by Stacey Kayne
STACEY KAYNE
MAVERICK WILD
TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON
AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG
STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID
PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND
Special thanks to
Kimberly Duffy for her “Wild” title inspiration.
Carla, Kathy, Marlene and Sheila for their tireless
critiquing and for believing in this story.
My family for their wonderful support.
My readers.
I’ve been truly touched by all the letters and
e-mails—thank you for the wonderful
welcome into a genre I love.
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Prologue
Virginia, 1862
“I f we don’t ride out, she’ll have us whipped to the bone before the old man comes back.”
Chance didn’t spare the breath or energy to agree with his brother, the urge to ride fast and hard burning stronger in his gut than the welts flaming across his back. Their father’s short visit meant his camp was close, freedom was within reach.
The darkness in the stable didn’t impede his deft movements as he tossed his saddle over the blanket and reached for the cinch. They couldn’t risk lighting a lantern.
“How could he leave us here to deal with his raving-mad wife?” Tucker ranted in a low whisper. “She ran him off like she always does with her screaming and bawling. Did you see how he rode out this evening and didn’t even look back?”
“I saw.”
“I don’t know why he doesn’t ever stand up to her. If she were my wife—”
“We won’t be fool enough to marry,” Chance cut in.
“Amen.”
“Before the old man rode out, I told him we’d be on his heels in a day.”
His twin spun around, his pale-yellow hair flashing in streaks of moonlight seeping through the barn windows. “What’d he say?”
“That a rebel camp ain’t no place for young boys.”
“Can’t be worse than living with Winifred. We’ll be thirteen come the spring—nearly grown men!”
Chance gave a nod of agreement as he secured his bedroll behind his saddle.
“He should’a taken us with him,” said Tucker. “We’re old enough to fight for our home.”
The way Chance saw it they’d lost that battle two years ago when their father had taken a wife. Seemed like foolish business to him and Tucker. They’d gotten on just fine for ten years without a woman in their lives, but they hadn’t had any say in the matter. The old man had come home from a business trip up north hollering loud enough to raise the dead about the underhanded shenanigans of starched-up fancy women. The next thing Chance knew, he and Tucker were standing beside their father in their Sunday trousers and stiff collars as he married Winifred Tindale.
A slender woman with a mess of blond curls tumbling about her head, a blushing smile and fluttering blue eyes, she’d seemed harmless enough. But it hadn’t taken much to crumble that gentle mask. At their slightest fidget, all that pretty contorted into a glare fierce enough to scare bark off a tree. He’d known right there in the church that their days of doing as they pleased were over. True enough, she’d made the past two years a living hell.
While their father had been off at Virginia state meetings, his witch of a wife had turned their house upside down, changing everything from the wallpaper to the staff. She’d fired the people who’d raised him and Tuck, taking away everything familiar to them. She’d brought in her own staff, strangers who didn’t give two wits if their mistress gave an order to whip the dog or her stepsons.
Chance shoved his winter coat into his saddlebag, knowing there’d be no coming back. He took Star by the reins and led the black mare toward the moonlight streaming through the open doors. A chilling breeze helped to soothe his aching shoulders. His breath uncurled like a cloud into the crisp fall air.
Across the yard shaded by a giant hickory tree, the moon lit up the white two-story house he’d grown up in, a home he no longer recognized. His gaze locked on the center second-story window. Their stepsister hadn’t escaped the witch’s tirade unscathed. Winifred didn’t have her daughter dragged outside for public floggings, but on occasion Chance had spotted bruises hidden by ruffles and lace, and too often watched Cora Mae flinch at her mother’s callous words.
His fingers fisted around the reins in his hand as hatred welled up inside him. He and Tuck used to feel cheated, their own mama having died the day they were born. He’d since realized they’d been the lucky ones. The first day he’d met Cora Mae, she’d brought an ache into his chest he’d never felt before.
After returning from the chapel, the old man had been shocked to discover a seven-year-old daughter among his new wife’s possessions. Chance had never seen anything like her, not a single orange ringlet out of place and skin so white it glowed.
Perched on a settee amid stacks of trunks and other parcels in the grand foyer, she’d reminded him of the fancy porcelain dolls on the high shelves at the general store. All frilly and fragile—something he wasn’t allowed to play with. Just like those delicate dolls, Cora Mae’s pink lips didn’t smile or frown, just stayed frozen in place as though painted on. He and Tuck had fixed that.
Despite his stepmother’s efforts to keep her daughter locked away from the world, that ol’ hickory got more use than the staircase during their frequent moonlight rides and walks to the creek. He’d become real partial to Cora Mae’s smiles and wild giggles. If he’d had his way, she’d be riding out with them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Tucker said from beside him.
“Doesn’t feel right, leaving her here,” Chance admitted.
“Nine years old is too young. And she’s a girl. We’ll be lucky if they don’t chase us off.”
Star tugged at his hold on the reins, anxious for the ride her saddle promised.
“Besides,” said Tucker, “she belongs to Winifred.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” a soft voice whispered from the shadows. Cora Mae stepped into the moonlight, her orange hair flaring up in the pale light like a wick touched by a flame. Two thick braids draped over a pair of their old denim overalls—her usual sneak-out attire. Her dark eyes went from Tucker, to him, to their horses and back again.
“Where are you going?”
Chance couldn’t seem to find his voice.
“We’re meeting up with our father’s unit,” Tucker informed her.
Her wide gaze locked with his. “Chance?”
He liked how she did that, recognized him from his brother with nothing but a glance. His own father couldn’t tell him from his twin and was never home long enough to have reason to. He was going to miss her something awful. Knowing there’d be no one to check on her after one of her mother’s temper tantrums felt like a kick in the gut.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I was until now,” she said, her voice escalating. “You can’t leave me!”
“Shhh!” he and Tuck said together.
“Do you want us to get whooped again?” Tucker ground out. “We’re already torn up.”
Cora Mae clamped her lips tight, but that didn’t keep her lower lip from trembling. “You can’t go without me.”
Chance stared in horror as fat tears rolled from her eyes and leaked down her pale cheeks. He’d never seen Cora Mae cry—though she often had reason. He dropped his gaze to his boots, not wanting to see it now.
“Damnation,” Tucker muttered. “I can’t handle no more crying females. You’re the one who’s always yammering on with her through all hours of the night.” He nudged Chance’s arm. “You explain it to her.” He mounted his horse and started toward the woods.
It was just like Tucker to stick him with the hard stuff!
“Chance.” Cora Mae took a step toward him. “Please. Don’t leave me here.”
“If we were going anywhere else, I’d—”
“I’m not afraid to go.”
He knew she wasn’t. When she was away from her mother, Cora Mae had a fearlessness to be marveled at. They hadn’t accepted having a girl along for their late-night adventures without putting her through her paces. Cora Mae didn’t back down from a dare and had tackled every challenge he and Tuck had put before her. She’d turned out to be more fun to have around than a new puppy. But this was different. They were going to war.
“We’re not taking a ride down to the creek, Cora Mae. The soldiers would never let you stay.”
Sniffling, she wiped at her damp cheeks. “What am I to do without you?”
He hated this. What was he supposed to tell her? That it would be all right? He wouldn’t wish her mother on a Yank! He wanted to do more, to be able to protect her. But he couldn’t. Leastways, not yet. “We’ll come for you,” he said at last. “When the fighting’s over.”
Sullen brown eyes held his gaze. She tilted her head, the way she did when she was trying to make up her mind. “Promise?”
“Soon as we can,” he said with a nod.
Tucker whistled softly, and Chance took a step back.
“I got to go.”
“Wait.” She grabbed his sleeve as he lifted his boot to the stirrup. “Take this.” She pulled a ribbon from one of her braids, setting free a mass of orange ripples. Shoving the wide strip of satin through a buttonhole on his shirt pocket, she began working it into a pink bow that would have Tucker laughing clear to the next county.
“Cora Mae, I can’t—”
“So you won’t forget,” she said, the catch in her voice stopping his protest.
Heck, even if she weren’t his stepsister, he couldn’t forget a girl with bright orange hair and the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. “That’s not likely.”
She stepped back and drew a jagged breath. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears he could tell she was trying hard to hold back. “Be careful.”
“You, too.” He swung into the saddle and started toward the thicket of trees before she had him covered in ribbons.
Not about to let Tucker catch him with a pink bow on his chest, Chance tugged the thing from his shirt. He rubbed the silken fabric between his fingers then shoved it deep into his pant pocket. Feeling Cora Mae’s gaze on him as surely as the cold breeze whispering across the back of his neck, he spurred Star into a gallop.
No wonder his father never looked back—he didn’t have to.
As Chance rode into the darkness of the woods, all he could see was the image of Cora Mae standing in moonlight, her somber brown eyes silently pleading for him to take her with him.
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory, 1883
O ne hand clutching her valise, the other flattened atop her ivory bonnet to prevent the biting wind from snatching it away, Cora Mae Tindale charged through the dusty, pitted road of Slippery Gulch. Horses and wagons clamored through the small strip separating the parallel rows of buildings. She leaped onto the crowded boardwalk. Folks swarmed like bees as the stagecoach driver continued to toss parcels and crates down from the stagecoach that had brought her this far.
Only twenty more miles.
Cora drew her carpetbag of dusty traveling clothes against her aching ribs and forged her way through. Her corset pinched beneath the straining fabric of the yellow gown her mother had starved her into just one agonizing month ago. Lord, what she’d give for a full breath. She hadn’t inherited her mother’s petite build, but the raving woman wouldn’t relent.
There was nothing to be done for it now. This was the nicest dress she’d managed to stuff into her trunk. She couldn’t arrive at the Morgan Ranch appearing a vagabond in need of charity.
Keeping her gaze on the livery just a few shops down, she quickened her pace. Beyond the noise and bustle of the crowded strip, tiny canvas-topped homes spotted the uneven grasses. Miles of rolling hills rippled into the distance like great green waves. Farther out, snowcapped mountains spiked up into the clear blue.
Cora’s heart constricted painfully. The imposing view made it all too clear that this settlement was nothing but a tiny speck in a vast expanse of hills and sky. She’d heard Wyoming Territory was largely unsettled, but hadn’t imagined Tucker and Chance would have built their ranch so far out into sheer wilderness.
She wouldn’t be discouraged. She’d waited so long to see them again, though these were not the circumstances she had envisioned.
An instant burn of tears stung her eyes at the thought. The eight years she had spent at the textile mill had truly been a kindness. She’d been such a fool to believe her mother had summoned her home because she had missed her. Had she even suspected—
“Miss Tindale?”
Alarmed by the foul scent of bourbon on the breath so close to her ear, Cora swung around.
A tall cowboy shifted his hat over curly black hair. “Name’s Wyatt McNealy. I hear you’re headed to the Morgan Ranch and are, uh, in need of my services.”
Cora took one look at Wyatt McNealy’s smug grin and winking eye and knew she’d crawl the twenty miles to the Morgan Ranch before she’d travel in the company of a man carrying the stench of alcohol.
“You are mistaken, Mr. McNealy. I am not in need of any services.”
“Spud tells me you’re headed out to the Morgan place. I happen to be traveling in that direction. No sense in you having to struggle with a cart across such rugged ground.”
Cora squared her shoulders. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m quite capable of handling a horse and cart. After traveling for weeks without altercation, I’m sure I can manage another twenty miles.” She attempted to move past him. “Good day.”
He sidestepped, blocking her way.
Fear nettled beneath her skin. Her fingers tightened around the handle of her carpetbag, preparing to knock him out of her way. Her other hand curled into a fist, just as her stepbrothers had taught her.
“You kin to the Morgans?”
“We’re a kin of sorts,” she said, hoping Chance and Tucker still thought of her as such.
“Well then.” His fingers closed around her elbow. “I know they’d want me to make sure you reached their homestead safe and sound.”
Cora wrenched her arm from his grasp.
“Wyatt!” boomed a voice from behind them. “You black-hearted son of a bitch!” The cracking of knuckles against Wyatt’s jawbone punctuated the hard-spoken words. Wyatt dropped to the boardwalk. The crowd around them dispersed like a clutch of spooked chickens. Cora swallowed a shriek and backed against the building as Wyatt’s attacker brushed past her.
The dark figure seemed a giant, well over six feet and covered in dried mud. He turned toward his companion standing in the road. Wyatt started to rise. The giant tossed something at him, knocking him back down with a loud clunk.
A dead foal caked in mud pinned him to the boardwalk. Cora clamped her hand over her gaping mouth.
Wyatt groaned and shoved against the weight.
“I’ll be sending you a bill for that foal and any others should they die from the stress you put them
through. You better pray they make it, Wyatt.”
Wyatt shifted. Cora saw his hand going for the hilt of his gun. Before she could shout a warning, a younger man stepped forward and pointed his rifle at Wyatt’s head.
“The kid’s known to have an itchy trigger finger,” said the muddy rogue. “I’d hold real still if I were you.”
Her pulse thundering in her ears, Cora glanced beyond the giant pillar of dirt and his young accomplice, toward the spectators gathered at a safe distance. Most watched with mild interest, while others continued on about their business.
Where was the sheriff?
The beastly rogue moved closer. Cora pressed her back against the rough wood of the building, holding her breath as his filthy trousers brushed across her yellow skirt.
He knelt beside Wyatt. “You got anything to say for what you did?”
“I didn’t do—” Wyatt’s whimpered words ended in a squeal as the man grabbed his boot and wrenched it up.
“Sure looks like the dainty boot prints we saw in that riverbed, don’t it, Garret? A notch in the left heel.”
The younger man spared a glance, his hazel eyes taking in the notched heel. “Sure does. Matches perfectly.”
“You so much as kick a pebble into that river to divert water from my land again, and I’ll be gunning for you, Wyatt. That’s a promise.”
“You’re the one bent on using that devil wire!”
“Got tired of waiting for you boys on the Lazy J to learn your alphabet. Our brands are distinctly different. I’ve been patient with your boss, but if you don’t catch on, I’ll have no choice but to believe you’re rustlers. Stupidity’s forgivable, Wyatt. Stealing isn’t.” He lifted Wyatt’s gun from its holster and tucked it into his own grimy waistband. “Just a precaution to keep you from filling my back with lead.” He straightened and turned away, stepping out into the street.
