She exhaled a steadying breath. “Please introduce me to my brother-in-law.”
Admiration filled Ty’s eyes. “You are a remarkable woman.”
Her face heated at the praise. “Me?”
“Most folks are hateful and judgmental of White Wolf.”
The Georgetown newspaper had been full of stories of the West and the Indian wars. She could see for herself why braves like the one standing before her put the fear of God into pioneers, homesteaders, and frontier towns. But the Indian nations, like the proud soldiers of the South, had been defeated. “He’s not a Yankee, he has that in his favor.”
Ty grasped her hands. The silent specter of Johnny’s death hung between them. “Will you ever be able to forgive me for being a Yankee?”
“Let’s not talk of the past.”
Ty’s grip on her fingers tightened. “Ella, honey, there has to be a way around—”
“Ty,” Ace called out with urgency.
“Give us a minute,” Ty said.
“You’re going to want to hear White Wolf’s news.” Ace looked like he’d eaten a jar of spoiled peaches. “The last cold snap took a toll on this year’s calves.”
Ty released her. “Toll?”
White Wolf’s mouth curved downward. “The herd’s barely holding on.”
The expression on Ty’s face made Ella’s blood turn to ice.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The icy air shredded his lungs as Ty guided Eclipse into the teeth of the wind. The faithful pinto put his nose down and forged ahead.
White Wolf and his white and brown mare were barely visible in the blowing snow.
Ty always relished the visits White Wolf made to the ranch, infrequent though they were, and the long rides they would take, and the challenge of keeping up with White Wolf. Not a small feat, considering White Wolf was half Crow.
But Eclipse didn’t know of the Crow’s superior horsemanship, and, partial to leading rather than following, they soon caught up to White Wolf.
Regrettably the deep snow and frigid cold and the prospect of finding more dead longhorns robbed the outing of the usual joy. Winters in Wyoming Territory were never friendly, but Ty had never experienced this type of sustained Arctic cold. The fact that White Wolf was still at the ranch two weeks after arriving on Christmas Day spoke to the severity of the winter and the danger to the herd.
Though the odds of convincing White Wolf to stay past spring were as hopeless a cause as with Boone, Ty had to try. “You worked the McMurray gold stake last spring?”
“My father died believing his mine would yield the mother lode.” White Wolf’s mouth twisted with a wry grin. “My memories of our one-room hut on the side of the mountain are all good, but then I return and all I can see is the squalor and the dirt and the back-breaking labor, and I wonder if we were as happy as I remember.”
Ty searched White Wolf’s face for signs of his Scotsman father, but he took all his looks from his mother, Wanders Far. “You ever hear from any of your McMurray kin?”
“Nope. They made it clear when my father died they had no use for his Indian wife and half-breed son.”
“I’m surprised She Bear hasn’t wrangled you into marrying a woman from among the tribe.”
White Wolf stared off into the distance. “My grandmother means well, but—”
“But you would rather die than live on the reservation,” Ty finished for him. “Are you sure there’s no way around moving to the Crow Tribe Reservation? You and your wife would be more than welcome to make your home at the ranch.”
White Wolf narrowed his eyes at Ty. “Crow men go to live with their wife’s family. And who says I’m looking to marry?”
Memories of turning to Ella’s warm body during the cold nights invaded. “Marriage is far better than living alone.”
White Wolf shrugged. “Hunting and trapping and following a mountain man ain’t any kind of life for a woman. Your Miss Ella might be the exception. She is a strong one, who doesn’t take a lick of nonsense. She Bear would say Miss Ella is a woman who knows how to rule her tepee. You done good finding her, Ty.”
Ty grinned with pride. “She’s something, isn’t she?”
“Wyatt tells me she will stay come spring, but you’re not so certain.”
After putting his nose into White Wolf’s business Ty had no right to complain about prying questions. Ty hadn’t ever told anyone about shooting Johnny Hunter. Boone and Pa knew, and most likely Pa had told Ma, but Ty had buried the memory along with the saber after stowing the weapon under the floorboards. Ella asked him to continue to hide the saber and the secret from the others. As punishment for his eagerness to put the past behind him, he was suffering sideways looks from his brothers whenever he told them Ella would probably return east once winter was over. And they were sure she would stay. The hopelessness of the situation made him want to weep.
He kneaded his bleary eyes. “I would move heaven and earth to keep her, if only I had the power. But…”
White Wolf brought his horse to a halt. “Looks like we found the valley of the shadow of death Ma Viola used to speak of.”
Ty’s gut clenched at the sight of the distinctive mounds field. They climbed down from their horses, and Ty dug down through the nearest drift until his hand found the frozen hide. He cleared more snow, revealing the steer’s emaciated hindquarter bearing the distinctive SCR brand.
White Wolf burrowed through a smaller mound. “Got another Double B calf here.”
They’d find the same in the other fifty white hillocks dimpling this spot of the range. Ty scrubbed his face. “We stand to lose the whole herd, Wolf.”
His brother pointed to an odd-shaped mass. “Someone is buried there.”
They struggled through the drifts and pawed through the snow and discovered a cowboy curled on his side, feet drawn up in a fetal position, ice encrusting his eyebrows and beard. Ty swore under his breath. “It’s one of Blackwell’s men. An old cowpoke named Grampus, I think.”
White Wolf’s straight black hair rippled curtain-like in the wind. “He must have been out checking on the herd when the last blizzard struck.”
Ty raised his collar against the snow stinging his neck. “We best take Grampus’s body back to the ranch. Can’t leave him for the animals to chew on.”
A mournful low came from a nearby stand of pines and a half-dazed steer stumbled toward them. “I’ll get my rope,” Ty said, forging through the drifts in the direction of Eclipse.
“I’ve got oats in my saddle bag,” White Wolf called.
Ty retrieved the rope and feed, and struggled back to Wolf and the steer. Breath heaving, he braced his hands on his knees. “You rope him, while I recover my wind.”
White Wolf lassoed the steer on his first attempt. “He’s carrying the Blackwell brand.”
Ty straightened. “Don’t matter. I plan to save as many of them as I can. Come spring we can sort out what’s left of his herd and ours.”
White Wolf raised a skeptical brow. “Do you have enough feed stored?”
“Blackwell thought Pa was a fool for putting up extra hay for the winter. We should have enough feed for fifty, maybe sixty more head of cattle.”
“Rounding up the longhorns will be dangerous, assuming you can find fifty animals alive and on their feet.”
“What choice do we have, Wolf? I won’t have the ranch go under without a fight.”
White Wolf gripped his shoulder. “We Haven brothers won’t allow Pa and Ma’s dream to die. Will we?”
Ty pulled Wolf in for a bear hug. “I’ll take you on my side in a fight anytime, Brother.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
The Union Pacific train crawled steadily across the snowy plains. Maggie folded her hands, and concentrated on keeping her breath even. Willed her pulse to remain steady. It’s a good plan, she told herself for the hundredth time since boarding the train in St Louis. Her destination, Laramie, Wyoming,
where two men waited for her, but for two very different reasons.
Boone Haven was expecting his mail-order bride.
And Frank Reed was waiting to arrest the Cowboy Assassin.
Maggie was the bait to lure Boone into the trap.
The flurry of telegrams she’d exchanged over the past month and packing for the trip had kept her mind and hands busy. The solitary train ride was giving her time for doubts. Frank had talked her through the jitters the first time she’d pretended to be a mail-order bride to catch a bank robber in Topeka. It almost made her miss his overbearing personality.
For all practical purposes, both this time and last, she didn’t need to be present to spring the trap. But Frank didn’t care about practical. A showman at heart, he’d strut about with a self-important smile clamped around his big cigar, showing off Lady Margaret Lily, Female Bounty Hunter to state dignitaries, cattle barons, and railroad tycoons from Laramie to St Louis.
“Next stop Cheyenne,” the elderly black railroad porter repeated, walking slowly up the aisle.
Maggie smiled and touched his sleeve. “Can you recommend a hotel where I can freshen up before the train leaves for Laramie?”
The porter removed his cap and scratched his gray head. “The Morning Glory Inn is small, but a clean and friendly place. But be careful not to take too long. Wouldn’t want the train to go without you.”
“That would leave me in quite a pickle.” Actually, the notion of turning tail and scurrying off like a scared rabbit held more than a little appeal.
Chuckling, the porter moved on.
A few moments later, the passenger car clanked and bumped to a halt. Maggie brushed at the flounces on her dark blue cloak and the folds of her matching silk skirt, hefted her travel case, and followed the other passengers outside.
The wind whipped across the train platform, tugging at the ribbons of her blue velvet bonnet. She blinked against the blinding glare of the noonday sun and wished she’d asked the porter for directions.
A tall, lean, lethal-looking cowboy wearing a black hat and vest loomed over her. “Margaret Lily?”
Her throat closed, recognizing his face from the photograph from the wanted poster. She touched her hand to her lace collar. “Mr. Haven. I thought we were to meet in Laramie?”
Black-eyed and black-haired, with a dangerous mouth, Boone Haven was all rough edges. “I met with some unexpected trouble.”
“Oh, you don’t say.” An unhinged, hysterical laugh bubbled up. Trouble didn’t begin to describe her predicament.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Boone stared dumbfounded at Margaret Lily. He didn’t believe for a moment that was her real name, which was no surprise. What set him back on his heels was her refinement. With sleek, upswept honey blond hair, aristocratic cheekbones, and tailored silks, she might have stepped out of the finest drawing rooms in New York and Paris.
Then she dissolved into peals of laughter, putting him in mind of a painting of a woodland nymph hanging in the boudoir of a French whore from the winter he spent in New Orleans.
Shoving away a slew of indecent images, he shifted in place. “Are you well, ma’am?”
“Pay me no mind,” she said, catching her breath and dabbing a flower-trimmed hankie to nutmeg brown eyes.
“Ma’am, a legion of angels could roll the clouds back, just now, and I wouldn’t notice.”
She wet strawberry-kissed lips. “Please, call me Margaret. I don’t know what got into me.”
Jack trotted up. Tail wagging excitedly, he rubbed up against Margaret.
She petted Jack’s head. “Well, hello there.”
Jack jumped, muddy paws skimming blue silk, intent on slathering Margaret’s face with doggy kisses.
“Dog,” Boone said aghast, capturing Jack in a bear hug before real damage was done. “Excuse Jack. He usually has better manners.”
Jack licked Boone’s face and rested his paws on his leather vest. Boone smiled. “I love you too, dog.”
Eyes alight, Margaret stroked Jack’s head. “You never said you had a dog.”
Her citrus-tinged perfume mixed with Jack’s wet-dog smell. “Just so you know…you get me; you get my dog.”
“I always wanted a dog,” she said, then she smiled at Jack. “You are a handsome boy, aren’t you?” Jack licked her face, and her answering laugh was the most beautiful sound Boone had ever heard.
That quick, Boone was smitten. Heck, he didn’t even care that Cheyenne’s fine citizens were pointing and whispering among themselves over the spectacle of the Cowboy Assassin greeting a mysterious woman at the train station.
Jack was a better judge of people than Boone would ever be. If Jack’s hackles had risen upon meeting Margaret Lily, Boone would have walked away from his mail-order bride, desirable though she was, no questions asked.
Boone suspected Margaret was full of secrets. He had plenty of his own. What would his mail-order bride think when she learned she’d married a gunslinger? A reformed gunslinger. Ty and his brothers would be relieved and overjoyed when they learned he was walking away from the gun-for-hire profession. As for her secrets—if Jack liked and trusted Margaret that was good enough for Boone.
He guided Jack’s paws to the wood platform, then pointed to the Gold Dust Hotel & Saloon. “I imagine you’d like a few moments to tidy yourself before we call on the justice of peace.”
The good humor departed from Margaret’s eyes. “Marry here? Not Laramie?”
He had his misgiving too. But he wanted to wed Margaret Lily. More than anything else he’d ever wanted in all his thirty years.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
Three mornings after marrying and becoming Mrs. Boone Haven, Maggie studied her husband’s chiseled face, shadowed against the predawn light that grew brighter and brighter outside the hotel window.
The cold draft blowing through the ramshackle room wasn’t responsible for the tingle of fear and excitement raising the flesh on her arms. She had truly done it. Married a gunslinger. She kept expecting to wake to find that the whirlwind wedding ceremony performed by the nervous, bespectacled justice of the peace, and the instant ravenous attraction between her and this dark, dangerous man, and the days and nights consumed by unending heated passion had all been a dream.
But despite the promise she’d made to herself to overcome the habit of making hasty decisions and to use more thought before rushing into another marriage, she had done just that. But this time would be different. She was sure of it. This would be a happy marriage.
Boone rolled toward her and pulled her close. “Good morning, darling.” His voice was husky with sleep.
She cupped his face and kissed him. “The train departs in one hour.”
His rough beard brushed against sensitized skin, making her tremble. “Anxious to get to California, are you?”
She planned to send Frank a telegram explaining everything when she reached California. “You promised me an adventurous life.”
Jack’s toenails clicked over the floorboards, and he stood beside the bed, tail wagging.
She laughed. “Your dog needs to go out.”
Boone rolled out of bed, hunted for his pants and shirt through the clothes strewn over the floor, and dressed quickly. “The train ride will give us the chance to have that long talk we keep promising each other we’re going to have.”
She fiddled with her long tresses. “I wish we never had to leave this room.”
“We both have our secrets. Best we get them out in the open.” He strapped on a wide leather gun belt and holstered two gleaming revolvers. There was nothing showy about his attire. Except the pair of guns slung low on his hips—they were meant to impress.
She nodded, wanting to believe he wouldn’t be angry when he learned the truth.
Sliding on his cowboy hat, he winked. “I’ll be back shortly, darling.” Then the door clicked shut behind him.
Heart pounding, she pushed herself
to a sitting position, tucked her mussed curls behind her ears, and squeezed her eyes closed. Why hadn’t she told him about Frank Reed and that she’d come to Wyoming Territory to set a trap for him? But everything had happened so fast. And then she and Boone couldn’t keep their hands off each other.
What was she supposed to say? Nice to marry you…oh, and your wife is a bounty hunter?
Besides, he hadn’t confessed he was a wanted man. She didn’t believe he was a cold-blooded killer. He couldn’t be. But what if he was?
She moaned and dropped her forehead onto her drawn-up knees. “Mama married fools and losers. My life was supposed to be different. I was going to do better.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
As the wind howled outside the Gold Dust Hotel & Saloon, Boone put his head down and headed toward the Crooked J Stables to check on Black Lightning, and to give instructions to the stable owner about loading the high-spirited stallion onto the train for the journey to California.
“Come on, dog,” he called back to Jack, who stopped to sniff at every frozen clod of snow or yellow stain he came across.
Jack raced to his side, and, tongue lolling, stared up expectantly.
Boone smiled. “Are you ready for a new adventure, boy?”
Sensing Boone’s excitement, Jack wagged his tail faster.
Margaret Lily Haven had turned Boone’s world upside down. And God help him, he couldn’t be more pleased.
Wife. Children. Home.
A normal life was for others. Not him. That’s what he’d always believed.
Until now.
Not that she was your average woman. He recalled his surprise upon peeling her out of her fancy gown and finding the Derringer handgun strapped to her thigh.
He strode down the dark lane leading to the Crooked J. The clapboard buildings buffering the wind, he was enveloped in the smell of hay and manure, or what he and his brothers liked to call cowboy cologne.
The Mail-Order Bride Carries a Gun: A Sweet Historical Western Romance (Brides of Sweet Creek Ranch Book 1) Page 11
