Untamed Cowboy (C Bar C Ranch Book 1)

by Pam Crooks

  A sharp whistle kept him from a response and had both their heads turning toward the direction of it. Jesse Keller, who’d worked as her tallyman during the roundup and agreed to work the drive after, was taking a shift as point rider. He waved his hat to get their attention and indicated the horse coming at a fair run toward them.

  “Can you tell who it is?” she asked.

  “No.”

  “He’s coming from Mobeetie or thereabouts.” A moment passed. “It’s Sheriff Dunbar.”

  She sat back a little in the saddle, as if she braced herself for the news he had to bring. Penn was certain her daughter was the first thing to jump into her mind. She’d think there was no other reason why the lawman would go through the trouble of seeking her out like this. And Penn was inclined to agree.

  Dunbar pulled up and touched a finger to the brim of his hat. “Miss Lockett.”

  “This had better be good, Sheriff,” she said stiffly. “My herd’s not trail-broke yet. You could’ve set them to stampeding as fast as you were riding by them.”

  “I figured you’d want to know we found the carriage.”

  She sucked in a slow breath. “Mavis’s?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Found it abandoned in ol’ Steve Bussell’s pasture just outside of town.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Everything all right with it?” Penn asked.

  If it overturned, if the Webb woman and Callie Mae were hurt…

  “Not a scratch on it. The rig was just sittin’ there, stripped of its team. Just plain sinful to leave a fine rig like that behind. And no tellin’ how long it’d been sittin’ there before Steve came upon it and called for me to take a look.”

  “They switched,” Penn said, grim.

  The she-boss swung wide eyes at him. “For another rig?”

  “One the sheriff couldn’t track.”

  “That’s what I’m thinkin’,” Dunbar said. “No explanation but that.”

  “Oh, God,” she said again.

  “I’m sure you know, Miss Lockett, that second rig could’ve taken ’em anywhere without anyone noticin’,” the lawman said. “If they escaped by stage, the Mobeetie line runs to Las Vegas, New Mexico. Or it could’ve taken ’em north to Dodge. Then again, they could’ve headed south to Fort Worth and taken the train.”

  “They didn’t go to Mobeetie,” she said with a firm shake of her head. “Folks know Callie Mae there. They would’ve recognized her.” She turned to Penn, her expression a little desperate beneath her hat brim. “Wouldn’t they?”

  “Unless her grandmother disguised her.”

  As much as he hated to state the possibility, the she-boss needed to hear it. Rogan was that shrewd. And from the sounds of it, so was his mother.

  “A disguise.” Her fingers tightened over the saddle horn. “No. Callie Mae would never have stood for it.”

  Penn kept his mouth shut right along with Dunbar. The girl appeared determined to leave with her grandmother. If she saw the whole thing as an adventure, it’d be easy for her to cooperate, no matter what Miss Lockett thought.

  He shifted his glance to meet the sheriff’s. “You checked to make sure no one registered at the stage station under the name of Webb? Or Lockett?”

  “’Course. First thing. No one had. But I got wires out at the other stations ’round these parts in case someone does.”

  “Mavis lives in New Orleans. I told you she did, didn’t I?” Threads of urgency laced Miss Lockett’s words. “Maybe they’ve arrived there by now. Did you check?”

  The lawman lifted his hat, speared stubby fingers through his graying hair. “New Orleans’s a big city, ma’am. It’d be like findin’ a needle in a haystack.”

  “I don’t give a damn!” she snapped. “You have to keep looking! They’re going to Europe, and we have to stop them before they do!”

  “Easy, Miss Lockett.” Penn kept his voice low, firm. “Tracking them down is going to take some time. You have to understand that.”

  “Exactly. Callie Mae might even have changed her mind and be on her way home by now. Your grandpa will send word if she shows up, won’t he?” Dunbar asked.

  She shot him a look that said he was an idiot. “Of course he would.”

  “I’m doin’ all I can the best way I know how. But I wish it was more for you.” He glanced over his shoulder at the long trail of cattle and shook his head sadly. “I’m real sorry you have to give up your herd like this.”

  “She hasn’t yet,” Penn said.

  And wouldn’t, if he could help it.

  Miss Lockett’s throat moved. Seconds passed before she spoke.

  “Herds can be rebuilt,” she said finally.

  But her defiance failed to sway the man’s sympathy. It was there on his face, plain as paint. “I’d best be on my way. I’ll be in touch if I learn anything more. You’re headin’ to Dodge City on the Western, ain’t you?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “We’ll get on the trail at the Canadian River. A couple of days,” Penn added.

  “Good enough.” He touched a finger to his brim. “My best to you, Miss Lockett. Reckon you’re goin’ to need it.”

  She gave him a stiff smile and made no response, as if she didn’t trust herself to make one. He rode off, and she glared after him.

  “Damn you for pitying me,” she muttered.

  Then, as if she just realized she’d spoken aloud and Penn had heard every word, she glared at him, too.

  “What are you waiting for, McClure?” she demanded. “Let’s keep this herd moving.”

  Chapter 5

  Woollie looked like death warmed over.

  Carina sat on an overturned crate and kept an eye on him while she ate her supper. They’d pushed hard to make camp on the banks of the Washita River, and night had already fallen. Across the campfire, he sat cross-legged on the ground, his shoulders hunched, looking at his tin plate of beans and bacon as if he was going to throw up any minute.

  It wasn’t like him to have a headache for so long, and now here it was, the end of the day, and he wasn’t feeling any better.

  Why a nap and his stomach bitters didn’t give him relief, she didn’t know. She took it as a bad sign. And it didn’t help matters any that he’d crawled out of Sourdough’s wagon this afternoon and spent some time on the back of his horse, working right along with the other men. He’d insisted on it, even though Carina tried to convince him otherwise. All that noise from the herd, the dust and toil of the drive, well, it only made his affliction worse.

  Worry gnawed at her. Between her daughter and her foreman, she’d never felt so burdened by it. With a heavy sigh, she rose and strode toward the chuck wagon, lit by the lanterns Sourdough had hung on hooks. With the exception of the men out getting the herd settled for the night, the rest had already eaten and lay sprawled around the fire, bone-weary from the day’s work. She dropped her empty plate into the wreck pan, filled with soapy water.

  “He’ll be fit as a fiddle by morning,” Sourdough said, eyeing her as he dried one of his cast-iron skillets. “Try not to fret so much.”

  She frowned. “Unless you’ve got some magic potion there in your possible drawer, I think he needs a doctor.”

  “Closest one is back in Mobeetie. Are you going to take him all the way back there?”

  “If I have to.”

  “Carina.”

  His tone revealed his opinion of the idea, and Carina agonized over what to do. Sourdough could set bones and sew stitches, but he couldn’t write the prescription for the medicine Woollie needed. Something stronger than the stomach bitters.

  Having Woollie healthy again was as important as getting her herd to Kansas. He was the only trail boss the C Bar C had ever had. If he didn’t get better, how would she manage without him?

  “Talk to Penn about it,” Sourdough said, reaching for another wet skillet. “You don’t have to decide alone.”

  “Penn McClure?”

  The suggestion startled her. He was jus
t a ranch hand, someone she’d hired to get her through a tough spot. Granted, he was good on the back of a horse, and he was experienced with cattle trailing, but to depend on him for a decision about someone as important to her as Woollie?

  No. She’d figure out what was best for him on her own. She didn’t need McClure to do it for her.

  Yet, of its own accord, her gaze lifted toward the beeves milling beyond their camp. He was out there, watching over them, calming them after their first hard day on the trail. He had a couple of the cowboys with him, including the worthless Orlin Fahey. Carina would never have hired Orlin to help drive her cattle, but he’d volunteered for the job, and she’d needed the extra hand. McClure had taken it upon himself to show the lout what to do to keep the animals calm throughout the night.

  McClure hadn’t taken a break since they made camp. His belly had to be feeling mighty empty by now. His body bone-tired.

  And there she was. Thinking about him again.

  Disgruntled, she found a knife and cut herself a piece of dried apple cake. By the time she slid the dessert onto a clean plate and forked a chunk into her mouth, the muffled rumble of horse hooves had her looking to see who rode in.

  “Speak of the devil,” Sourdough said.

  McClure. Her pulse tripped a little. He drew up on the fringes of their camp, and TJ Grier, her wrangler, ran up to take his gelding. McClure said something and handed over the reins; the kid grinned wide and appeared proud as a bull. From the looks of him, Carina was sure he’d drop to the ground where McClure stood and start kissing dirt.

  She scowled, took another bite of cake and couldn’t peel her gaze off the man if she tried. Which she didn’t. He headed to camp with a lithe, unhurried stride, his long legs sheathed in leather chaps. Yet there was a coiled power about him, too. Like a mountain cat in the wild. Untamed and free.

  He pulled off his Stetson and carelessly ruffled his hair, flattened by the brim and the day’s sweat. He didn’t bother putting the hat back on; instead, he held it loose in one hand while the other scratched his chest, that single gesture so blatantly male that heat curled in the pit of her belly.

  Damn him for it.

  He approached Jesse Keller and Stinky Dale Cooper, a slick-haired cowboy nicknamed for the foul-smelling tonic he plastered on his head every morning. Both squatted on their haunches, enjoying a smoke. Without breaking stride, McClure bent toward them, and whatever he said had them guffawing loudly after him.

  He kept walking toward the campfire. Toward Woollie. Determined he wouldn’t see her staring, Carina stepped out of the chuck wagon’s lantern light, deeper into the shadows. She hadn’t noticed before how McClure had engaged her men, that in his short time with them, he’d won their friendship.

  Their respect.

  He hunkered down to Woollie’s level, and though his low voice barely reached her, she guessed he inquired about the blamed headache. His brief, commiserating clasp on her foreman’s shoulder confirmed it, and something went soft inside Carina.

  The man had some good in him. Woollie appeared to perk up, just having his attention. McClure took a seat beside him, in front of the campfire, and pulled out the trail map from his vest pocket.

  “Here, Carina.” Sourdough thrust a plate heaped with beans and bacon at her, sending her thoughts scattering. “This’ll remind Penn he needs to eat. Head over there and give it to him, will you?”

  She opened her mouth to protest she was McClure’s boss, not his waitress. But when Sourdough nudged aside her cake and set a cup of steaming black coffee beside it, she closed it again.

  McClure was entitled, she supposed. Not that she’d ever served one of her men before, and not that McClure wasn’t capable of serving himself now. But he’d put in a long day. Even longer than she had. Besides, she wanted to hear what plans he made with Woollie for tomorrow.

  With a plate balanced in each hand, she strode toward them. Squatting, she handed him his supper, and he glanced at her in surprise.

  “Thanks,” he said.

  She set his coffee in the grass carefully so the cup wouldn’t tip. “Don’t expect to have your food handed to you every day. Sourdough wants to make sure you’re fed, that’s all.”

  “Yeah?” His mouth curved in a knowing, crooked grin that poked at her insides. “But you’re the one making sure I am, Miss Lockett.”

  He shoveled the beans into his mouth. There was something about the way her senses attuned to him that made it hard to think. The way the firelight threw his features into shadow, giving him a dangerous, rugged look, too.

  Made it hard to concentrate, all right. She had to work at it so she could.

  “Just helping you keep up your strength,” she retorted. “I’ve got too much money tied up in you to have you go weak-kneed on me from lack of nourishment.”

  He chuckled around his chewing, and the sound wound right through her. His amusement was at her expense, but even Woollie managed to smile, and that made it worth it.

  “Let’s see the map,” she said, getting down to business.

  He had the paper already unfolded and spread out on the grass in front of them. A light breeze flitted at the edges, and she leaned forward to hold the nearest corner down.

  McClure leaned forward, too; his lean finger pointed to their location on the Washita. She caught his scent, an appealing blend of saddle leather and tobacco, of sweat and man, and damned if her concentration didn’t start falling apart all over again.

  “Should be a good ford across the river,” he said. “With rock bottom on the north side.”

  “Plenty of wood and water, too, as I recall,” Woollie added in a subdued tone.

  McClure took time to swallow down more beans with a swig of his coffee. “There is. All the way to the Canadian River. I figure if we started heading east about here—” his finger moved again “—we can reach the south bank by nightfall.”

  “We’ll have to push hard,” Carina said.

  “But we can do it. No problem.”

  She nodded, pleased with the progress he intended to make. “And the weather’s good. In our favor.”

  McClure turned toward her, their heads close enough his nose just barely missed her hat brim. She had to tilt her head back some to see him. In the golden firelight, his eyes shone like onyx, deep piercing pools of brown, almost black, and the way he looked at her, as if he could drag her right in, had her blood spinning in her veins.

  “I do believe she’s agreeing with me, don’t you, Woollie?” he murmured.

  “Sounds that way,” her foreman said with a small smile.

  “Not sure what to make of it.”

  “Best enjoy it. Might not happen again for a spell.”

  Exasperated, she drew back, snapping that strange pull he had over her. The two of them, teaming against her, throwing her off guard. And Woollie, as sick as he was. “It has nothing to do with agreeing with you, McClure. The facts are right there, on that map of yours.”

  “So it is, and yeah, it’ll be a good walk.” His gaze lowered to her plate. “You going to eat your cake?”

  His sudden change of subject left her staring down at her dessert in confusion.

  “I’ll take it if you’re not,” he said.

  His beans were almost gone. Sourdough had more at the chuck wagon, plenty of cake, too, and the casual intimacy with which McClure asked for hers instead left her flustered and without a logical thought to refuse him.

  She frowned. This effect he had on her had to stop. “Go ahead.”

  He reached over and speared what she had left with his fork. But before he could mention his thanks or even take a bite, Carina suddenly heard the bellows of the herd. The first rumblings of hooves, vibrating through the ground.

  McClure went still.

  Carina’s horrified gaze shot to the darkness behind them. To the herd no longer settled in.

  McClure swore. Vehemently.

  A stampede!

  Penn threw aside his dinner and bolted to hi
s feet.

  “Every man on a horse!” he yelled. “Let’s go! Let’s go!”

  They exploded into action, shouting, swearing, running to the remuda tethered beyond the fringes of camp. Every second was precious. Every head of cattle valuable. They had to move fast.

  TJ, looking frantic, sprinted toward him, leading the gelding by the reins. “I was just taking his saddle off, but when I heard them hooves movin’, I hurried right up and put it back on again. Here you go, Mr. McClure.”

  Penn leaped on, taking no time for the thanks he could say later.

  “Miss Lockett, I’ll get your Appaloosa.” The wrangler ran off again.

  Penn twisted. The she-boss took off after the kid. Penn slid a sharp whistle through his teeth to stop her.

  Amazingly, she halted and spun toward him.

  “Stay here,” he yelled.

  Her jaw dropped. “That’s my herd out there, McClure!”

  “No place for a woman. Stay here.”

  “I won’t!”

  She took off toward the rope corral again, and Penn gritted his teeth. There was no time, no damn time, to force her to stay. He yanked on the reins, dug his heels into the gelding’s ribs and took off in full pursuit of the fleeing herd.

  The cattle had turned themselves around and were heading south, losing the ground they’d gained all day. He had to get to the front of them and turn the leaders so the rest would follow. Their hooves hammered against the ground, surrounded him with a deafening roar. Dust clouded his vision, thickened in his throat, but he lay over the gelding’s neck and rode even faster.

  In the moonlight, those three thousand head of wild-eyed, horn-swinging cattle were a dark mass of terrifying power. Penn hoped fervently none of the men would be trampled. Or gored. One wrong move, and it could happen. It’d be easy, so easy. Dangerous for anyone, but especially a woman…

  He closed his mind to Carina Lockett, to the worry that she was out here with him and the rest of her outfit. He pressed on, at last passing the thundering longhorns. Moving in amongst them, he swung his bullwhip again and again, aware if his horse found a prairie dog hole, or a hidden ravine, he’d go down, stomped to his death by those heavy hooves.