Mustang Wild

by Stacey Kayne

  Skylar did as he suggested and tossed him the rope.

  When they reached the yard, Tucker dismounted and grabbed the mare by her harness. "I'll take her," he said as Skylar stepped down from her saddle.

  "She'll be the first to go out in the morning."

  "You got it, boss lady," Tucker said as he led the horse toward the corral.

  A short while later he walked from the stable after finishing with the horses. He spotted Skylar leaning against the small single corral on the opposite side of the stable from the mares, where he was keeping one rowdy white stallion. Tucker had eaten quite a bit of dirt and sand trying to gentle that stud. "I hope you're not planning to tackle him before supper," he said, coming up behind her.

  Skylar glanced back, surprising him with a slight smile.

  "Nope. He's all yours."

  "Your face is starting to sunburn," he said, noticing how her relaxed expression enhanced the delicate features of her pretty face.

  Skylar blinked, appearing confused by his comment. "What?"

  "Your face, it's sunburned."

  She dropped her gaze, clearly perturbed by the offhanded comment. "I'll borrow Garret's hat for a while tomorrow."

  "You don't have one of your own?"

  "I lost it the night we were ambushed."

  "I'll have Chance pick one up for you when he goes for supplies in the morning."

  "I don't want any favors from you, Morgan," she said, eyeing him skeptically. "I only want to get to Wyoming." She turned away from the fence and started toward the barn.

  "Chance," she said as she passed his brother, who'd been walking toward them.

  "Sky," he greeted in return, touching his fingers to the brim of his hat, but she didn't pause for pleasantries. She marched her tight little butt right past him and into the barn.

  "Your wife sure don't like you a'tall," Chance said as he followed Tucker toward the cabin.

  "So I keep being reminded. She keeps working miracles with those horses and she can cuss me clear to Wyoming."

  "Amen to that," Chance agreed.

  "Where's the kid?" Tucker asked, glancing about the yard.

  "He headed in a little while ago to check on supper."

  Tucker stopped in his tracks. "Who fixed our supper, you or him?"

  "The kid. Stewed meat and potatoes again."

  Tucker groaned. "If he cooks like his sister, we'll be better off heading to the stable and eating oats with the horses."

  "Don't worry. I hid the salt. And I thought our cooking was lousy."

  "It is," Tucker said as they reached the cabin. "But there's a hell of a difference between lousy and plain inedible."

  While Tucker and Chance washed up, Garret set four places at the small table and began serving stew into the bowls.

  "Go get your sister," Chance said as he sat down at the table. Garret set the pot of stew back on the stove then hurried out to fetch Skylar.

  With only two rickety old chairs in the cabin, Tucker grabbed an empty crate from the floor and flipped it up on its side, placing it before an open spot at the table. "How'd things go with you and Garret today?" he asked, taking his makeshift seat.

  "The kid talks too damn much. But other than that, he's just like his sister. He doesn't have any quit in him. You and Sky seemed to do all right."

  Tucker reached toward a box of matches at the center of the table beside the kerosene lantern. Removing the glass

  globe, he lit the wick, spilling golden light across the darkening room.

  "Only because she was too busy with the horses to hiss and spit at me."

  "Then you bes' keep her busy, because we need her."

  Tucker agreed, but hadn't expected Chance to come right out and say so. "Glad to hear your approval. As of this morning, she and Garret are on the payroll. Skylar needs a hat. See that you pick one up for her when you get our supplies."

  "Fair enough. I'll put it in the ledger. I wish they'd hurry up," he said with a scowl, glancing at the door. "I'm half-starved."

  Tucker's stomach grumbled as he looked at the bowl of steaming meat and potatoes in front of him. "You and Garret ate something at noon, didn't you?"

  "Apples and dried beef don't fill a man's gut."

  Tucker nodded an agreement, having inhaled the same dinner in between saddling horses.

  Both glanced up as the door squeaked open.

  "Sky won't be comin' in for supper."

  "Why not?" Tucker and Chance asked simultaneously.

  Garret's mouth dropped open, his gaze moving between them as he eased into the chair across from Chance.

  "You'll get used to us," said Tucker. "Is she so put out by me that she doesn't want to eat in my company?"

  Garret shook his head. "It ain't that. She's asleep. I tried to wake her, but I couldn't."

  "Couldn't?"

  "She ain't dead, but she's sleeping pretty solid. Can we eat?"

  "She worked her butt off today," Chance said, then nodded toward Garret. "Bow your head, kid," he instructed as he propped his elbows onto the table and folded his hands. "Lord, we thank you for this food we're about to eat and for seeing us through another day. Amen." Chance grabbed a spoon and dug into his bowl of stew. Garret followed his cue, taking two heaping bites before Chance managed one.

  Tucker muttered an "Amen" then stood. "Skylar should eat. I'll go see if I can wake her"

  "Be careful," Garret called after him. "She can be a pistol when she's tired. She never opened her eyes when I tried to wake her, but she did try to kick me."

  "I'll keep that in mind," he said, shutting the door behind him. With darkness quickly claiming the sky, Tucker walked across the shadowed yard. Stepping lightly into the barn, he spotted Skylar in one of the stalls across from their horses. Not certain if he should wake her, he crept quietly up to the gate.

  Lying belly-down, she was stretched out on some fresh straw, her jacket balled up under her head, her face hidden beneath the folds of her arms. He wondered why she hadn't at least laid out her bedroll.

  His gaze swept across the length of her slender body. After the way she exerted herself today, she didn't need to miss a meal.

  He started to enter the stall then paused, noting a fine tremble in her shoulders. He heard a sharp gasp of air from beneath her folded arms and felt an instant tension move across his own shoulders.

  Ahy hell. She's not sleeping, she's—

  Skylar shifted onto her side. Tucker took a quick step backward into the shadowed corner of the barn as she sat up.

  Sniffling, she shoved her hair away from her face. Tears twinkled like stars as they slid down her cheeks, capturing gleams of light filtered through the cracks of the barn.

  He had to get the hell out of here! Two years of witnessing Winifred's frequent tearful tirades had given Tucker a healthy fear of fitful women.

  Skylar drew a deep breath and closed her eyes, releasing a stream of silent tears.

  After a few moments of listening to her even, steady breaths, it occurred to Tucker that not all women may be prone to tearful theatrics. Despite her glistening cheeks, Skylar appeared rather peaceful. And vulnerable.

  She's got one hell of a poker face. Looking at her now, she hardly resembled the woman full of confidence and sass who'd spent the day working his horses. His gaze skimmed across long, golden lashes resting against pink skin that had seen too much sun.

  Why am I still standing here?

  With her eyes closed, he was wasting his chance to escape. He backed up as quickly and quietly as he could, and bumped hard into something solid. The rafters overhead creaked as he turned toward what should have been a clear path to the open door. In the dim light, he couldn't make out what he'd hit, until a large canvas sack swung back from the shadows and clocked him right between the eyes.

  Pain shot across Tucker's face as the familiar sound of cast iron pounded stars into his eyes.

  "Goddamn it!" he shouted, staggering backward. He clamped a hand over his nose as he slamme
d against the stall behind him.

  Tucker blinked several times to clear his vision, his mind still registering the pain. He eased his hand away from his throbbing face. Crimson droplets of blood dripped steadily into his palm. Son of a bitch! Skylar's skillet had likely broken his nose!

  Remembering she was also in the barn, Tucker suppressed a groan and glanced over his shoulder.

  Skyar's wide, glistening eyes stared into his. Sitting on her knees, her lips parted, she looked as stunned as he felt.

  Too late to run now. His gaze focused on tears still bright in her eyes.

  "You okay?" she asked, swiping her hands across her cheeks as she stood up.

  "Just dandy." He pinched his nose and tipped his head back to slow the flow of blood drizzling down his chin.

  "How long have you been standing there?"

  "Long enough to get a nosebleed," he quipped. And a black eye. The flesh around his left eye was growing tighter by the second.

  A light trickle of laughter danced across his senses, distracting him from the pain. Opening his eyes, he was stunned to find Skylar directly in front of him, her blue eyes bright with amusement. She tugged a handkerchief from her pants pocket. "Let me see," she said in the sultry voice she used with the horses as she reached toward his face.

  Tucker reared, keeping his hand clamped over his nose. "I don't—"

  "Stop fussing and put your hand down."

  Feeling like an idiot, biting back a curse, Tucker did as she said. He was instantly rewarded by the soothing glide of gentle fingers against his aching face. Watching the intent look in Skylar's eyes, he wasn't sure which made him dizzier, the blow to his head or the tender slide of her fingers across his nose.

  "It's not broken."

  "No thanks to your pack," he grumbled, while wondering how hands tough and calloused as his own could feel like velvet against his skin. "How many frying pans do you own, anyhow?"

  Her light, musical laughter coiled down his spine, tensing his entire body as she examined the left side of his battered face. "I hung our gear from some old nails to keep it out of the way, but you seem to have struck up a courtship with our skillet."

  Her smile was like her voice. Warm, sultry, alluring.

  She must be too tired to be hateful, he thought, knowing her red-rimmed eyes were caused by more than tears. His gaze drifted across her face. Her skin looked as soft and pretty as a rosebud. And those lips... Standing so close, he could feel her breath mingling with his.

  Tucker pinched his eyes shut. It would be wrong to make a pass at his new horse trainer, the woman he intended to unwed.

  A woman who's after my ranch.

  He suddenly wished she had kept her poker face on and hoped she'd be getting it back soon.

  Focus on the pain. Not that he could feel anything beyond the fire pooling in his groin as her fingers tentatively probed his rapidly swelling eye.

  "Luckily, you have a thick skull," she said, wiping a fresh trail of blood from his upper lip with her handkerchief. "Here. You may need this for a while longer."

  Tucker opened his eyes and took the bloodstained cloth from her hand. "Thanks," he said, his voice so thick it barely scraped past his throat.

  "No problem. You can keep it."

  "I meant for the doctoring. You've got a healing touch that could make a man want to get hurt just to be petted by you."

  Something flashed in her eyes, something close to fear. Her gaze narrowed, and Tucker realized his choice of words must have given her the wrong idea. Not that he was against the idea of having her soothing hands all over him, but he hadn't meant to announce it.

  "You shouldn't go creeping about in shadows," she said, her features firming. "A man could get shot that way."

  His gaze dropped to the gun still holstered at her hip.

  Fun was over. Thank God. Much more of her coddling and he would have gotten himself shot for sure. "I wasn't creeping about in the shadows. I came to tell you supper's on the table."

  She stepped back into the stall and latched the gate behind her. "I'm not hungry." She grabbed a bedroll and released the ties. "Shut the barn door on your way out," she said as she tossed the heavy blanket across the bed of fresh straw.

  Even as Tucker told himself he should get out while he could, he lingered, knowing she should eat. "Skylar, you need to eat."

  She flopped onto her stomach, fluffed her jacket under her head, then shut him out completely by covering her face in the folds of her arms.

  What was he supposed to do now? Just walk away?

  Beats standing here like a bleeding idioty his mind answered. He turned away, careful to miss her pack this time, and left the barn. What did he care if she didn't eat?

  Reaching the house, he was still pinching his bloody nose as he stepped inside. Garret burst into laughter before Tucker shut the door behind him.

  "I told you to be careful," he squealed.

  Not feeling up to giving any explanations, Tucker walked past the table and into the bedroom. Silently cursing the muffled laughter following him from the other room, he tossed himself onto the bed.

  "Is it broke?" Standing in the doorway, his evil twin flashed a wide grin.

  "No," Tucker answered, annoyed by what it took to put an upward curve in Chance's lips.

  "What were you doing within arm's reach of her? You know she's a spitfire. The kid even warned you."

  Tucker gaped at his brother over the top of the rag pressed against his nose. "She's a woman, for criminy sake!"

  "She's a cowhand. You better realize she's used to being treated as such. Commenting on that pretty face of hers will only get you into trouble, and treating her like some delicate piece of frippery...well, it seems that sort of foolishness will get you a busted nose."

  "Skylar didn't give me the bloody nose."

  "Uh-huh. Am I supposed to believe you walked into the barn door?"

  "She hung her pack from one of the nails in the rafters. I didn't see it until the damn thing hit me in the face."

  Chance's grin returned. "This woman's damn hard on your health."

  "Go to hell," Tucker mumbled.

  "I'll be on your heels the whole way, little brother. Is she coming in?"

  "No. She's...sleeping."

  Chance turned and walked back to the table, telling Garret he could have extra stew.

  Tucker stared up at the dark ceiling, knowing Chance was right. Despite her pretty face, sultry voice and shapely body that tied him in knots, Skylar was just another cowhand. He'd be doing himself a favor to think of her as such.

  Hell He'd being doing himself a favor not to think about her at all.

  Chapter 5

  Huddled over the tiny kitchen table with Tucker and Chance as they went over her father's journal, Skylar continually found her gaze drifting from the sketches of terrain to the sharp lines and intriguing planes of Tucker's face.

  The swollen tissue across the bridge of his nose was hardly noticeable anymore, leaving only a dark streak beneath his left eye; a constant reminder of her humiliating display of weakness. It was bad enough he'd caught her crying; then she had to go begging for more trouble by constantly looking at him. She'd been chastised enough over the last few years by her father to know better.

  You go flashin' smiles to the men and you 're gonna find yourself under some rutting bastard and your belly swollen with child.

  Her run-in with Randal had proved his point.

  Randal had been full of crocodile smiles and smoldering stares. She hadn't thought she'd behaved in a promiscuous fashion toward Randal, but she hadn't blatantly discouraged his attention, either. During the few minutes he'd wrestled her to the ground, she hadn't liked his hard kisses or groping hands one single bit. She shuddered at the recollection as self-contempt churned at her insides.She couldn't allow any such confusion between herself and Tucker. Fortunately, he hadn't looked at her in such a way since the night before last or mentioned the incident. For some reason, Garret and Chance seemed t
o think she'd been the one who'd bruised up his handsome face. They had harassed him all of yesterday, none of which seemed to bother Tucker. He made light of the incident, flinching dramatically whenever she was within three feet of him. But then, Tucker seemed to make light of life in general. She'd never known anyone who was so quick to smile.

  She needed to get out of here. She found it impossible not to stare at him when they were in the same room, intrigued by his similarities to Chance, as well as their differences, which was why she tried to avoid being in the small cabin at all.

  "Have you found a problem with my suggestion?" she asked.

  Tucker turned the page and pored over the next two maps with the same intensity he had the others. "Not exactly."

  "This is some journal," said Chance.

  The slight upward tilt of Chance's lips caught Skylar's attention. Chance's personality was such a contrast to Tucker's. If they had any physical differences, she hadn't been able to pinpoint them. It amazed her that two men could be physically identical, yet so very different at the same time.

  "What are we waitin' on?" Garret called as he barreled in through the open door. "The gear's all packed. Hey, that's my pa's journal." He stepped beside Tucker and dropped his elbows onto the table as he leaned toward the center.

  "Kid, your head makes a better door than a window," Chance said in a dull tone.

  Garret eased back and Tucker gave him a firm shove, knocking Garret off balance. Garret quickly found his footing and retaliated by slamming his body against Tucker, nearly knocking him off the crate.

  Tucker laughed as he straightened and looked back at the journal.

  Another difference, thought Skylar. Tucker was particularly kind to Garret, and playful. He didn't show the impatience she saw in Chance's expression when Garret hounded them with questions or rattled on the way Garret was prone to do. Tucker was—

  Blast!

  Realizing she was staring at him again, she shifted her gaze toward the open doorway. "We're burning daylight," she said with impatience. "Are we settled on heading northeast or not? We can bicker about specific passes on the way."