Frontier Woman

by Joan Johnston

  “I asked you a question, you wet-goose lackwit, and I expect an answer. Who are you and how’d you get here?”

  The mysterious man’s eyes focused on the bow in her hand and the quiver of arrows slung across her back, as though trying to decide whether she knew how to use them. Cricket smirked. Let him take another step toward her and he’d find out quick enough. Her smoky eyes flashed at him in contemptuous challenge.

  Instead of answering her question he asked one of his own. “Who are you?”

  “That’s none of your business.” Cricket glanced pointedly at the five horses the stranger had corraled within the bushy barrier. “But I think you’d better tell me where you got those horses.”

  “Ah, mi brava, my fierce, wild one. You answer my question, and I’ll answer yours.”

  Cricket calmly pulled an arrow from her quiver and slotted it in the bowstring. She pulled the bowstring taut, the arrow aimed at the thief’s heart, and asked again, “Where’d you get those horses?”

  The intense, golden eyes that were his best feature in a face full of perfect features, scorned her use of the weapon, even as his jeering laugh filled the air.

  Cricket pulled the bowstring tauter. The man’s gaze dropped to her hands, and the laugh caught in his throat.

  “Be careful with that thing, Brava,” he cautioned. “I’m not ready to be spitted like a beef at Christmas.”

  “Tell me what I want to know.”

  The man swore under his breath. But he didn’t identify himself.

  Cricket held the shaft firm against the gut bowstring. No tremor showed along the muscles of her wrist, even though she’d held the bow thus for almost a minute. She could stand like this long enough to wait out a deer. She could certainly wait out the man standing so irritatingly closemouthed before her.

  The horse thief looked from her to the wolves and back again. He stood his ground, club in hand, and stared coldly at her.

  Cricket found her patience with the mysterious stranger less great than she’d supposed. “Listen, you hardheaded lugloaf,” she warned, “those mares over there were stolen from Rip Stewart a week ago. Unless you give me some reasonable explanation how you got hold of my father’s mares, I don’t have much choice except to see you hanged—that is, if I don’t kill you first myself.”

  Cricket felt a swell of satisfaction when the man’s whole body tensed warily. At least he’d taken what she said seriously for a change.

  “Ah, Brava,” he said at last. “I guess you’ve caught me red-handed.”

  Stunned by the man’s admission, Cricket pondered the situation for a moment. What should she do now? It only took a moment to decide she should take him to Rip. After all, they’d lost the stag, and hadn’t Rip admonished her not to come home empty-handed? Cricket grinned as she ordered, “Come out of that water.”

  The stranger took a step, then paused and looked down. The water now barely kept him decent.

  Cricket bit her lower lip when she realized why he’d stopped. He probably thought she was going to be embarrassed at the sight of a naked man . . . or fall in a swoon at his feet. Well, she’d never seen a naked man before, but she knew it wasn’t going to have any effect on her. Hadn’t Rip made sure she was different from other girls?

  “Come out of that water,” she repeated.

  The stranger snorted derisively once before he obeyed.

  Cricket felt the pleasurable tightening again in her belly, as inch by inch the man revealed his powerful stalking form. She’d never imagined a body could threaten so much strength, yet be so pleasing to gaze upon. She felt a fullness in her nipples that was totally foreign, and wondered what it was about this man that caused her body to feel at once both unbearably tense and undeniably languid.

  She fought to turn away, but couldn’t take her eyes off the stranger’s body. Beads of water glistened on the ropes of muscle in his chest and shoulders. Goose bumps erupted on her arms as her gaze followed a long, thin scar that ran diagonally from under his left nipple across the bronzed expanse of muscle-ridged abdomen to the jutting hipbone on the opposite side. She detected another scar that curved along his sinewy flank, leading her eyes to the bold proof of his masculinity. She stared in awe at the sight that greeted her. When he cleared his throat, she raised her eyes to his mocking grin.

  “See anything you like?”

  Before her shocked anger at his effrontery had a chance to explode, the bloodied stag Bay had wounded crashed across the clearing from its hiding place in the underbrush. Without the necessity for thought, as a reflex almost, Cricket loosed the arrow from her bow, piercing the animal in the heart. The wolves rushed away from Cricket’s side to the edge of the clearing to savage the fallen stag.

  In that split second Cricket was weaponless and her protective wolves were gone from her side. She watched appalled as the tall, intimidating man dropped his makeshift club and surged through the shallow water toward her.

  “Stop! Don’t come any closer!”

  Cricket could’ve killed the naked man with bow and arrow before he reached the edge of the pond. Likewise her horse was trained to attack a man on foot at her command, and she could call her wolves if all else failed. But she didn’t want to take the chance of injuring him before she’d satisfied her curiosity about who he was, where he’d come from, and why he turned her senses upside-down.

  Too late, she realized her hesitation had cost her whatever advantage she’d had. She shrieked in pain as the stranger reached her and wrenched the bow from her hand.

  “The game’s over, Brava.”

  “Damn you, horse thief. Let me go.” She gripped his wrist, pivoted, and flipped him over her shoulder so that he lay stretched out before her on the ground with his head at her feet.

  “What the hell?”

  The stranger shook his head groggily, trying to catch his breath. The bare flesh of his back and buttocks nestled in a bed of fragrant columbine. His eyes appeared confused and a little bleary.

  Cricket stood above him with her fists on her hips. She forced her thoughts away from the feel of his hair-roughened skin where she’d touched him. She hadn’t intended to engage in a wrestling match, but her lightning-quick reactions came instinctively, a result of the hard lessons Rip had taught.

  “I warned you, mister. You’d better give up while you still can. You can’t escape. How far do you think a flapdoodle chaw-bacon like you can get, naked and unarmed in this land? You’ll starve or be killed by some wild—”

  The man’s jerk on her ankles interrupted Cricket’s speech, sending her to the ground on her rear amidst a whorl of dust and sagebrush. She was so astonished by his attack she didn’t have a chance to move before he rolled over and lunged at her.

  Cricket swore a nasty oath when her quiver pressed painfully into her back, as the stranger shoved her down and came to rest on top of her. All thoughts of the stranger’s attractiveness faded as she grabbed her hunting knife from its sheath. She got a painful taste of his strength when he knocked it away into the undergrowth.

  “No more weapons between us, Brava,” he snarled.

  A shiver of fear ran down Cricket’s spine when she realized the stranger was considerably stronger than she and perhaps even more agile. She lashed out at him with the only weapon she had left, slashing several furrows down his cheek with her fingernails.

  “Dammit, that hurt! Settle down.”

  He captured her punishing fists and fingernails with his powerful hands as she bucked for freedom beneath him. Frantic, Cricket tried to bring her knee up to the naked man’s vulnerably exposed manhood, but he was ready for her. He pressed his sinewy thighs down hard against her own more supple ones.

  “Whoa, Brava. I intend to stay the capable stud I am.”

  “You bragging ass! You lop-eared mule! Let—me—go!”

  “Not a chance.”

  Cricket shoved with all her strength, but she might as well have been an ant trying to lift a watermelon. Slowly, inexorably, the horse thi
ef pushed her wrists into the crushed columbine blossoms on either side of her head.

  “You won’t escape,” Cricket hissed.

  A broad smile broke out on the stranger’s face. It was clear she was in no position to enforce her threat. Cricket turned her head away from the horse thief’s arrogant grin, her breathing as harsh and uncontrolled as her thoughts about him.

  “I have no wish to escape at the moment,” he said meaningfully as he pressed an impulsive kiss on the racing pulse beneath her ear.

  Cricket panicked, frightened by her body’s instant response to the stranger’s caress. She wasn’t about to lay herself down under any man. She never had, and she never would. Rip had headed her life in a different direction altogether, one she liked just fine. If she had anything to say about it, this stranger’s intended tryst was about to come to a very abrupt and unsatisfying conclusion.

  She arched her head as far away from the horse thief as she could get it in preparation for the commands that would set the wolves upon him.

  “Rogue! Rascal! Ruffian!”

  The stranger quickly covered Cricket’s mouth with his own to quiet her, straining as he did so to see the reaction of the wolves.

  The gray beasts lifted their slavering muzzles from the feast before them, but when Cricket gave no further command, they rejoined their vicious repast.

  The thief had used his mouth brutally, as a weapon, and Cricket could taste her own blood. In retaliation she bit down hard upon his lower lip until the taste of his salty blood joined her own.

  The thief reared back in shock and pain. “You’re a wild one all right,” he muttered, licking at his bloody lip.

  To Cricket’s dismay, he sounded pleased, rather than angry. She had to get free! She twisted with all her strength, dislodging his hold on her legs. She wrapped one leg around the naked man’s body and used the other for leverage to roll him over so he was laid out on his back.

  “That was a nice move, Brava,” he rasped. “You’ll have to teach it to me.”

  “Rogue, Rascal, Ruffian!”

  “Dammit, Brava, stop calling those wolves.”

  Hearing the authority in Cricket’s voice, the wolves responded immediately, surrounding her where she sat with her knees pressed into the tender shoots of mesquite grass on either side of the naked man, the insides of her thighs resting on either side of his belly. By this time, the horse thief had covered her mouth with a large palm to silence her, while his other hand had circled the back of her neck. When he yanked her down close to his chest, her arms were caught beneath her so she was helpless.

  Their faces were so close each breathed the other’s breath. His skin was hot, scorching her where they touched, and he smelled fresh like . . . Cricket choked back a hysterical laugh behind the rough hand that covered her mouth when she realized that what she smelled on the thief’s newly washed skin was the delicate fragrance of columbine.

  “This is cozy,” he murmured. “Would you care to call off those wolves so we can enjoy ourselves?”

  The man’s insolence infuriated Cricket, and the feel of his body against hers was wreaking havoc with her senses, but there was nothing she could do. They were at a standoff. The thief couldn’t move without releasing his hold on her and giving her the chance to order the wolves to attack. Yet, although she struggled desperately, Cricket wasn’t strong enough to free herself from the thief’s grasp.

  The wolves whined anxiously as they continuously circled the harshly breathing couple. Now and again one or another of the beasts growled menacingly as they watched the silent struggle of flesh against flesh before them. They awaited only a word from Cricket to close in for the kill. Unfortunately it was a word she was in no position to give.

  “Don’t struggle, Brava. You’re exciting the wolves.”

  Cricket struggled harder.

  The thief’s voice was low and husky as he said, “Sooner or later those wolves are going to remember that stag, Brava, and when they do I’ll teach you a few lessons of my own.”

  Cricket’s eyes rounded hugely as she sought out the fierce wolves and saw their attention wandering. The horse thief was right. It was only a matter of time before the wolves left her and returned to the fallen stag. Cricket refused to think what would happen to her then. If the horse thief kissed her again would her body betray her? Would she respond as any ordinary woman would to this man’s sensual commands? Surely she wouldn’t— Surely she couldn’t want—Her stomach knotted as she detected the knowing gleam in the thief’s golden eyes.

  “Take your hands off my sister, and don’t make any sudden moves.”

  Cricket’s whole body slumped in relief when she heard Bay’s quavery voice.

  The stranger frowned at Bay, who stood not ten feet away with her bow drawn and her arrow aimed at him. However, instead of releasing Cricket, he tightened his hold and said, “Aren’t you afraid you’ll hit your sister?”

  Cricket’s head jerked up in time to see that the words had struck Bay like a very precise dagger thrust. How had he so quickly discerned Bay’s lack of confidence? Cricket tried to encourage Bay with her eyes, but all Bay’s attention was focused on the thief.

  Bay swallowed convulsively, obviously trying to conquer her fear, and finally replied, “No. At this distance I can’t miss.”

  “I suppose you can’t,” the horse thief ruefully agreed.

  Cricket wriggled again, demanding release. Bay’s trembling body betrayed her nervousness, and there was no telling how long her courage would last.

  Apparently the horse thief feared Bay’s nervousness for a different reason. “Steady, now,” he soothed. “I’m going to let her go.”

  The instant she was free, Cricket jumped to her feet, straddling the man. “Watch!” she commanded the wolves. “I’ll have them lame you if you move,” she threatened tersely.

  The stranger lay motionless, his lips pressed tightly together, his jaw muscles tightened.

  Cricket located her hunting knife in the undergrowth, then crossed to retrieve her bow. Her back hurt where the quiver had gouged her, and the muscles in her arms ached from her struggle with the stranger. She couldn’t repress a shudder at the memory of the horse thief’s hard, muscular thighs pressing on her own through her buckskins. She’d come too close to capitulation for comfort.

  She shied from recollection of her reaction to the thief’s possessive lips upon her mouth and throat. She licked her swollen lips and found the taste of him still upon them.

  Cricket wiped her mouth with her sleeve. Even those few moments of domination by this man didn’t sit well with her. In all her years, this horse thief was the first man to treat her like a woman. And she despised him for it. She began to doubt the wisdom of not shooting him when she’d had the chance.

  Cricket mounted her stallion, keeping an eye on the stranger so Bay could find Star and join her. Meanwhile, the horse thief lay in the patch of mesquite grass and columbine where he’d fallen, his upper body held up by his elbows. When both sisters were ready, Cricket amended her command to the wolves so they allowed the thief to stand.

  Bay couldn’t suppress a gasp when she saw the height and breadth of the man. She consciously kept her gaze safely above his waist. “What’ll you do with him, Cricket?”

  “I’m taking him home.”

  “He’s not a stray puppy,” Bay argued. “You know what Rip said the last time.”

  The horse thief raised a questioning brow.

  Cricket flashed an irritated glance at the man, then snapped at Bay, “He belongs to me. I found him. He stole Rip’s mares, and I’m going to make sure he’s punished.”

  “But surely Rip—”

  It was the condescending grin on the stranger’s face that goaded Cricket into snarling at Bay, “I’ll handle Rip.”

  Bay pictured Rip and Cricket faced off toe-to-toe, fists on hips, neck hairs hackled. It was the fearsome equivalent of a blustery blue norther meeting a Texas tornado . . . and she intended to be nowhere near wh
en it happened.

  “Get moving, horse thief,” Cricket ordered.

  Bay gasped. “You can’t mean to make him walk naked the whole way home.”

  “Who’s going to stop me?”

  Bay’s defiance melted away beneath Cricket’s wrath. What Cricket proposed to do was wrong, and no good could come of it. Bay couldn’t repress the shiver of foreboding that tore through her body.

  “I’ll get the mares,” Bay said. She freed the mares from the brush corral and herded them toward Cricket.

  Cricket’s jaw jutted antagonistically for a moment before she relented. Bay was right. She was being foolish. Besides, she didn’t want to spend the entire trip home watching the muscles ripple in those lean flanks.

  “Bay, bring me whatever weapons he has over by those buckskins, and then toss him his pants and his moccasins.”

  Bay passed a long Kentucky rifle, two Colt Patersons, and a Bowie knife to Cricket. When the stranger reached out to take his pants from Bay, the three wolves growled and bared their fangs.

  “Whoa, lobos,” he breathed softly. “You going to tell these wolves I can put my pants on?”

  At Cricket’s quiet command, the three wolves lay down in a circle around the horse thief, who swore vociferously as he jerked on his buckskin trousers and moccasins.

  “What about my shirt and hat?”

  Bay held up the stranger’s shirt to show Cricket there was no weapon concealed in the folds of the beautifully beaded buckskin, and when Cricket shrugged, Bay threw the garment to the man. She examined the round-brimmed black felt hat with a turkey feather stuck in its leather band and passed it on as well.

  The man nodded at Bay, who was unable to meet his eyes. He set the hat rakishly on his head so the turkey feather trailed onto his shoulder, then turned to face Cricket.

  Cricket grimaced. He was even more intimidating fully dressed, because she knew what the simple clothing hid. “All right, horse thief. You’re dressed. Now get going.”

  “What about that stag? That venison won’t be any good later unless you take care of it now.”