Mustang Annie

by Rachelle Morgan

  Yet four thousand dollars was a mighty powerful temptation. Not only could she lose herself in Mexico, but she could live quite comfortably without ever having to rustle another horse.

  Which was another point—staying in the canyon with Corrigan was a whole lot safer than backtracking with him to the ranch; at least the canyon offered her places to hide should the need arise.

  “It’s a deal Corrigan—under one condition: I want cash payment in my hand at the end of three days.”

  “You’re so sure you’ll win this one?”

  “I’m sure.”

  This was one wager she couldn’t lose.

  The men gathered around the paddock at the crack of dawn the next morning, their anticipation as tangible as the dew clinging to the wild rye. Under Annie’s direction they’d erected more fencing, creating a circular arena some distance from the main pen.

  Resting his forearms on the fence, Brett stared across the paddock at the patchwork collection milling in the distance.

  He was the first to admit that he was a greedy bastard. He wanted what he wanted, and he did whatever he had to do get it—including take advantage of any situation that presented itself.

  For the first time, though, he felt almost ashamed.

  What could he have been thinking, making that wager with Annie? How had he let her provoke him into sinking so low? Was he so desperate to keep her a little while longer that he’d let her risk her life?

  He’d seen for himself what she could do with a bucker. Hell, the image of the first time he’d seen her haunted his every waking and sleeping moment. But they weren’t talking any old buckers here; they were talking twenty-five bred-in-the-badlands mavericks.

  Then again, wasn’t that Annie’s style? And wasn’t her grit one of the things he found so appealing about her?

  Even now, just looking at her made him throb clear down to the pit of his stomach. She entered the paddock, worn chaps snug around her jean-wrapped legs, a loose cream-colored shirt billowing in the breeze.

  Judging from the wonder on the men’s faces, he wasn’t the only one affected by Annie. What was it about her that enthralled them all so? What was it that set her apart, and made all other women pale in comparison? Her mystique? Her untouchable aura? That rare hint of vulnerability that reminded them all that beneath the tough exterior beat the heart of a woman?

  Her hips swayed in a blood sizzling manner as she approached the center of the paddock, while a late yearling hugged the outer circle, eyeing her. She’d said she needed to single out the older bachelors and mares before working with the colts and fillies. Brett knew from experience that the younger the horse, the easier the training. The older ones had already begun to form habits that they would pass down to their brothers and sisters. Adjusting those habits, Annie claimed, would make the rest of the herd follow the precedent set by the leaders.

  “She’ll hire herself onto some outfit, tame the wildest mavericks, and collect her fee. A couple weeks later the horses would turn up missing.”

  The sudden recollection of Jesse’s report caused Brett’s stomach to tighten with apprehension. Was she even now planning on taming the mounts, then coming back and stealing them?

  “You fellers are in for the treat of your life,” Dogie declared, interrupting Brett’s thoughts. “Nobody can bust a bronc like Annie.”

  “How would you know?” Flap Jack asked.

  “I saw her once.”

  Brett’s attention went to the kid’s face. “When would you have seen her?”

  “Few years ago down at the Tongue River, when she was with—” Dogie’s face suddenly paled.

  “Who was she with?” Brett demanded.

  “Maybe it wasn’t her. Maybe it was someone else.”

  “And maybe you better start talking.” The tone of his voice brooked no argument.

  Still, several seconds passed. “An Injun,” Dogie finally blurted. “She was with an Injun. They brought some horses in to trade, and she had to ride one cayuse just to prove he could be ridden. I don’t know who the feller was, but he seemed to like her well enough.”

  . . . married up with some breed. . .

  . . . . savage came out of nowhere. . . .

  Was that who Annie was hiding from? Was her husband even now hiding somewhere in the canyon, stalking her? Brett scanned the outlying plateaus, some stretching a good mile high. The faces of the canyon walls were riddled with caves and niches where a person could conceal themselves and bide time for an unguarded moment.

  Brett gripped Dogie’s shoulders. “If you know anything else that could mean trouble for Annie, anything that might be a danger to her, you had better tell me now.”

  Dogie looked over at Annie, then back at Brett with an expression of misgiving. “Well, she seemed real nervous back in Sage Flat. Especially when that feller showed up at the saloon and started gettin’ rough with one of the girls. Annie told me women don’t like that.”

  “Was it the same man she was with at the Tongue River?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so but I only saw ’em both for minute.”

  Brett stared into the boy’s fearful green eyes long enough to convey the warning that he’d not hesitate to thrash the boy within an inch of his life if he was holding back.

  When the fear faded to the dull light of resignation, Brett released Dogie’s shoulders with a curse. Why hadn’t he thought to use Dogie before? As much time as he and Annie spent together, Brett could have had the boy wrangling information from her. Yes, it was underhanded. But damn, he had no other way of getting the answers he sought.

  “What is she doin’?” Flap Jack asked, drawing Brett’s attention back to Annie. “Why ain’t she getting on his back?”

  His voice full of pride, Henry informed them, “She’s wooin’ him. Gettin’ him to trust her first.”

  Brett stared into the paddock. He didn’t understand how standing there staring at the horse could be considered wooing, but like his men, he could do little more than watch, captivated by his own curiosity.

  The horse ran a full circle, then stopped and looked at Annie. Annie turned her body and the horse stopped to study her. She turned again, and the horse bolted. Countless minutes slipped by as Annie repeated the process. Simple gestures, like the angle of her head, the movement of her hand, either sent him running around the pen again or made him stand in a tight stance, tossing his head.

  Just when Brett began to wonder if Annie was trying to pull some sort of con on them, she turned her back on the horse and waited.

  No one moved, no one breathed, mesmerized that such a slight woman would turn her back on a wild mustang.

  Then the horse ducked his head, as if asking forgiveness, and took one step toward Annie. Another step followed, and still another, until he stood directly behind her and nuzzled her shoulder with his nose.

  Brett found himself grinning from ear to ear. What she was doing didn’t make a lick of sense, but he knew he’d just seen something so unreal, so fantastic, that nobody would believe him if he repeated it.

  His grin faded with a startling realization: this was what Annie had meant by wooing, by winning trust. It wasn’t about smothering a person with attention, or going to extreme lengths to catch their notice.

  Sometimes it meant turning your back and letting them come to you.

  Chapter 15

  After thirty minutes of “talking” to the horse, Annie spent another thirty minutes acquainting him with her scent—walking around him, stroking his hide, blowing into his nostrils, then laying a blanket over his eyes and dragging it across his back. The process had worked for the Comanche for countless years, and Sekoda had spent hour after hour teaching her the ways of his mother’s people.

  When the mustang finally allowed her to place a blanket and saddle on his back, she knew it was now or never.

  She approached the sorrel, feeling as if she were preparing for battle. This is what she did—it’s what she was. A bronc rider. A mustanger.
She’d tamed mounts unrulier than this one, so where did this sudden nervousness come from?

  Maybe because she’d never had so much at stake before. She knew good and well that if Corrigan won this wager, she’d lose more than her dignity. She’d lose a piece of herself.

  She took a deep breath, let it out, then did another slow intake and release. “Easy boy.” She nudged his underbelly with her knee. He ducked his head, but didn’t bolt. She slipped her foot in the stirrup and hoisted herself against the horse’s side. Again she paused, laying over the saddle, allowing the horse time to reject her weight. When he did nothing more than swing his head around to see what she was doing, she eased her leg over his back and positioned herself above, then into, the saddle.

  Forcing her body to relax so it would flow with the horse’s motion rather than against it, she whispered to herself, “Buck up, Annie, it’s time to ride.”

  At her nod, Emilio loosed his hold on the bridle. No sooner did he scramble out of the way than the cayuse beneath her tasted his freedom.

  Annie’s head snapped back with the first slam of forehooves against packed earth.

  Let him think he’s in control. Let him dance around a bit, feel his oats. Keep his head up, though; he has to lower his head to buck. Annie gripped the halter and pulled with all the strength of one arm while she kept the other extended to the right to maintain her balance. One slip of concentration, one violent lunge of the beast beneath, would mean the difference between maintaining her seat or crashing to the ground.

  “Ride, Annie, Ride!”

  “Bust that bucker! Show him who’s in charge!”

  The shouts of encouragement reached deep into the recesses of Annie’s mind, yet she heard them not in the voices of Corrigan’s men, rather Sekoda’s deeply timbered tone.

  Then another voice rose above them all—softer, huskier, almost unhearable in the din, yet so clear it could have been murmured in her ear. “You can do it, Annie.”

  Annie mentally latched onto the words, unaware until that moment how badly she’d needed the boost to her confidence. As the mustang twisted and plunged and kicked beneath her, she held her position with focused poise.

  By the time the horse finally settled down, both he and Annie were drenched in sweat. Their bones and muscles quivered from exertion and exhilaration. Annie spent the next ten minutes caressing the animal, patting him, stroking his damp hide, telling him without words how very proud of him she was. She took him a couple turns around the pen and he kept his head high, proclaiming to one and all that the only reason she remained on his back was because he allowed it.

  Undefinable and unexpected emotion roiled just below the surface as Annie dismounted to the cheers and whistles of Brett’s men. For the first time in years, she felt almost proud of herself.

  “Amazing!”

  “Never saw the like!”

  She met Brett’s gaze. Saw the pride. The praise. The desire. And something a little more disturbing—a knowledge, as if he’d just discovered a deeply rooted secret.

  Annie’s breath caught. He suddenly seemed very, very dangerous.

  She whirled away from him and called out, “Bring on the next one.”

  By the end of the second day, Annie fully regretted the impulsiveness of accepting Corrigan’s wager. She dismounted an especially irascible mare, unable to do anything more than lean weakly against the horse’s side. Every bone and muscle in her body hurt beyond belief.

  “Annie, you’ve got to stop this.”

  At Flap Jack’s gentle chiding, she stiffly pushed herself away from the sweaty hide. “No, I’ve only got six more to go counting the stallion, and one day left.” Then this damned wager would be done and over with.

  “He’ll kill you Annie, if you don’t kill yourself first.”

  Only if she got lucky. “I’m fine, Flap Jack. I’ll get a good night’s sleep. Come morning, me and that ole cayuse will come to an understanding.”

  Pain ripped up her spine and down her legs as she made her way toward her bedroll. Though her stomach grumbled and her pores felt clogged with dirt, she was too weary even to eat or wash up.

  Before she made it halfway to the campfire, Dogie waylaid her.

  “Ace wants to see you, Miss Annie.”

  “Now?”

  Dogie gave her a beaming grin that set her on instant wariness. This best not be one of the boy’s pranks. She was in no humor to tolerate it today. “I don’t suppose he told you why.”

  “Nope. Just said soon as you were finished he wanted to see ya.”

  Whatever it was, it had better be important. She didn’t have the energy for any of his tom-foolery. “Where is he?”

  “Just yonder of those rocks.”

  She looked toward the outcropping of red clay where he’d jerked his thumb, but saw nothing save the saddle-shaped formation.

  Every step toward the rocks was torture to her aching body. She limped past the rough impression of a cantle and rounded the rear side. “This better be import—”

  The rest of the sentence escaped Annie at the sight that met her eyes. Candles. Dozens upon dozens of fat, flaming candles were scattered about the clearing, their flickering wicks dancing upon the ground, chasing away the encroaching shadows. And in the center sat a tub—a real tin tub filled to the brim with steaming water, an invitation to her weary, beaten body.

  Her mind reeling with awe, Annie wandered past the outer ring of light to trace the rim lightly with her fingertips. The trouble, the time this must have taken to set up. . . . Nobody, not even Koda, had ever been so considerate.

  She turned her head to one side, then the other. “Corrigan?”

  No answer.

  “Did you do this?”

  Again, silence.

  “Of course he did,” she told herself. The whole scenario—the candles, the bath, the intimate set ting—bore the brand of his hand all over it.

  But . . . why? Was this part of a new plan to seduce her? To knock her off balance? Was he even now watching her from some hidden spot?

  She looked at the tub again with longing. The steam rising into the air beckoned, called out to her like an answer to a plea. No cold scrub in the creek late at night while the men slept, or early in the morning while they were otherwise occupied, but an honest to God, muscle-soaking, brain-numbing bath.

  Her best intentions crumbled, and suddenly she didn’t care whether he watched or not. Her body hurt like it had never hurt before, and if she had to suffer his spying, it was a small price to pay for relief.

  Even as it occurred to her to fetch clean clothes from her saddlebags, a pile of folded fabric next to the tub caught her eye. Annie reached out slowly, removed the top garment, and shook out an ankle length divided riding skirt made of the softest kid skin she’d ever touched. She stroked the fringe decorating the outer seam in wonder. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d worn women’s clothes.

  “Do you like them?” came a sensuous drawl from behind her.

  Annie swung around, clutching the skirt to her front. He stood in the shadows, one shoulder against the rock separating them from the rest of the men. His hat was tipped low over his eyes, his arms crossed over his chest. Annie couldn’t be sure if it was the heat of the candles or Corrigan’s presence that warmed her skin.

  She swallowed the lump in her throat and splayed her hand over her breast, as if to hide the sudden quickening of her heartbeat. “You shouldn’t have done all this.”

  “Me? You honestly didn’t think I would provide a bath and new clothes for any of my crew, did you? No, you have the men to thank for this. I’m just the decoy.”

  Her half smile told him she wasn’t buying his story for an instant. But then, could he really expect to con a con artist?

  “All right,” he sighed. “Guilty as charged. But it really wasn’t that much trouble. A friend of mine let me raid his dugout.”

  “And you just happened to find a spanking new riding skirt in the stash.”

 
; “Consider that a bonus for recovering my horses.” He tipped his hat. “Enjoy your bath. If you need anything, I’m just a holler away.”

  He was leaving? He wasn’t going to post himself someplace and watch? Annie couldn’t decide which act she was more grateful to him for: the bath . . . or his granting her the privacy to enjoy it in peace.

  “Thank you . . . Brett.”

  “You’re more than welcome . . . Annie.”

  And then Brett did the hardest thing he’d ever done in his life. He spun on his heel and walked away.

  Back at the campsite, he discovered that Tex and his men had finally rejoined the outfit. They stood at the paddock fence, staring at the dark shadow pacing by the far wall. Brett debated for a moment whether to meet up with them, but a distraction was exactly what he needed. If he allowed his mind to linger on the woman he’d just left, he feared he’d not have enough strength to resist the schoolboy impulse to peek.

  Unfortunately, his thoughts strayed there anyway. Right about now she’d have her boots off, and was probably unbuckling her chaps. Untying the thongs. One, two, three . . . then the other side. The weight of the leather would make them drop to the ground while she unbuttoned her britches.

  Brett paused and groaned. He shook his head, trying to shake the picture out of his head. But like a flame to dry tinder, the fantasy raged on.

  She’d be peeling her britches off her hips, then down her firm legs, finally down to her ankles and kicking them free. Her shirt tails would reach to mid-thigh, giving him an incredible view of pale, bare skin below the hem; above it he’d have to guess. For damn sure her skin would be just as soft, just as smooth, but the wondering, the anticipation, could drive a man just as wild as the actual beholding.

  He’d look at her face, and she’d be looking back at him, drowsy-lidded invitation in her eyes, a come-hither smile on her lush lips, her index finger curling inward as she coaxed him closer.