tried to lead the wranglers in a revolt against her, or why he had behaved so rudely, forcing her to fire him as the ranch foreman.

  And she understood even less why he’d threatened her, warning that she might not live out another month.

  It seemed to her that ever since she’d arrived in Arizona, events had taken place that seemed designed to frighten her, to force her to abandon her intention of settling in the region.

  First her abduction by Zeke Murdock and the highwaymen, then the problems at the ranch, with the house having been ransacked, the study safe blown open and robbed, the payroll money missing.

  And finally, Rusty Jessup trying to turn the range hands against her.

  It almost seemed as if there was a conspiracy to frighten her away, to make her throw up her hands and turn her back on her inheritance—to send her flying back to St. Louis and Miss Marsh’s School for Young Ladies. But that idea was preposterous. Why would anyone want to drive her away?

  Suddenly, the melancholy cry of a faraway coyote shattered the ominous silence of the night, and she remembered Texas Jim Logan.

  She knew that she’d always think of him now when she heard that sound, that she’d always remember the way he’d held her in his arms and kissed her with such slow, searching intensity beneath the cool des
ert stars...

  Abruptly muttering an oath that would have shocked Miss Marsh, she pushed the heated memory from her mind. Her eyes narrowed in the darkness, and her heart felt like it would explode with anger.

  That murderous gunslinger. Why was she thinking about him? He was nothing but a cold, despicable man—a man she despised with every fiber of her being.

  Yet his tall, lean image suddenly seemed stuck in her mind.

  Biting her lip, she realized she’d never asked Judge Hamilton why her father had quarreled with Texas Jim Logan.

  Tomorrow, she decided, I’ll learn the answer to that question.

  And first thing in the morning, I’ll ask Rosita to burn that disgusting saddle blanket he gave me.

  Hurrying across the cold wooden floor to her bed, she discarded her dressing robe and snuggled between the sheets in nothing but her pale blue satin nightgown, her black mass of hair spread upon the pillow. But much as she tried to sleep, she couldn’t help but envision the muscular gunfighter’s bronzed face. She saw again those cool blue eyes and his hard, cynical mouth. He seemed to loom before her mockingly, his lips twisted into an arrogant smile, his eyes light and steely, seeming to pierce her innermost thoughts.

  She shut her own eyes tightly to block out this disturbing vision, aware that her heart was racing strangely. She chewed her lip, then stared tensely at the ceiling, trying to ignore the gloomy sense of desolation that had troubled her all evening, and which still hung over the silent ranch-house.

  Fervently, she wished that she’d never have to lay eyes on Texas Jim Logan again.

  Never.

  But little did she know how quickly her wish would be denied.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bryony’s interview with Shorty Buchanan the next morning was both brief and productive. She took an immediate liking to the blunt, grizzled little man whose legs were permanently bow-kneed from so many years in the saddle, and whose small beady eyes took her measure unwaveringly.