Love of a Cowboy 1

by Paige Tyler

  They plodded on another few yards, silently waiting. When he nudged his horse into a trot, he wondered if it were a poor choice. Would that take him into danger even sooner? It also made him think about the poor choices he’d made in his twenty-eight years. Choosing to go on this particular assignment, as a Marshal was one. Deciding on this route was another. Yet the choices that most bothered him—ones that haunted him day and night—had been made years ago. They were choices that still tore at his soul and were part of what made him such a hard man today. A stone-cold bastard sometimes. At least that’s what Taos told him from time to time.

  Birds warbled cries of alarm from within the pines. Taos’ horse whinnied and sidestepped.

  Morgan scanned the area with narrowed eyes. His heart pounded in dread of what lurked in the darkness surrounding them. All he spotted was a squirrel scurrying into the underbrush. His senses remained on alert. Something was out there. Someone watched them. Again he thought about his gut feeling that his life was about to change for the worse.

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.” He kicked at the sides of his powerful bay horse. Demon’s massive muscles bunched and then he tore ahead down the valley floor.

  “Right behind you,” Taos called out, snapping his reins.

  A bullet whizzed out of the thick forest before they’d gone more than a hundred yards.

  “Damnation!” Taos hissed.

  Morgan pulled up on the reins and hazarded a glance over his shoulder. Taos had slowed and now held a hand to his upper left chest. They shared a brief look of understanding, of anger and determination.

  “Get out of here!” Taos ordered as he struggled to control his frightened mount.

  “Like hell,” Morgan bellowed back. He turned his horse as he fired into the brush where he thought the shot had come from.

  Taos’ buckskin reared on its back legs, toppling him to the ground. Before Morgan could catch the reins, the horse snorted in fear and took off at full-speed.

  Grimacing against the pain, Taos growled, “Get out! Now!”

  Morgan didn’t even consider the idea. He leaned down to offer Taos a hand up as a second bullet whistled out of the brush. It planted itself in Morgan’s gun arm just below the shoulder. His revolver slipped from his hand and his attempt to pull Taos up ended. “Well, shit.”

  “I told you to get out of here,” Taos gritted out. “You don’t listen worth a damn. Never have.”

  Morgan slid from the right side of the saddle and jerked his Winchester from the scabbard. He ignored the throbbing pain in his arm as he sought meager protection behind his trembling horse. “We’re partners. We don’t abandon each other.” He would be pissed if whoever was taking pot shots at them hit Demon.

  The sound of a branch breaking echoed through the tension-filled air like the roar from a cannon. Demon pawed at the ground and finally jerked free of Morgan’s tenuous hold on the reins. The horse took off in a blaze of fright leaving him exposed.

  He glanced down and found Taos clutching his chest with one hand, blood oozing between his fingers. His other hand tenaciously gripped his Colt. Morgan knew his partner felt—could almost taste—the same outrage at being bushwhacked that he did. But he refused to accept their dying in this lonely valley as inevitable.

  Hidden somewhere in the trees a horse snorted impatiently. Hooves stomped on the pine needle covered ground and the rustling sound carried through the area.

  He whirled around to face the spot he determined the sound had come from and awkwardly aimed just as their attacker rode out of the bushes. Rafe Marino! The heat of hatred swelled within him.

  Rafe sat boldly in a beam of sunlight and faced him. His thick mustache was curled up at one side in a sneer. Rafe snickered; the mocking sound evil and crazed. At the sight of the outlaw bounty hunter an acid-like bitterness churned in Morgan’s stomach.

  At his feet, Taos swore a blue streak and managed to fire his gun. The shot went wide, but jerked Morgan back to action. He raised his rifle higher and fired. But the shot came too late. Rafe had already wheeled his mount around and raced out of range.

  “Damn idiot! I should have reacted faster.” He lowered his rifle and focused on his groaning partner. He eased down beside Taos’ long, lean form. Seeing the blood soaked shirt, he flinched. Bad. Damn bad.

  “You couldn’t have ducked better?” he grumbled, trying to distract them both. He would have a hell of a time getting the bullet out.

  “I’ll try to…duck better…next time.” The words tumbled out grimly, painfully.

  Morgan gritted his teeth and ripped open the front of Taos’ shirt. He didn’t want to think about there maybe not being a next time. He didn’t want to consider that it would take a damn miracle to get them out of the mountains alive. What he did think about was how much he wanted another chance to correct some of the mistakes he’d made in his life. He refused to meet his Maker without righting some of his wrongs. And he refused to give up on Taos.

  What sounded too much like a death rattle came from Taos’ chest. Rage and concern made Morgan force aside thoughts of anything but what needed to be done. Ignoring the burning pain in his arm, he tugged off his coat and then his shirt. He barely noted the briskness in the air on his bare chest. Blood trickled down his arm. Damn bullet was still in the meat of his muscle. Couldn’t have passed on through? Hell, no! No time for it now.

  “Don’t you die on me,” he growled as he worked fast to rip the shirt up for bandaging.

  His face as pale as a sheet, Taos gasped, “Always ordering people around.”

  “I demand obedience, too.” Especially now. He did not—would not—lose his friend today.

  As he pressed the makeshift bandage against his wound, Taos sucked in a breath and squeezed his eyes shut. He grabbed Morgan’s arm with a blood-covered hand. “I’m not going to order you. I’m asking.” He grimaced. “Whiskey. My sister. Promise me you’ll marry her.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” Morgan blinked away the moisture stinging his eyes from the thought of losing the only man who knew all of his secrets. A man who had never questioned what he had done, who had merely accepted him as a friend. He scowled. “Talking nonsense.”

  “Not nonsense.” Taos coughed, the sound knotting Morgan’s stomach. “It’s time…time for you to settle down…like you’ve talked about.”

  Morgan shook his head. His comments over their many campfires together had been nothing but talk, nothing but spouting off a fool’s dreams. He had tried settling once and he’d failed. Badly.

  “She needs a strong man. You.”

  The thought of losing his partner was bad enough. The notion of getting married again was almost as bad. And to Whiskey? He frowned and snapped, “Hold that in place for a minute.”

  As Taos held the bloody rag to his chest, Morgan reached up and in an awkward motion tied a strip of his shirt around his bleeding arm. He was getting dizzy from loss of blood. He needed to dig the bullet out. No time for that. He had to make a miracle happen here. He had to find the strength to go after his damn horse. Demon was well trained. Eventually he would stop running and then he would come back looking for him. He was counting on that. Both he and Taos were counting on that.

  “Promise me,” Taos prodded, drawing Morgan’s attention once more.

  “I’d sooner you just cut out my heart.” To this day he remembered that run-in he’d had with the pint-sized brat at the Wakefield ranch. He’d been damn lucky her brothers hadn’t caught them together in Keno’s room, with him not even properly dressed. Not that it was his fault. She’d barged into the room.

  Taos coughed again and then drew in a ragged breath. “You’re wrong…about marriage.” He paled even more. “Even if I make it…promise me you will marry Whiskey.”

  Morgan envisioned the spirited woman who had been outraged about him being in her brother’s room. Grass green eyes had sparked with fire. A braid of warm red hair had hung to her butt. A butt he’d been sorely tempted to spank
. Brazen little minx.

  “Not a good idea. She’s not my kind of… I’m not her kind of…” He sucked in a breath. He had only told Taos that he’d had some words with her that day, not where they’d had their brief conversation.

  “She needs you,” Taos insisted. “I need you…to do this…for me.”

  Morgan fought down the demons of his past. As much as he didn’t want to, he knew there was only one answer he could give. He owed Taos too much already. “All right. I’ll do it.”

  His eyes squeezed shut and looking far too pale, Taos said on a sigh, “She’s a handful at times…heart as big as…” He opened one eye to focus on Morgan. “Take care of her. Let her love you. You need each other.” His chest rattled again.

  Morgan remained silent. Everything in him had pulled in tight, pulled in protectively. He had loved once. He’d needed once. He doubted he had it in him to take a chance on either emotion again. But he could take care of her, would take care of her. Because his dying friend had begged him to do so.

  If Taos didn’t die…

  *

  Little Rock, Arkansas

  May 1878

  I can do this. I can do this. I can do this!

  Stomach tightening with knots, hands clenching, Whiskey turned to face the cheval mirror. Deep crimson stained the beautiful ivory and lemon yellow day gown her father had sent her all the way from England. Ace’s blood.

  Oh, God!

  Her legs gave out. She crumpled to the floor and buried her face in her hands. She couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t stop shaking. Cold, so cold. Sick.

  She slowly raised her head and fought down nausea. She stared again into the mirror, this time the stain had spread on her gown. Blood streaked her face and covered her hands.

  “No! Please, no! God, no!” the wail tore from her.

  Footsteps, light yet steady, came from somewhere behind her. Then gentle hands touched her trembling shoulders. Her Aunt Mae’s familiar voice threaded through her tortured memories. “Whiskey. Sweetling.”

  The gentleness soothed, drew her back, but she couldn’t speak just yet.

  Her aunt carefully smoothed the top of her head. “Whiskey, what’s wrong?”

  “Blood,” she whispered, squeezing her eyes closed. “My dress…”

  Her aunt slid down beside her and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. “Oh, honey, there’s no blood. You look pretty as a picture in this new blue dress.”

  Blue? Blue dress?

  Her eyes flashed open and she stared at her reflection in the mirror again. She wore the dress her aunt had given her yesterday for her twentieth birthday. Not her father’s gift from last year. Not that dress! Her pulse pounded. She hadn’t worn a dress in over a year, not since…

  “I’m sorry,” she said in a quivering voice she hardly recognized as her own. Her gaze locked in the mirror with Mae’s. “But I can’t… I just can’t wear this to church today.”

  The sympathy in her aunt’s eyes comforted her, even as disgust began replacing her misery.

  That loving hand stroked her hair once more. “It is only a few yards of fabric. Not worth making you miserable.”

  Her aunt stood and leaned down to help her to her feet. “You take the dress off and I’ll pack it away. You can wear those trousers you favor, just like you always wear. God doesn’t care what you look like. Not at all.”

  She shook off the remains of the tortured memory. She was tired of acting weak, like a sniveling coward. She had to stop living in the past. The tragedy would not keep ruling her thoughts and actions.

  She squared her shoulders, yet the words that slipped out were not what she’d intended to say. “Maybe next week.” The emptiness of loss continued to hold her temporary captive. “I just need another week.”

  Mae nodded understanding. “We’ll see.” She turned toward the bedroom doorway, her tone one of no-nonsense, “Now you get changed. I don’t want old lady Simpson trying to steal my place again.”

  Whiskey blinked. Then a smile tickled her lips. The elderly spinster and her aunt had been in a long-running battle over church pew preference. She would shed this treasured gift that her aunt had spent hours upon hours making for her and don the trousers and shirt that she’d gotten all too fond of wearing since coming here. She also needed to stop hiding out on her aunt’s farm. She had known for a while now that it was time to make plans to go home.

  She looked a final time in the mirror. The reflected image was not that of a young woman who had once been filled with dreams of marriage and all things romantic. She would never bear Ace Tanner’s children. They would not grow old and crotchety together. Even though she had spent nearly a year acting like her life was over, it wasn’t. Only those failed dreams. In truth, she wondered if she and Ace would have ever been as happy as she’d hoped they would be. But she didn’t want to ponder that notion now. What did it matter anyway?

  With a sigh of momentary defeat, she began unbuttoning the dress so lovingly made for her. She had a new dream now, one that her aunt had helped her discover. For as long as she could remember, she’d had a special way with animals—especially horses. They trusted her and she cared deeply for them. Her aunt had shared with her the unique gifts she herself had in working with animals and in doctoring to them. She wanted to use this skill she’d learned. And she wanted to start out using it on her family’s ranch outside of Dodge City. When those in the community there accepted what she could do—and they would, she would doctor any and every animal entrusted to her care. She also didn’t intend to ever consider marriage again. She would take care of herself, be happy all on her own, just like her beloved Aunt Mae.

  Her brothers wouldn’t like any of her decisions. They had been overprotective of her all her life, even more so than her father. Not that any of them had truly been able to keep her from doing what she wanted. They wouldn’t this time either.

  But she did miss them. Yes, it was almost time to go home.

  *

  Dodge City, Kansas

  June 1878

  Sweat trickled down between Morgan’s shoulder blades. His shirt stuck to his back. His whisker-roughened face itched, as did most of his body. Trail dirt. He’d breathed it in and wore it for too damn many days. As the first buildings of Dodge City came into sight, he lifted his arm and used the back of his sleeve to wipe the sweat from his forehead. It had been a long couple of months spent in Albuquerque while Taos recovered. Now they were headed to the Wakefield Ranch, after they stopped in town.

  “I’m looking forward to finding someplace to take a bath and get a shave.” He watched a dust devil spring to life. The wind picked up again. It helped some, but not all that much. He rolled his shoulders. The kink he’d gotten in his back last night sleeping on the hard ground didn’t want to come out. He sure led a hell of a life, had done so for a long time.

  Next to him, Taos shifted in the saddle and kept his gaze ahead. “I’m planning on getting a good shot of Red Eye first. Then a bath. Then I’ll head over to the telegraph office.”

  Morgan stiffened. “There’s no sense in rushing.” He knew exactly why his friend wanted to send a telegram and to who. He had been listening for what seemed like forever to Taos talking about this marriage plan. It had been a one-sided conversation for the most part. He’d hoped without his chiming in that Taos would get the idea that maybe this was a mistake. Wrong. The man was dead set on the idea.

  “You’re not thinking about changing your mind, are you?” Taos glanced in his direction. Challenge carved a frown into his brow. He reached up to rub at his shoulder.

  Morgan ground his teeth. “We both thought you might not make it out of that valley.” He blew out a belly-deep sigh. It greatly aggrieved him, but he said, “I made the promise and I’ll stand by it.”

  Taos lowered his arm and grinned, apparently not concerned with his sour mood or with his testy tone. “Our Whiskey is a real prize, special. Both of my sisters are. But Whiskey is—”

  “Gonna try my patien
ce,” Morgan interrupted with a scowl.

  When Taos looked in his direction, appearing annoyed, he didn’t back down. “You’ve gone on and on this last month about her special qualities. You would think she was a saint or something.” He knew different. A “saintly” woman wouldn’t have stood there in a bedroom with a barely dressed man. She sure as hell wouldn’t have looked far too intently at certain parts of him the way she had. She’d blushed at least; he’d felt like it, too. He’d also been tempted to tug her into his arms and kiss the devil out of her. But that would have been the biggest mistake of his life. Or at least another big mistake.

  Taos focused on the Front Street wagon traffic just ahead of them. “Well, maybe I stretched the truth a little here and there. But she’s still special.”

  She was special all right. Special trouble. Morgan had never met her twin sister, Brandy, but he wondered if she was as brazen as Whiskey. Brandy was off living in England with their Lord Something father. It sure would have made his life easier if Whiskey were there too. But she’d chosen to stay in Kansas with her brothers when her father had inherited some family holdings that he needed to handle and moved back to England not long before Morgan had run into Whiskey. And she’d sure tested her brothers’ patience since then. He had heard a lot of stories about her. Most of them about pranks she pulled or about some bit of trouble she caused. He’d heard plenty of mentions about her getting turned over her father’s knee—even her older brothers’ knees—for a sound spanking. He was damn sure he’d be warming her butt as well from time to time…if they actually got married.

  “I haven’t forgotten those tales you shared over the campfires about your sisters,” he reminded Taos. Actually they haunted his thoughts, almost as much as his memories of how she’d looked that day. He’d been mad as hell about her coming into the room uninvited. But he hadn’t failed to take in the fact that she was a rare beauty.

  He shoved those worrisome thoughts aside and concentrated on where they were going. They rode alongside the railroad tracks and he noted McCarty’s Drugstore. Across the road was the livery stable and Varieties Dance Hall. A half dozen horses were tied to the hitching rail out front and sounds of a piano, some hooting and hollering drifted out the swinging batwing doors.