Love on the Range

by Jessica Nelson

  “They’ll be at it for the next fifteen minutes. It’s their bimonthly routine,” Trevor said.

  Gracie forced herself to look at him, despite her shame at revealing her insecurities. He studied her, his head cocked to the side.

  Being so near to him was scattering her wits. The sooner she escaped the easier it would be to gather her thoughts. She stood. “I’m ready to leave.”

  “Gracie, you look very pretty. Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

  “Actually, I studied myself for a bit in Mary’s full-length one. Now, kindly let me pass.” She gulped down the shock that tried to choke her. He thought her pretty?

  He leaned against the wall, his eyes flicking over her dress before meeting her gaze. “Thought I’d hear what your preacher has to say this morning.”

  Joy filled her as Trevor pushed away from the wall and reached out to push a curl from her forehead. His eyes had turned soft. Warm. Their intensity stirred something in her. And then his gaze dropped to her lips.

  Was he going to kiss her? She sucked in a shallow breath.

  He pulled away abruptly, a flush darkening the planes of his cheekbones.

  Gracie swallowed hard, watching as his hand kneaded the back of his neck. Once again, she’d come up lacking.

  Mary poked her head into the hallway. “Let’s go, Gracie.”

  “I’m coming.” She looked at Trevor. “Are you driving us?”

  The scowl on his face looked darker than storm clouds on a horizon.

  A bit of a nudge might be needed here. “Stiffen your spine, Trevor, and let’s get on with it,” she said, borrowing one of her mother’s favorite phrases. His face grew darker, if that were possible.

  Oh, well. She didn’t have time to stand around and watch him scowl. She scurried out of the house to wait on the front porch while Mary pulled the vehicle around.

  It was an expensive Ford, the latest model, Uncle Lou had told her one day, eyes shining. He normally kept it at the back of the house beneath a weathered lean-to. Riding in automobiles was exciting business, especially fast ones. It would’ve been nice if James picked her up from the train station in the beautiful automobile but apparently he refused to drive such a fancy vehicle.

  Odd that a ranch owner could afford such a car as this, Gracie thought, opening the gleaming back door. Perhaps she should take a small look at Uncle Lou’s ledgers one evening. Just a peek, really, to make sure he was not overextending himself. She slid into the car, mind churning. The idea bore consideration.

  Trevor slammed into the driver’s seat as she closed her door. Neither Mary nor Trevor seemed inclined to speak, so Gracie kept up a steady discourse on the weather. She wanted them to relax before the service.

  In fact, she wanted to relax. This would be Trevor’s first time. What would he think? When the car thudded against the ground Gracie glanced at Trevor. He drove quite lethally on the rough-hewn land.

  It didn’t take long to reach Mr. Horn’s tiny homestead. Gracie had no clue how the man survived out in this desert. From what she’d seen at a past service, he owned a cow, a horse, three chickens and the little place where they came together to worship.

  The church group consisted of six families and they filled the house. As far as she could tell, no one minded the close quarters.

  Gracie sat on a wooden bench and Trevor settled next to her. Mr. Horn chose the worship songs and Mary sang, softly at first, then her soprano rose and others joined in. Gracie didn’t know how she’d go back to her church in Boston. Not after the warmth she’d felt here. No instruments, nothing but the sound of human voices raised in praise.

  As she sang, she was careful not to touch Trevor. Now was a time to sing to God, not think about how raw and vulnerable Trevor could be. When the music ended Mr. Horn stood and Mary came to sit on the other side of Trevor.

  Mr. Horn began his sermon but Gracie had trouble concentrating. The faint exotic scent Trevor wore kept invading her senses. Leather and cologne?

  She studied him covertly. His eyebrows were furrowed and though he held no Bible, he appeared engrossed by Mr. Horn’s words.

  To her horror he turned at the same moment and caught her staring like an enamored schoolgirl. He smirked.

  Quickly she looked away. Prickly heat filled her body. Remembrance of that moment in the hallway swept through her, followed by the quick thought that she hoped Uncle Lou never found out about her foolish attraction to his friend.

  Although surely he wouldn’t disapprove. After all, it was obvious he couldn’t keep his eyes off Mary. Personally, Gracie thought he was a little old for her quiet friend.

  Then again, Mary was what Connie called an “old soul.” Gracie leaned forward and squinted at Mary. Serenity marked her features as surely as her Indian heritage did. And she looked tidy as a pin.

  Gracie self-consciously pushed a wayward curl behind her ear.

  She sat back and forced herself to pull her errant thoughts together as Mr. Horn concluded his message on the importance of kindness. A few murmured amens swept the room, and then a couple across from Gracie rose and came to the middle of the circle. The woman wept silently, shoulders shaking, and her husband held her close to his side.

  “We found out this week our eldest daughter died from the influenza. She was in California visiting Alice’s sister.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple moving painfully up and down. “Please pray for us in our time of grief.” They shuffled back to their seats. A thick congestion filled the room.

  Another man stood. “Lambert’s daughter a few miles down has gone missing. We followed a trail to the border and then lost it. We think she was kidnapped.” He sat down with a thump.

  Gasps cut through the air, followed by the low hum of voices.

  Gracie’s throat clogged. That poor girl. How could Striker have let this happen?

  After the closing prayer, Gracie walked to Mr. Horn and complimented him on his sermon. She shook someone else’s hand but couldn’t concentrate on the socializing she’d intended to do. Not with the sorrow that draped the room like a heavy quilt. Someone tapped her shoulder and she spun around.

  Trevor.

  Facing him proved painful. It was quite embarrassing to have the man catch her ogling him during service. Though he didn’t smile, she had the feeling he was laughing at her just the same.

  “Mary wants to know if you’re ready. A storm’s brewing and she wants to get on,” he said.

  Gracie felt someone brush past her. Conversations around her muted as she struggled to voice an answer.

  His eyes glinted. “Cat got your tongue, sweetheart?” His lazy drawl infuriated her and she struggled to control her temper, something she hadn’t needed to do in years. He wanted to laugh in this sacred atmosphere?

  She glowered at him. “My tongue is fine.”

  “Good.” He jerked his chin in the direction of the door, and Gracie followed him, feeling like an irrational child.

  They reached Uncle Lou’s automobile and Trevor opened the door for her. She slid him a smile, feeling suddenly shy. Although the ride home was silent, Gracie’s thoughts raced. Somehow, someway, she had to make it back to Burns.

  If Mendez had been in this area, then surely so had Striker.

  Chapter Eight

  He almost had them now.

  Trevor shifted in his saddle, scanning the musty interior of the cave he’d seen smoke rising from. They’d cleared out in a hurry, that much was obvious. He stooped down and picked up a coin. It felt cool between his fingers. Smooth. He bit it. Gold. The markings proclaimed it Spanish. He flipped the piece high, caught it and slid it in his pocket. Soon, very soon, Mendez would be taken care of.

  And then he could be free.

  The word rolled around on his tongue,
as foreign and enticing as Gracelyn Riley.

  Had he really almost kissed her? The unexpected impulse yesterday before church had rattled him and made him regret promising Lou he’d keep an eye out for Mendez by staying at the ranch. Keeping his real identity separate from the Striker persona was imperative. That meant maintaining his distance from the naive journalist determined to find him.

  Lambert’s daughter had been located. Turned out she’d run away with one of the hired hands and not been kidnapped. Good news, if not for this morning’s news.

  An agent had intercepted a telegram arriving in Los Angeles. According to the agent, who contacted Lou immediately, Mendez had found Mary in Burns and requested backup so that he could succeed in kidnapping her this time.

  If he figured out Striker lived on the ranch, too, there’d be trouble. Mendez wouldn’t hesitate to put every person on the ranch in danger if he thought it would bring him what he wanted.

  The thought of another shoot-out prickled Trevor’s skin and sent waves of dread through his gut.

  He nudged Butch and the stallion burst into a gallop. Wind rushed past Trevor’s face, cold and harsh, a reminder that the life he led wasn’t a life suitable for a young woman like Gracie. She had dreams. An innocent belief in goodness that felt alien to everything he’d learned about life from the moment he realized what his mother did for a living, what his father encouraged and what his town judged him for.

  Butch zigzagged across the land, aiming toward Lou’s stables. He’d have his own homestead someday. He’d heard of a ranch for sale nearby. Maybe he’d write a letter offering terms of a sale. Or he could stop by. The place wasn’t too far from Horn’s spread.

  Trevor’s thoughts moved to the church service yesterday. He had expected to be annoyed by Gracie sitting so near, to be distracted by her scent, but instead it was Horn’s message that moved him. And at the end, everyone drew together to pray. There’d been a sense of community he couldn’t remember ever feeling with anyone but Lou and Mary.

  Yep, church had been something more than what he’d expected and not the boring, senseless gathering his mother always claimed it to be.

  He drew up to the stables, noting the open door. Butch didn’t make a sound as Trevor guided him to the side of the building and signaled for him to stay still. Silently he slid off his mount and crept to the edge of the stables.

  Someone inside muttered. A thunk filled the air, followed by a squeal and then a definite groan. Trevor touched the gun at his hip and worked his way toward the stable’s opening. With care, he peeked through the open door.

  Gracie stood in the center of the aisle, hands on her hips and an unladylike scowl on her face. Messy curls lay pasted to her face and a pink ribbon hung around her ear. A streak of dirt darkened the tip of her nose.

  At her feet lounged a displaced saddle, hay clinging to the blanket still stuck beneath the leather.

  He felt a tugging at his lips but ignored it. Releasing the holster of his gun, he stepped into the entrance. “Having a little trouble?”

  She looked up and the expression on her face almost made Trevor smile.

  “Indeed I am. Is it too much to ask that Uncle Lou own an English saddle?” she huffed, blowing strands away from her face. Swiping a hand to clear the rest of her hair from her face, she left a dirt streak running from her eyebrow to her chin.

  This time Trevor grinned. He took off his holster and laid it near a wall, and then strode the rest of the way to her. Honey snorted and stomped a hoof. Gracie edged away from the horse.

  “Patience,” he told the mare, running a hand over her nose. She nudged him. “No treats this time.”

  “You talk to her?”

  He shrugged. He’d been talking to horses since he was a kid. They made better listeners than drunken parents. “There’s dirt all over your face.”

  “That’s quite an ungentlemanly thing for you to point out, Trevor.”

  The cutest little pout he’d ever seen curved her lips. He shook himself, forcing his gaze from her mouth to her big, brown eyes. A very unwelcome feeling was stealing over him, a feeling he recognized and didn’t like one bit.

  Fixing her with a pointed stare, he said, “I don’t aim to be a gentleman.”

  Her eyes went wide at that but he ignored her and scooped the saddle off the ground.

  “This is heavy compared to what you’re used to, but you’ll get the hang of it. Watch me closely.” He patted Honey on the neck and made sure the blanket on her back was smooth before he set the saddle on her. “These saddles are made for comfort. Both for the rider and the horse.”

  “Because you’re in them all day?”

  “Exactly.” He shifted so Gracie could watch him as he fixed the saddle onto Honey. He felt her near him, could even smell the scent of her perfume rising above the more familiar odors of horse and hay.

  “You have to make sure the front cinch strap—you’d call it a girth—isn’t twisted.” He needed to concentrate on the task at hand, not on her. Using his fingers, he felt the strap. He moved his hand toward Honey’s belly. “This rear cinch should be loose.”

  Satisfied with his work, he straightened and moved away from Gracie. “You see how I did that?”

  “I believe so.” She studied the saddle and its parts, forehead furrowed. “May I try?”

  “Sure.” He undid the saddle and laid it at her feet. “First you have to lift it.”

  She scrunched her dirt-streaked face at him but tried to do as he said. Air whooshed out of her and she staggered back beneath the weight of the saddle.

  Something unfamiliar bubbled in Trevor’s chest. He frowned at the sensation and focused on Gracie. “Hold it like this.” He motioned to each end of the saddle. “Now make sure Honey is aware of what you’re doing and slide it up onto her back.”

  Gracie groaned but Trevor didn’t rush to help her. If she wanted to ride, she’d have to know how to do this on her own. Honey sidestepped when Gracie dragged the saddle near her.

  “Careful,” he cautioned.

  She cast him a disgruntled look and somehow hoisted the saddle onto Honey without dropping it.

  “Now saddle her up,” he instructed.

  Surprisingly, Gracie caught on real quick.

  “Should I get on now?” she asked.

  “Before you mount, make sure the strap is still tight because a horse’ll blow out its belly and then suck in and you don’t want your saddle slipping to the side.”

  She nodded and checked. “It feels right, but—”

  “Good.” He helped her mount. “Why don’t we make a few circles in the yard?”

  “If you think so…” She sounded strangely hesitant.

  “Riding well takes practice. Comfort and knowledge is important.” Before she could object, he led Honey out behind the stable and then circled her around the yard. Gracie didn’t speak, just sat stiff, clenching the reins.

  Strange.

  After a few rounds, Trevor returned to the barn.

  “Honey’s a good horse to ride.” He gestured for Gracie to dismount.

  “She is.” Gracie leaned forward to dismount but Honey lurched in response. She clutched the saddle horn, face contorted. “Could you help me?” Her voice came out breathless.

  Trevor stepped forward. He didn’t like the look on her face. “You’re afraid,” he stated.

  Hair askew, knuckles white, she didn’t look at him but rather down at his boots as she mumbled what sounded like a denial.

  He really didn’t want to touch her. Only yesterday he’d been tempted to kiss her and now the feeling was roaring back, unbidden. Mouth tight, he reached for her.

  “Take my hand.”

  Honey snorted again and he reached for her neck. “Shh,” he soo
thed, but he didn’t take his eyes off Gracie. A pinched look had contorted her face.

  “Could you just please get me down, Trevor?”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  He saw the way her hand trembled on the horn. He moved closer, sliding his palm down Honey’s neck until he’d moved behind Gracie. “Slide your leg over Honey’s flanks and step down.”

  She looked back at him, her gaze dark and worried. “What if she moves?”

  “I’m right here.”

  Slowly she slid her right leg over Honey’s rump. The saddle creaked with the action. Then somehow she misstepped and tipped backward. He grunted as she rammed into him. Honey startled, jerking away, and pulling Gracie with her.

  Trevor’s arms tightened around Gracie and he locked his knees, twisting so Gracie’s foot, which had become entangled in the stirrup, slipped free. Honey whinnied and stomped back to her stall to reward herself with oats.

  Gracie was still clinging to him.

  Or was he clinging to her?

  Releasing her, he stepped back, away from her fragrance. She spun to face him. Hair clouded around her face, unkempt, falling from its bun to curl over her shoulders.

  “Well,” she said brightly, dusting at her skirt as if she could dislodge unseen debris. “That was a close call. Thank you for seeing to my dismount.”

  “I thought you said you could ride.”

  “Did I say such a thing?”

  He crossed his arms.

  “I’ve ridden before, just not often. I wanted to practice a bit. There are things I have planned to do but my uncle is being uncooperative so I’ll just have to go it alone.”

  “It?”

  “To Burns, if you must know.”

  Her chin jutted forward and he knew she expected him to argue with her. He didn’t give her the satisfaction. Instead, he walked toward Honey’s stall. “If you’re going to ride anywhere, you need to overcome your fear of horses.”