by Connie Mason
Chad had learned his lesson the hard way. He’d courted Loretta Casey, the town beauty, and had even become engaged. But the fickle miss had backed out after Chad had lost his heart to her. Loretta dumped him for an eastern dandy who offered her a chance to live in a big city, which Chad had steadfastly refused to consider. As for Ryan, he found women too demanding for his liking. The one girl Ryan had taken an interest in had insisted that he work in her father’s mercantile and stop his wild carousing. Ryan might have been wild, but he loved ranching.
Pierce thought back over his own mistakes, beginning with the day he’d married Polly Summers. He’d been just twenty-one and in love, or so he’d thought. He’d assumed he was getting a shy virgin and discovered he’d married an experienced woman who quickly found other lovers to fill her empty hours. When he’d found her in bed with Riley Reed, her former lover, he’d kicked her out. Trey Delaney, Pierce’s father, had wielded his substantial influence to obtain an annulment. His mother and Polly had both left their marks on Pierce. He’d vowed he’d not become a three-time loser.
Stumbling through the dark canyon, Pierce remained conscious by recalling his mother and reliving the anguish her leaving had caused the family. As he’d grown older and wiser, Pierce had never forgotten his lesson. Women could ruin a man’s life. He enjoyed sex, and applied himself with zeal each time he went to town, but it was strictly lust-driven. He had his favorites among the women plying their trade above Stumpy’s saloon, but none of them meant more to him than a good lay.
Pierce had reached the end of his endurance. It had begun to rain by the time he climbed out of the canyon, and his mind was no longer lucid. Was he hallucinating or did he actually see the dim outline of a ranch house in the distance? He was so parched his throat felt as if it were on fire, and his mouth was drier than a desert. Though lightheaded from loss of blood, he forced himself to continue, knowing that once he stopped he was a goner. If wild animals didn’t get him, the vigilantes would.
Pierce stumbled to his knees. Pain exploded through him. He wanted to lie down, to shut his eyes to lose his pain in unconsciousness. He fought the urge to give up as the ranch house took form in the darkness. He blinked. It was no mirage, the structure was real, rising not one hundred yards in front of him.
Light spilled from the downstairs windows, drawing Pierce like a beacon. In a final burst of energy, he staggered forward, halting when he reached the front porch. He wasn’t thinking clearly, he realized as he paused to catch his breath. He couldn’t just barge in on people he didn’t know and wasn’t sure he could trust. He needed water and rest before his mind could work clearly enough to assess the situation.
He spied a pump in the yard and approached it with measured steps. No one was around, which seemed strange on a ranch this size. Using the last of his strength, he worked the pump handle and knelt to catch the first rush of water in his mouth. He drank greedily then thrust his head under the flow. When he was sufficiently refreshed, he dragged himself around to the back of the house, seeking a shed or outbuilding in which he could take shelter. He saw something better. The entrance to a root cellar.
Prying open the door, he quickly stumbled down the few steps onto the dirt floor. Once the door was pulled back into place, Pierce was engulfed in total darkness. Using his sense of touch, he located a sack of potatoes and rested his back against it. Having exhausted the reserve of energy he’d drawn upon to reach this place, Pierce finally allowed himself the blessed relief of unconsciousness.
Pierce awoke to more physical pain than he’d ever experienced in his entire twenty-eight years. His mouth tasted of blood and his head felt as if a herd of wild horses were stampeding inside it. The pain in his back was beyond description. He was smart enough to know that if the bullet didn’t come out soon, blood poisoning would kill him.
Little pinpoints of light caught Pierce’s attention and he glanced upward, noting that the floorboards above were slightly uneven, allowing him glimpses into the room directly overhead. From the amount of daylight visible, Pierce deduced that he had remained unconscious all night and far into the morning. He was thirsty again, and far weaker than he’d been the night before. Then he heard footsteps on the floorboards above and his attention sharpened.
The sound of voices raised in anger filtered down to him. Pierce strained to hear and could just barely make out the words. The voices were those of a man and woman.
“I’m sick of these delays, Zoey. If you don’t set a date for our wedding soon, my bank will foreclose on your property.”
“You know as well as I, Mr. Willoughby, that there is no mortgage on the Circle F. My father owned the ranch and land free and clear. If your bank holds the mortgage, it’s a forgery.”
“Are you suggesting I’m dishonest?” Willoughby blustered.
There was a pause and Pierce wondered if the man named Willoughby had frightened the woman into silence. But evidently she had more mettle than he gave her credit for.
“That’s exactly what I’m suggesting, Samson Willoughby. You’re a liar and a cheat. I wouldn’t marry you under any circumstances. Besides, I already have a fiancé whom I love very much. We’re to be married soon. He won’t let you get away with this game you’re playing with me.”
“A fiancé,” Willoughby sneered. “I don’t believe there is a fiancé. Where does he live? Why hasn’t he come forward before now? You’re a terrible liar, Zoey.”
“Look who’s calling the kettle black,” Zoey retorted.
“You can’t hoodwink me, my dear. I’ve wanted you for as long as I can remember. At first your father stood in our way, but his death changed everything. You love this ranch, don’t you? Well, I’m fond of it too. Our lands adjoin, only yours has rich grasslands and water rights that mine lack. Together we’ll own a large portion of Montana. If your so-called fiancé doesn’t show up soon, you’d better be prepared to marry me or lose your land.” He tipped his hat. “Good day, my dear.”
Zoey Fuller slammed the door behind Samson Willoughby with enough force to rattle the hinges. Two weeks! She’d been putting him off ever since her father’s death six months ago. Zoey knew Willoughby was lying about the mortgage. Yet her search for the title to the ranch had been futile. It had to be here somewhere, but where?
The mortgage papers Willoughby had flashed before her looked like the real thing, but Zoey knew her father wouldn’t mortgage the ranch without telling her. Money had been tight, but they’d always come through the hard times without sacrificing the ranch.
Blond and blue-eyed, twenty-two-year-old Zoey Fuller was a rare beauty who didn’t comprehend the devastating effect she had on men. She’d had beaus, but none she wanted to spend the rest of her life with. Her father had given her free rein after her mother died when she was twelve, and during those years she’d acquired a mind of her own and a temper to match. She was equally as comfortable in flannel shirt and denim pants as she was in a dress. Since Robert Fuller’s death, she’d run the ranch with the help of Cully, a crusty old cowhand who’d worked for her father for as long as she could remember. If he had another name, he’d never divulged it to anyone as far as she knew.
Now Cully was the only hand left on the place. The others had either quit or been driven off by Willoughby’s men. Raiders had been systematically stripping her ranch of livestock, and she was on the brink of bankruptcy. After her father’s death, Zoey learned that ranch hands were reluctant to work for a woman.
With Willoughby and other ranchers in the area offering higher wages, Zoey was between a rock and a hard place. Willoughby was breathing down her neck, and time was running out. When no fiancé showed up she’d be forced off her land. Marrying Willoughby wasn’t even an option she’d consider. She wouldn’t have that liar and cheat if he were served up on a silver platter.
Zoey left the house in a wretched mood. There was so much to do and so little time. It was nearly impossible to run a ranch with only Cully to help with the chores. Perhaps she’d go into town
later today and try again to recruit hands. Her last two trips had been a waste of time. Willoughby had spread the word that employment at the Circle F would be temporary, that the ranch was in deep trouble financially.
Zoey went to the barn and started pitching hay down from the loft. She noted that Cully had been there earlier to let the horses out into the pasture. She worked tirelessly until her arms began to ache and her stomach rumbled from hunger. She’d only nibbled at breakfast this morning, and lunch sounded good right now. She suspected Cully would be hungry too.
On her way to the house, Zoey remembered that she’d used the last of the potatoes in the bin. She’d have to go to the root cellar for more. Rounding the corner of the house, she noted that the cellar door was slightly ajar but thought little of it. The door was heavy, but Zoey was accustomed to performing difficult tasks and pried it open with ease. Zoey carefully made her way down the steps into the murky darkness.
The sack of potatoes, she recalled, was sitting in the far corner. She felt her way across the dirt floor, nearly falling when she stumbled across an obstacle in her path, an obstacle that hadn’t been there yesterday. She dropped to her knees, and her searching hands encountered something warm, something soft … something human. She recoiled in alarm. God, why hadn’t she brought a lantern down with her?
She stifled a scream when the object moved beneath her hands. Proceeding with caution, she encountered what felt like a bundle of rags. But the bundle of rags had muscles, hard muscles, and a wide chest, and … and … a face covered with stiff bristles. A man! She sat back on her haunches and stared hard at him. Shocked, she wondered why he was so still and what he was doing in her cellar.
Suddenly he grasped her wrist and she cried out. A moment later a light appeared at the opening of the root cellar.
“Are you down there, Miz Zoey?”
Cully stood at the top of the stairs, holding a lantern.
“Oh, Cully, thank God. Come down here quickly.”
“I heard you scream. You find a big rat down there?” He started down the stairs. “I set some traps the other day when I saw they were eating the potatoes and carrots.”
“Not a rat,” Zoey said, wresting her wrist from the stranger’s grasp. “There’s a man down here.”
The intruder let out a groan and Cully rushed to his side, holding the lantern high. Both he and Zoey got their first good look at the man in the cellar.
“Well, I’ll be danged. What’s wrong with him?”
“I don’t know, Cully. He sure is pale. Maybe he’s ill.”
Then she saw the pool of congealing blood beneath him and blanched. “Set the lamp down and turn him over slowly,” she told Cully.
Cully did as he was bid, cursing beneath his breath when he saw blood soaking the dirt floor. “He’s lost a heap of blood, Miz Zoey.”
Zoey carefully raised Pierce’s jacket, vest, and shirt, finding the bullet wound beneath his shoulder blade. “He’s been shot. The bullet is still in him. If it’s not removed soon, he’ll die of infection.” She pulled off Pierce’s bandanna and held it to the wound.
“There ain’t no decent doctor in Rolling Prairie since old Doc Tucker took to drink,” Cully said. “And it’ll take too long to fetch a doctor from another town. The stranger would be dead before the doctor arrived.”
Zoey felt a jolt of pity for the man. She’d never considered herself a particularly tenderhearted woman. She couldn’t afford to be, but something about this wounded stranger moved her. “Can you remove the bullet, Cully?”
Cully scratched the thatch of grizzled gray hair growing in tufts on his head, and shrugged. “I can try, Miz Zoey, but I can’t promise he won’t die anyway. We’ll have to move him into the house. You sure you want to do this? The man could be dangerous. He could be wanted by the law. You might be letting yourself in for a heap of trouble.”
Zoey glanced down at Pierce, more than a little startled to discover that he was quite handsome in a rugged sort of way. And he could be exactly the kind of man Cully described. But somehow she didn’t think so.
“I’m sure, Cully. You take his shoulders and I’ll take his feet. Together we should be able to get him into the house.”
Chapter 2
Pain. Stabbing, excruciating pain. Burning pain. Pierce tried to escape it but was inexorably drawn deeper into torment. Why was he lying on his stomach, pinned down like a sacrificial lamb and suffering beyond human endurance?
“He’s coming around, Cully.”
“I’m not quite through, Miz Zoey. Don’t let him move.”
“I’m trying, Cully, but he’s awfully strong.”
Suddenly Pierce let out a shout and went limp.
“I got it, Miz Zoey!” Cully’s voice was exultant as he dropped the bullet he had pried from Pierce’s flesh into a basin. “Now hand me that bottle of whiskey so I can disinfect the wound.”
“Do you think that’s wise?”
“It’s all we got.”
“Will he live?” Zoey asked with concern.
“Can’t tell. He looks healthy enough. No prison pallor. Don’t know who or what he was running from, but he don’t look like no outlaw to me. Course, that’s my personal opinion.”
“I trust your judgment, Cully. I can finish up here. You go get something to eat.”
“You sure?”
“Very sure.”
After Cully left, Zoey made a bandage from a soft cotton sheet she’d torn into strips and affixed it to the wound. Then she wound another long strip around Pierce’s chest to hold it in place. When she finished, she stood back to inspect her handiwork.
Cully had undressed the stranger down to his underwear while she’d boiled water and found the sharp knife Cully asked for. When she returned to the room, the stranger lay on his stomach, a sheet covering him from the waist down.
His back, arms, and chest were darkened from the sun, as if he was accustomed to working outside without benefit of a shirt. He was tall, broad, and splendidly put together. He was lean yet muscular in all the places that counted. There was no layer of fat around his waist. If she could see his legs, she expected they’d match the rest of him.
He wore his straight, dark hair slightly longer than most men, just brushing his shoulders, but it seemed to enhance his rugged good looks. A stray lock of hair had fallen into his eyes, and Zoey reached out unconsciously to push it back into place. It felt soft and thick and clean, and her fingers lingered longer than necessary.
Suddenly realizing what she was doing, Zoey snapped her hand away as if burned. It wasn’t like her to fantasize about a man, and a strange man at that. She had no idea who he was, for he had no identification on him, just a wad of money stuffed into his vest pocket. His clothing was of good quality and his boots were practically new. If he was an outlaw, he certainly was a prosperous one.
Cully returned a short time later. “I’ll sit with him now, Miz Zoey. Go get yourself some grub. There ain’t nothing more we can do for him now but to see that he’s kept comfortable.”
“I wonder who he is,” Zoey reflected aloud.
Cully shrugged his thin shoulders. “Hard telling. We’ll just have to wait until he’s well enough to speak up.”
“I’ll return later,” Zoey said as she headed toward the door. She stopped a moment and added, “See if you can get some water down him before fever sets in.”
“Don’t fret, Miz Zoey, I’ll take care of him.”
Reassured that Cully would watch over the wounded stranger, Zoey left the room. There were still countless chores that needed doing. She had eggs to gather, and while she was at it, she might as well kill a chicken. A rich broth would do the stranger good. When he awoke, if he awoke, he’d probably be ravenous.
Pierce groaned and opened his eyes. Mind-numbing pain permeated every part of his body. Slowly he became aware of his surroundings. He was lying on something soft. A bed? He raised his head slightly and saw a man dozing in a chair beside him. He was spare of frame and
wiry, his weather-beaten face the texture of wrinkled shoe leather, attesting to his advanced age and years spent toiling in the sun, wind, and rain. A shock of grizzled gray hair sprouted in every direction atop his head.
Suddenly the old man’s eyes opened and met Pierce’s gaze.
“So you’re awake, are you? Would you like some water?”
Pierce swallowed painfully and gave a slight nod, which set his head to spinning. “Please,” he croaked.
The old man supported Pierce’s head while he drank. “Take it easy, stranger.”
“Thank you,” Pierce said weakly. “Where am I?”
“This here is the Circle F ranch.” The man asked bluntly, “Who shot you?”
“Oh, he’s awake!”
Pierce turned his head toward the voice, set his eyes upon an angel, and thought he was hallucinating. The woman who had just walked into the room was too beautiful to be real. Immediately he grew wary. Women who looked like that were even less trustworthy than the plain-looking ones. He’d learned that one had to be extremely cautious around beautiful women, for they were often too full of themselves.
This woman was extraordinarily lovely. Hair the color of ripe wheat hanging down her back in a single braid, and eyes as blue as the Montana sky on a cloudless day. Her curvaceous body looked as if it had been poured into the tight pants she wore. Her breasts were unfettered beneath her shirt, and Pierce imagined he could see the impression of her nipples pushing against the worn material.
She hurried to the bed. “How do you feel?”
“Like hell. There isn’t a place on my body that doesn’t hurt. Did you remove the bullet?” The clean, subtly female scent of her teased Pierce’s nostrils, shortening his breath until it was an effort to breathe.
