The second time hadn’t been any different. She’d saved his sister-in-law from the clutches of her dastardly uncle, shooting better than any woman he’d ever seen, and many men for that matter. She’d only cleaned up nominally after the mine by then, but her pretty face had been washed enough to reveal both the delicacy and strength of her beautiful features. Framing her daintily pointed oval face was a wealth of sleek, satiny black hair and smooth, perfectly arched brows. They enhanced a flawless porcelain complexion and high cheekbones, the blush on which gave her an exotic appearance. Her incomparable violet eyes and the Cupid’s bow mouth, the double curves of which tempted a man’s control such that he wanted nothing more than to taste their texture. Yes, Wisteria was enough to tempt a saint to sin. What chance did he have when he was no saint, not by a long shot?
With each subsequent meeting, his thoughts had taken a decidedly carnal turn. Like today in court, when she had railed at the judge without caution. Didn’t the girl understand he held her fate in his hands? She needed someone to look after her. Someone with more backbone than her would-be suitor, Jarrett Skeens, and her shiftless good-for-nothing brother who hadn’t even bothered to show up today. She needed someone to take her to task for her reckless ways, like when she got in the judge’s face and had to be held back by the bailiff. If she were his woman, such a thing wouldn’t be allowed to pass without a trip over his knees for a lesson in ladylike decorum.
His eyes fell to her skirts, the narrow waist over gently curved hips and what he knew from tactile memory was a delectable round behind. He’d imagined it upturned on more than one occasion, bared and quivering as she waited for his first open-handed swat to fall. The milky white skin blushing with each successive spank changing from a pretty pink, to a dusky rose, and when she was really naughty and in need of thorough chastisement, such as now, glowing crimson. His palm itched and his cock lengthened, hardening uncomfortably in his trousers right about the time Track arrived at the stable. He sat frustrated and sweaty astride his back, perspiring not from the heat, but for an entirely different reason.
He reined in close to where his older brother was standing. It looked like he’d just arrived as well.
“Any sign of her?” he asked Heath as he dismounted.
“No, I rode west ten miles, stopping to ask at several homesteads along the way. No one has seen her.”
“Aaron said as much about his search east toward Cheyenne,” Luke informed him, taking off his Stetson and wiping his damp brow with his sleeve. In frustration, he speared his fingers through his overlong hair, raking it back off his forehead before replacing his hat. “I don’t like this. She’s upset, patently reckless, and alone. There’s no telling what trouble she’s gotten into by now.”
“Jenny is concerned she’s gone to some of the unsavory businesses in town to look for work,” Heath mentioned.
“Aaron’s deputies searched through town all day. There was no sign of her on Sixth Street, if that’s what Jenny was thinking, or in South Town or anywhere else in Laramie for that matter. It’s like she’s vanished into thin air.”
“Or,” Heath added shrewdly, “she’s behaving like someone not wanting to be found.”
“Where would she hide without funds?”
As they lapsed into silence, hooves pounding the hard-packed road behind them had them turning. The incoming rider was instantly recognizable. Soon, Henry Jackson reined his horse to a halt beside his two sons.
“One of the hands sighted a stranger sniffing around the stables this morning and ran him off,” he began without greeting. “Short, thin, baggy clothing, a hat pulled low over jet black hair.”
“It could be the Turner girl,” Heath guessed right off.
“She’s looking for her horse, no doubt,” Luke interjected.
“You think she’d steal it back?” Heath asked.
Luke frowned. “I wouldn’t put much past that girl. Besides, she thinks the mare is hers, so I don’t suppose she’d see it as stealing.”
“Tarnation,” Henry cussed, slapping his knee with his hat. “I was trying to tell the girl before she ran off yesterday that she could have her danged horse back. I was wanting her menfolk to pay, not that slip of a girl. Her story is heartbreaking. We’ve got to help her before some other scallywag gets his hooks into her.”
Both Heath and Luke looked on as their pa became agitated. He had a soft spot for women, even those who might have done wrong. It wasn’t the case for any of his sons growing up, however. Although he was a loving father with three boys to raise, he’d been strict, laying down the law and the leather strap, if need be, for any misdeeds and wild behavior. He’d tanned them without remorse when they messed up, of which Luke had seen his fair share. He imagined the good Lord knew what he was doing when he gave Henry Jackson boys; girls would have had him tied around their little fingers and run roughshod over his rules.
“We’ve got to find her first,” Luke said, his need to find Wisteria as strong as his pa’s. Something about the girl had gotten to him.
“Let’s set up watch at each of the stables,” Heath suggested.
“Good idea,” Luke agreed with a nod. “If she’s set on getting her horse back, it’s only a matter of time.”
Chapter Two
Standing at the edge of the woods, squinting across the dark-as-pitch field, Wisteria struggled to make out the barn in the distance. With only a handful of stars twinkling overhead, which were becoming cloaked by rapidly gathering storm clouds, she couldn’t decide if the moonless night was a blessing or a curse. On the one hand, the darkness reduced the risk of being sighted, especially with the black shirt and trousers she wore. On the other, the murkiness greatly increased the chances of walking blindly into a gopher hole and twisting her ankle. Wouldn’t that be exactly her Turner luck?
A rustling overhead drew her attention up to the towering Ponderosa pines. The giant evergreens swayed in the breeze, bending together as though whispering. She imagined what they would say if they could. Foolish girl, trying to pull the wool over the eyes of Luke Jackson. Don’t you know he’s one of the best trackers in the state, maybe the territory?
She was aware of that fact, but it couldn’t be helped. With barely a nickel to her name, the train was not an option. That left Shasta, her four-year-old Cremello quarter horse, as her only viable option of leaving Laramie.
With a light cream-colored coat and a white mane and tail, she had beautiful blue eyes and a dark gold marking on her forehead. Papa had taken one look at her and dubbed her Shasta, the cream-and-gold coloring reminding him of the daisies that grew around their homestead near Denver. Bred, raised, and trained by her father, her gentle-natured mare was the last connection she had with Harrison Turner.
Blinking back the bittersweet tears that burned each time a memory of her beloved papa surfaced, the ache in her chest was palpable. As they so often did during times of stress, which had been frequent since his passing, his words came to her, almost like he was standing behind her whispering them in her ear. Focus on the task at hand, Wisteria Rose, take one day at a time and the rest will fall naturally in place.
The task at hand—getting Shasta back—was what she had to do now.
Determined, she started across the field right as thunder rolled in the distance. By the time she reached the barn’s wide double doors, the light breeze had whipped into a steady wind, plastering her baggy trousers along the backs of her legs and sending the long fall of her midnight black hair lashing across her face. Flipping it back with an impatient jerk of her head, she fumbled with the latch, having to shove at the wooden closure with both hands to get it to budge. Eventually, she figured out she had to lift, then push, before it slid free.
The sky opened up in a torrent of driving rain as the doors swung open. The wind howled as she entered the barn and proceeded to check each of the dozen stalls, the bright flashes of lightning making her task easier. Draft horses mostly, their large hulking shadows daunting at seventeen or eigh
teen hands high, a few saddle horses, and one paint. When she reached the end of the row in the very last stall on the left, she breathed in relief. It was Shasta.
Moving fast, she located a blanket, her saddle, and a bridle before entering the stall. Speaking loud enough to be heard over the storm raging outside, she used a soothing tone as she readied her for a wild and wet midnight ride. After adjusting the stirrups and the tightness of the cinch, it was time to mount up.
Sensing movement behind her, she turned, her heart pumping as her hand curled automatically around the gun at her hip. She almost laughed, finding a honey-colored Labrador staring up at her from the stall door, her tail thumping a steady beat on the hard-packed dirt floor. “You need to bark and let someone know that you’re there, girl. I almost shot you.”
At her hushed tone, the dog stood, tail wagging faster as her mouth opened. Wisteria noticed her coat was dry and that she must have taken shelter before the storm hit.
“You stay here. It’s a real frog wash out there. No sense both of us getting wet in this.”
The next sound was the creak of leather as she grabbed onto the pommel and prepared to heft herself up top. She had no sooner thrown her leg over the saddle when strong hands grabbed her waist and yanked her clean off Shasta’s back. An ear-piercing shriek echoed through the barn. It came from her own throat, of course, and was loud enough to startle the other horses who snorted, moving restlessly.
“Trespassing, claim jumping, and now we add horse thieving to the list. You’ve been a busy girl lately.”
She stiffened, instantly biting back a response to the recognizable deep voice. “It’s not theft when it’s your own horse, Mr. Jackson. I simply came to retrieve what is mine.”
“Yours no longer, according to the territory of Wyoming, darlin’.”
“Let me go.”
“I don’t think so.”
Pushing on the arm holding her prisoner was useless, finding it more like a steel band around her waist. She tried asking more politely. “Please put me down. I’m finding it difficult to have a conversation while you’re holding me a foot off the floor.”
He set her down and turned her to face him, strong fingers maintaining a grip on her shoulders. With a mulish set to her face, she didn’t look at him, staring straight ahead at the placket of his shirt.
“It’s not fair. You don’t need Shasta. Your stable is full. She’s all I have. Please let me take her and go.”
“I can’t let you go in this storm. And with the deluge out there, the creek is surely rising, and the bridge back to town often gets washed over. Where do you plan to go anyhow?”
“That’s really not your concern, sir.”
He ignored her and persisted. “Back to your intended?”
“Jarrett Skeens is demented if he thinks I’ll ever marry him. I never agreed to any such thing. I’d as soon wed a warty toad.”
“If not to him, then where? Your brother didn’t show up for trial, skipped town and left you. So if Skeens isn’t your intended and your good-for-nothing brother can’t be relied upon to watch over you, who then?”
“I don’t need a keeper.”
“Hm…”
She bristled at the skepticism in his tone.
“You got money?”
She didn’t answer.
“Something of value you can trade?”
More silence. She had Shasta, the clothes on her back, and literally, two cents to her name. If she could make it back home, there were a few friends she could count on, who might put her up for a spell until she figured something out. She hoped.
“Laramie’s a rough town for a woman on her own, especially one with a knack for finding trouble, which you have done time and again since I’ve met you. So from where I’m standing, a keeper is exactly what you need.”
“For a second time, this is not your concern.”
He continued on as though she hadn’t spoken. “After the storm passes, I’ll take you to the big house. Ma will take care of you until we figure something out.”
She looked up, eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Why would you do that? Why would she, for that matter? My brother and his friends tried to rob you, blasted crumbling caves and tunnels all over your land, and in general have been a pain in the a—” Seeing his dark look, she thought better of what she would say. “Yes, well, let’s just say they’ve been a real headache for your family. I can’t imagine your mother welcoming me with open arms—more like a loaded, double-barrel shotgun.”
He chuckled. “You don’t know my ma. You’ll make the third down-on-her-luck young woman in a year.”
“Well, that’s kind, but I can’t. I need to be moving along.”
“It wasn’t an option I was giving you, young lady.”
Her mouth fell open. Who did he think he was to boss her around? She asked him precisely that. “My daddy’s long since passed, so I know you’re not him to order me about. My shiftless brother hightailed it to parts unknown, so we can scratch him off the list. And,” she held up her left hand, “there’s no band of gold on this finger that gives you authority over me.” She wrenched free of his hold and stalked toward the door. “I’m leaving on Shasta and you can’t stop me.”
His firm hand on her arm spun her around. “Wanna bet?” he fired back. “You’re staying even if I have to truss you up like a Christmas goose to keep you here.”
“You wouldn’t dare,” she gasped, trembling with indignation.
“Oh, darlin’, if you knew me better, you’d rethink throwing a challenge like that in my face.”
“If you knew me better, you’d realize I don’t take kindly to threats, especially ones bandied about by an overbearing, condescending, arrogant male.” With that, she made her move. Thankfully unencumbered by her usual skirt, she planted one foot, bringing her opposite knee up sharply into his groin. She scored a direct hit and stepped back as he doubled over, sucking in air. Wisteria whirled without hesitation, nearly jumping out of her skin when his dog—who she’d clean forgotten about—barked. She did it only once before bounding over to her master, who lay groaning on the ground, and beginning to lick his face.
Not taking a second to give thanks that his dog was the worst watchdog she’d ever seen, Wisteria also didn’t waste time gloating in victory, either. Instead, she rushed to Shasta, mounted and was through the barn doors riding hell-bent for leather before he could half recover.
Drenched instantly by the driving rain, she ignored it and set her heels to her horse. Leaning over her neck, she made a run for the hills, quite literally. She rode at a full gallop for at least ten minutes, slowing to a trot as she approached a fork in the road and realized it was decision time. Laramie? Or east toward Cheyenne.
Pounding hooves not far behind her had her twisting about. The rider was hard to make out in the rain and the dark of night; still she knew it was Luke cresting the rise a mile or so back and riding straight for her. Decision made, she bolted down the left fork. Cheyenne it was.
Her mare was fast and remarkably fleet of foot in the muddy ground, but she was no match for Luke’s sorrel stallion, which easily overtook her within a half mile. Thinking agility would win out, she guided her onto a path leading into a copse of trees off to the right.
“Stop!” he shouted.
In blatant disregard of his order, she pushed Shasta forward, albeit more slowly as they picked their way through the woods.
“Dammit, girl, the creek is rising.”
He had no sooner said it than she was upon it. A flash of lightning seeming to punctuate his warning. As it lit up the sky, a loud crack thundered through the woods, as a nearby tree was struck and a branch crashed to the forest floor, spooking her horse. With the water in front of her and a strange horse at her rear, Shasta panicked, whirled, and reared up on her hind legs. This promptly sent a startled Wisteria airborne. A split second later, she was submerged in the rapidly flowing creek. Far from her best skill, she struggled to swim in the strong current and was
soon taken under. Hampered by her overly large male boots, baggy trousers, and Slim’s long woolen coat, she felt the water pulling her inexorably down no matter how hard she kicked and struggled to swim upward.
Her lungs burned as the need for air became overwhelming. A sharp tug on her hair barely penetrated her consciousness as she swam with all her might. An instant later an arm snaked around her chest and dragged her upward until she broke through the surface of the rapidly churning water.
She found herself towed toward the bank as she gasped, expanding and filling her lungs with gulping mouthfuls of precious air. When on solid ground, he released her, setting her down on shaky legs barely able to hold her upright. As she began to crumple, his hands flew back to support her, strong arms sliding around her waist.
“Are you all right?”
“I don’t know.” Too shaken from the near drowning to be sure at the moment, she spoke the truth.
“You’re talking, which means you’re breathing, that’s a good sign.”
Looking up—as near as he was, this meant way, way up—she took in his concern, the frown, the gathered dark brows, and the worried eyes that were searching her face. Vaguely, she noticed his hat was missing as the rain pelted directly into his face.
“Does anything hurt?”
She took stock for a second. Amazingly, nothing did. She shook her head.
Wild Wisteria Page 2
