Give Me a Texan

by Jodi Thomas

  “The fool must’ve let the wind carry his bonnet off. The hat’s on my land now, and he’ll get it back over my dead body.”

  If the cattlemen wanted war, she’d certainly oblige.

  Tucking the find under her arm, Amanda beamed with pride in the way her border collie firmly commanded the modest flock she’d inherited, encompassing the sheep in a sweeping arc before driving them forward. Fraser had been with her father, Argus Lemmons, since a pup, and was raised with sheep until the animal probably thought he could bleat with the best of them.

  She sighed with relief when she climbed from an arroyo and caught sight of her adobe house and sandstone corral. A sudden gust of wind flapped a piece of paper on her door. Prickles rose on the back of her neck. Someone had come onto her property uninvited again. Her gaze narrowed to the calling card tacked to her door.

  “Another damnable note!” Her sudden outburst perked Fraser’s ears, though his sharp eyes never left his wooly charges.

  Amanda’s anger simmered to a low boil.

  Mysterious letters, three so far, had suddenly appeared over the last week. Each one had spoken of the brightness of her smile, the pleasing curve of her lips, and other such drivel. None bore a clue to the Lothario’s identity.

  She wouldn’t allow them to rattle her. Whatever the caller intended, she wouldn’t let it cloud twenty-eight years of judgment that kept her on firm ground thus far.

  “Put the flock to bed, Fraser, and let’s rest our bones.”

  The collie’s sharp yap seemed to agree as he herded the baahing chorus into the pen.

  “Good boy.” Amanda quickly shut and fastened the gate, then bent to scratch his ears. The dog’s tongue lolled to the side, his tail whipping her leg. “You’re all a woman could wish for. You earned an extra treat tonight. The least I can do is feed you a meal fit for a king. Now, let’s find out if the trespassing varmint who left that on our door put his name to this declaration of love.”

  In a way she hoped it was the cowboy looking for his hat. She’d take special delight in making sure he never found it.

  A tack held the same brown paper used in any ordinary dry goods store. She ripped off the offending scrap, scanning the area again for the skulking culprit. But nothing moved except the swaying sea of wild rye and sagebrush.

  “It’s a good thing the miserable wretch didn’t hang around to show his face. I’d make him rue the day he messed with me.”

  The collie scooted past her into the house and poised beside a piece of broken powder keg bearing the faded words U.S. ARMY MUNITIONS. Her father had come across the makeshift dish that the regiments had tossed aside once they finished civilizing the Indians. One thing about Argus, he found a use for everything except a daughter. Sudden pain pricked her heart. Even in death he could still wound. A ragged breath squeezed from her mouth.

  Fraser cocked his head to the side, whined, and lifted a paw.

  “Beggar.” Amanda wagged her finger. “For shame.”

  Dropping the note on the table, she smoothed the thick fur, accepting Fraser’s wet caresses. “One day I’ll get you a real bowl. You deserve much better. Rest while I whip up that feast I promised. Everything is safe for tonight.”

  The latest missive received little more than a cursory glance. She scurried about the kitchen corner that consisted of a stove and a few half-empty crates that doubled as cabinets. She really should go to town to restock supplies.

  The thought brought a tightening in her chest.

  Amarillo didn’t exactly throw out the welcome mat for a mutton puncher. A smart woolie had to know how to keep to herself in a cattle town. Sometimes the lines blurred, making distance all but impossible.

  “To keep our bellies fed I have to pretend to like the connivers and backstabbers. Pig’s foot!”

  In no time, Amanda dished Fraser a good helping of roasted leg of lamb and carrots she’d fetched from the root cellar. To top off the fare, she added a thick slice of sourdough. The collie had his principles it seemed, promptly nosing the crusty bread to the side before attacking the meat with relish.

  She laughed and measured herself a smaller portion on a tin plate while she tried not to jar the rickety table, praying the legs held together a bit longer until she could save up for something better. She’d shear the sheep soon. Folks paid top dollar for wool even though they despised the animal it came from. She intended to sell a few of the flock. Many of the ewes had birthed lambs, so her number had risen. But finding a buyer had become more difficult of late. The cattlemen had the market sewn up, leaving little room for anything else. Yet they kept harping how sheep destroyed the land, making it unfit for their precious bovine. No satisfying the puffed-up land grubbers.

  Amanda blinked away tears. Damn them!

  Hell would freeze over before she let them force her out. Of the overwhelming numbers of sheepherders once occupying the area, only three stood their ground. Seemed she’d always occupied a spot someone else wanted.

  Sometimes in the mist of a gray dawn she dreamed a handsome prince would pluck her from the endless despair and add his strength to hers. And, if a girl dreamed, she might as well dream large. This man wouldn’t mind the bleating of sheep.

  His kisses would bring light to a world that had been dark so long.

  His arms would be strong enough to withstand the buffeting winds of the cattlemen’s greed.

  And his wild spirit would equal her cussed mule-headedness.

  Words on the note she’d casually flung to the table caught her interest. She held the paper to the glare of the lamp.

  “My Dearest Amanda,” it began.

  I yearn to see the beauty of your face, hear the tone of your voice, and inhale your fragrance that wafts in the wind like a million wildflowers in bloom. Please meet me in Amarillo by morning in the lobby of the hotel. Then, you shall know the love I speak. Look for the crescent birthmark on my right hand and the adoration in my eyes.

  The flowing initials P.M. graced the bottom of the letter. P.M.? Who on earth? Longing rippled past life’s disappointments and sorrow. Amanda squelched rising excitement, trying to recall crossing paths with Mr. P.M.

  Not that he could truly be a secret admirer, so she’d best remember that. The motive had to be some callous attempt to belittle her. She’d suffered the brunt of ridicule much of her life and knew that particular sting. She wouldn’t put stock in flowery words scribbled on a piece of paper.

  The swain wouldn’t trick her. Her adversaries had a bag full of low, unscrupulous practices. She knew them all.

  This, however, was a new tactic, and the ruse would prove far more damaging than the others should she buy the flattering prose.

  Amanda didn’t. She wouldn’t entertain that for a second.

  Her hand shook slightly when she held the note toward glowing embers in the stove. The paper caught easily and turned to ash in minutes. Like her life, it flaked into nothingness and fell amid the flames.

  Fraser whined. His soulful, brown eyes said he knew her pain.

  Jerking up the wayward Stetson that had come into her tender, loving care, she threw it down and stomped until the black felt flattened into a circle.

  Now, should the cowboy come looking, she’d be oh-so-thrilled, in fact duty-bound, to return it.

  “Here boy.” She grabbed a handful of oatmeal cookies she’d baked that morning and aimed for the middle of Fraser’s new feeding dish. “I didn’t forget that extra special treat.”

  Quiet yearnings settled in the deepest corners of Amanda’s heart. Things she hadn’t revealed to a living soul. She swallowed hard. Years had passed since the abandonment, and yet the hurt haunted. If only she could take solace in the fact that each day took her further from the misery. Except it hadn’t. She was truly, utterly alone.

  Amanda glared at the hat. Trust could make a woman do foolish things. She wouldn’t put any faith in a fiddle-faced cowboy with a vivid imagination and too much time on his hands.

  Inhale her fragra
nce that wafts in the wind like a million wildflowers would he? She snorted.

  “I trust you about as far as I can throw an iron jenny.”

  Amanda absently twirled the spinning wheel that was tucked in a corner of the room while she plotted.

  She’d get gussied up in the new apricot dress she’d sewn from last year’s finest wool…

  Put a dab of rose water behind her ears……And paste on a smile that would melt a man’s hardest, most cruel intentions.

  The louse wouldn’t expect a sheep rancher with brains.

  Or a devious plan.

  Yes, she’d go.

  And she’d make the Lothario sorry he ever messed with her.

  Absolutely, without a doubt, sorry.

  Chapter 2

  Cussing and yelling from across the Frying Pan Ranch’s compound might’ve broadened Payton McCord’s vocabulary, if he lived someplace more civilized than the rough Panhandle or pursued another line of work besides cowhand.

  His Uncle Henry had spouted a lot of wisdom before he went on to the hereafter and, although a good portion of the interpreting changed with each telling, one parcel stood out: Spittin’ into the wind can leave you drying your face with a long-handled mop.

  In hindsight, Payton should’ve heeded that particular warning before playing the latest practical joke on his best friend, Joe Long. Fact of the matter, Payton had forgotten he’d planted his damn feet in the downwind position, and now had to suffer the consequences. In the dying light of a spent day he could definitely feel the fine spray of blowback drenching his mustache.

  Payton raised his head when sudden silence filled the brisk, spring air, deafening him. Strands of hemp dangled from the partially braided rope in his hand.

  Maybe Joe’d patched things up with his wife, Lucinda.

  That glimmer of hope died when abrupt banging and clanging replaced the brief moment of calm.

  He swung toward the commotion and winced.

  Pots, pans, and pottery flew from the doorway like missiles from a Gatling gun, followed by Joe’s hasty exit.

  Hell and be damned, Lucinda Long had a temper!

  A guilty conscience rolled a heaping boxcar of blame at Payton’s door. He shouldn’t have convinced that saloon trollop Joe would welcome her affections. In his defense, who would’ve predicted Lucinda would pass by the swinging doors and spy the tosspot perching on Joe’s lap with her skinny arms wrapped around his neck?

  While Payton recounted the scene, a skillet grazed the ranch foreman’s head. Joe nursed his wound, limping toward him and safer territory inside the barn.

  “Reckon Lucinda’s not in the forgiving mood.” Payton trained his gaze on the new rope. Blood made him a mite squeamish. Besides, he couldn’t bear the misery in Joe’s eyes.

  “The woman’s fit to lasso a trapped cougar.”

  “Give her a day or two. Maybe she’ll take you back.”

  “Damn you, McCord! You’ve gone too far this time. Messing with a man’s marriage is serious grounds for an ass whooping.”

  Payton planted a matchstick in the side of his mouth. “I never meant for Lucy to see that hussy. Our pranks have always been harmless fun. And I reckon the God-awful jokes you’ve pulled ever since I arrived three months ago conveniently slipped a cog in your memory. I recall those were none on the pleasant side.”

  Replacing the Bull Durham in his pouch with cow dung still stung….

  And filling his canteen with skunk oil? Luckily, the odor hit his nose before he tipped the container. He’d had to throw the damn thing away though. Those incidents straggled at the end of a list long as his arm. He finally raised his eyes to check for blood. None that he could see.

  Joe gingerly rubbed the knot on his head. “Let’s call it quits. We’re even. I’m willing to let bygones be bygones.”

  “Shake on it?”

  A fraction of a second passed before Joe accepted Payton’s olive branch. The hesitation let it be known he might forgive but not forget. At last, Joe clasped Payton’s hand, a small assurance they were still friends despite everything.

  “Talk to Lucinda. She might listen to you, Payton.”

  “Sure. Might have to let her cool off first though.”

  “I figure that’ll be sometime after next year’s thaw. I ain’t seen her this riled in all my born days.”

  Just then a pair of men’s britches skimmed the air and landed on the whiplike, spiny branches of an ocotillo bush. Clusters of crimson flowers peeked from the crotch. Shirts and long johns soon littered the buttercups and black-eyed Susan landscape until the ground developed a case of measles.

  Payton shifted the matchstick. “You might oughta go get your britches, Joe.”

  “Tarnation! Rub salt in the wound why don’t you, you low-down marriage-wrecker. Add some vinegar while you’re at it.”

  “That’s no way to speak to a friend.”

  “You’d best talk to her soon if you want to remain one,” Joe growled.

  “I admit I owe you that. I’ll do my best to fix the harm.” Payton straightened and lowered his hat. Then, he stalked to a pair of recently pitched white underdrawers smothering a patch of winecup and began waving them as he cautiously crossed the battlefield. “Lucy, now don’t you throw anything else.”

  The termagant stepped out. A stiff breeze tossed the mass of flaming red curls hither and yon.

  “Stay out of this, Payton. I have no quarrel with you.”

  “That opinion may change once you hear me out. Let me come inside. I don’t think a body should air dirty laundry where God and everybody can hear.”

  She clutched the door but moved aside. “You can talk until the saints go marching in and it won’t affect things one iota.”

  Leaving the drawers on the stoop, he stepped across the threshold. “First of all, you know Joe and I have played pranks on each other from the moment we met?”

  “I don’t see how that pertains.”

  “Joe has no use for that saloon hussy. Won’t give any woman the time of day except you.” Payton ran a hand through his hair and met her wrath with frank honesty. “Truth is I created this predicament when I told the girl Joe’d welcome a little feminine persuasion not of the wifely kind. I didn’t stretch or bend the truth…I lied.”

  “Kiss my foot! I could spit in your eye if you weren’t so blasted tall, Payton McCord.”

  “Would it help knowing I didn’t think it’d come to this?”

  A swift blow to his shoulder knocked him sideways. Damn, the little woman carried a punch! Lucy’s temper came in degrees of hot, boiling, and scorching. He’d earned the full measure though. Never let anyone say he didn’t take his medicine even if it did go down backward and lopsided. Or all over his face.

  His belly twisted when he saw tears swimming in her eyes. Lucy truly loved Joe despite his faults.

  Not that Payton particularly knew anything about love. Closest he might’ve gotten was the time he raced into a burning building to save Mavis Harper and found her half-clothed. The only fire had been the grease on the stove. He’d sure had hell peeling Mavis off him though.

  Ever since she batted those eyes like a cow that’d eaten a bunch of locoweed, and he ran in the opposite direction.

  Maybe that was love.

  Maybe it should scare the stuffing right out of a man.

  And maybe he had no business changing his ways now. A confirmed bachelor didn’t suddenly wish to wed any more than a cowpuncher developed a craving for dumb sheep. He was a single man, a cow man, and that was that.

  Love and marriage…who needed that cluttering up things? Those notions were for young pups with stardust in their eyes and enough courage to wrestle a pack of mangy wolves.

  Payton was too old for pretending he had what it took. An achy back and bum knee tended to remind him whenever he let his thoughts get too frisky.

  In light of today’s events he could see the disaster a wife made of a man’s life. He should probably count his blessings. Though too often,
when he rode the range with the cattle, he imagined being able to wrap his arms around a woman who belonged only to him and hold her until dawn’s faint light whispered “I do, I forever will” in his ear.

  Those things weren’t for him. He’d accepted that.

  Dear Uncle Henry swore the love of a good woman could cure a man of bachelorhood, sin, and sanctimony. Payton had no doubt he needed saving, but didn’t harbor any fervent desire for it.

  “Come here, Lucy.” He folded his arms around the woman and let her blubber and sling snot on his clean shirt. “Joe worships the ground you walk on. Always has. Always will.”

  “You’d defend him no matter what.”

  “I know he has eyes for no other woman in the world.”

  Lucinda dabbed at the tears. “Are you sure?”

  “Positive.”

  Although he wasn’t privy to such things, he took her wobbly smile as a good sign.

  “Do you think you can find it in your heart to take Joe back?” He handed her a handkerchief. He’d always heard a woman liked a man to pay attention to tears and snot.

  “You always were the only one brave enough to call me Lucy.” She blew her nose. “Joe can come home…in time.”

  Visions of the uncomfortable sort swept through Payton’s head. Each one brought to mind a swarm of angry bees after someone knocked down their hive and stole their honey.

  “Exactly how does a man measure ‘in time’?”

  “When he’s learned his lesson good and proper.”

  Which meant what? Female riddles—who could understand them? He’d rather have things spoken straight out. That way a man knew where he stood. Looked as if Joe sat astraddle a fence and Payton couldn’t advise him where to light.

  Nodding as though it made perfect sense, he backed out the screen door and returned to the barn in time to catch Joe scribbling on a piece of paper. His friend hurriedly pushed the writing tools under the britches he’d retrieved from the yard, his foot tapping out a rhythm on the dirt floor.