Mountain Wild (Harlequin Historical Series) (14 page)

Her horse wasn’t where she should be.

Maggie sat at the mouth of the high canyon pass, her telescope moving over the green valley below. Star should be waiting for her in that northeast pasture, as she had been for the past six years.

The only horse within a mile was a saddled roan. A man worked on wire fencing a few yards away from his mount. She could just make out the tufts of golden hair beneath the brim of his dark hat.

Morgan.

Was he waiting for her? Had something happened to Star?

Apprehension nettled beneath her skin. Garret’s mustang shifted beneath her, the spry mare ready to descend into the narrow valley.

“Easy,” she soothed, tugging at the reins, scanning open hills and deep folds of countryside for other riders. She’d had all the surprise confrontations she could handle for one day. She didn’t know what Garret had been trying to prove, kissing her the way he had.

For all her worry that he’d shun her once he knew the truth, she now wished he had. Every mile she’d put between them only increased the ache in her chest and hadn’t done anything to dim the feel of his arms closed tightly around her, the scent of sawdust on his skin.

She needed to get her horse and move on.

Satisfied all was clear, she started down. By the time she reached the rise of grass marking a northern paddock, Morgan had long since spotted her and had been watching her approach as he worked on the fencing. Setting his equipment aside, he pulled off his heavy gloves and straightened.

“Hey, Mag,” he greeted as she reined in a few yards away.

She dismounted on the opposite side of the fence. “Where’s Star?”

“I wondered when you’d show up,” he said, striding toward her as though he hadn’t heard her question. “You’re later than usual.”

“Only by a week or two. Where’s my horse?”

“I figured Star could use a few extra days to fatten up on oats in the barn. I wanted to thank you for helping Garret like you did.”

“By withholding my horse?” she demanded.

“I’ll get you your horse,” he assured her. “We had quite a scare when he didn’t come off that mountain. We’re all indebted to you, Maggie.”

“Is that so? Then how about you stop wasting my time and go fetch my mare?”

Morgan didn’t rush off, as he should have. His stance wide, he shifted his hat over his golden-blond hair, his green eyes raking over her with nerve-racking interest.

“You’re looking unusually fresh this afternoon, for being so far from home.”

She tensed, annoyed by his bold observation. Wasn’t any business of his if she chose to keep the grime off her.

“That’s Garret’s mare. You must have returned Boots.”

Maggie didn’t answer. Conversation had never been part of their bargain.

“And here I thought the kid might have improved your social skills.”

“What
kid?
” she said, rattled by a second mention of children and the thought of Garret revealing all that happened in her cabin.

“Garret.”

“He’s hardly a kid. Last I checked Garret was a full-grown cattle rancher with man-size troubles.”

“That he is,” Chance agreed with a nod. “The rest of us were wondering how such an experienced rancher could end up knocked out in the snow and his partner left dead.”

“I don’t know. Garret had been unconscious for nearly a day when I found him.”

Morgan’s eyes widened with surprise. “He didn’t tell us that.”

“He couldn’t remember the attack when he woke. I never saw his partner.”

“Strange that he hasn’t had any trouble since. Why wouldn’t they have gone after his cattle while he was subdued on the mountain?”

Did he expect her to have answers? “You’d have to ask Garret.”

“He didn’t say anything to you about—”

“Morgan, I make it a point to not get involved in other people’s business. If you have questions for Garret, you know where to find him. Now are you going to fetch my horse or not?”

“Sure, Mag.” He started toward his mount grazing a few yards off. He reached for his saddle, then paused. “You’re welcome to come with me. Skylar has been anxious to thank the woman who saved her brother.”

Go with him?
To his
house?

What had Garret told them to have Morgan behaving so cordial toward her? Whatever he’d said, he’d obviously ruined her reputation.

“Just because I didn’t let a man freeze to death doesn’t mean I’m willing to cozy up and break bread on every damn ranch I come across! If our bargain is done, you just say so! There isn’t a place I can’t get to by walking!”

Chance held up his hands. “No call to get riled. One saddled mare coming right up.” He mounted his horse and started toward the cluster of buildings a few miles to the south.

“Be quick about it!” she shouted after him. “I ain’t got all day to be sitting in these open hills like a duck on a pond!”

He reined in. “No one’s going to bother you on my ranch.”

“I bet Virgil Thompson thought the same thing. A rope still found its way around his thick neck last fall and left him dangling from one of his own trees.”

Morgan touched a hand to the red bandana tied at his throat, likely recalling the noose she’d dug from his skin some years back after the old foreman of the Lazy J had taken a mind to hang him.

“I heard about that,” he said. “Thompson and two of his men.”

Maggie hadn’t been near Thompson’s homestead the night of his death, but she knew who’d been stealing his cattle. Ol’ Thompson had likely made the same discovery.

“Just so you know, I won’t be bringing Star back in the fall. These mountains are getting too crowded.”

“Heard about your trouble in Bitterroot Springs.”

“You and everyone else.”

“Where will you go?”

“Wherever I please. Once you fetch my horse, that is.”

One side of his mouth kicked up in a grin. “I’ll be right back.”

“You got fifteen minutes, Morgan.”

“How the hell did Garret survive a week with you?”

“Carefully.”

Morgan’s deep laugh echoed back as he rode toward his ranch.

She hadn’t been careful enough.

Her heart aching fit to burst, Maggie led Garret’s mare to an outcrop of trees and settled in the shade. This morning she’d nearly convinced herself that she’d gotten over the loss.

She leaned back, sinking into the tall green blades. Above her a blue sky shined though the branches. Chirping black birds fluttered around in the canopy of leaves.

A bit of buckskin don’t hide the fact that you’re pretty as a magpie.

She shut her eyes—which only served to sharpen his image in her mind, the sound of his voice, the surge of thrilling warmth she felt at just being near him.

Once she got Star back, she wouldn’t miss him so badly.

Garret laid down the last shingle in his row and reached around only to discover Everett had hauled the nails up to the next level. In the past couple of hours they’d worked in steady silence and had finally reached the last section. A few more rows and they’d be done.

“Toss down a tack. You snuck off with that bucket again.”

“No sneakier than you.” Everett’s grin slid clear across his face.

“What are you smiling about?”

“Why didn’t you tell us she was the trapper that helped you?”

“What difference does it make?”

His bony shoulders shifted. “I’d imagine a whole lot. I saw you.”

“You saw me where?” he asked, tacking down the shingle.

“In the doorway.” His wide grin returned. “With
Mrs. Danvers.
”

Garret stood, confirming the straight shot view to the porch of the bunkhouse. “You breathe a word to anyone,” he said, glaring at Everett, “and I will beat the living tar out of you.”

“I won’t say nothin’,” he said, losing his smile. “Can’t say I blame you for not wanting folks to know.”

The boy’s attempt at understanding snapped at Garret’s temper.

“Don’t go making assumptions, Everett. I won’t have her talked about with disrespect on my ranch. You hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” he said, and quickly turned back to his task.

Boots barked from down below. Garret glanced back to see his dog take off like a shot across the yard. Movement farther out caught his eye. Approaching riders fanned out over a distant hillside. Their faces obscured, Garret stood and looked closer.

Masked riders.
Canvas draped beneath their brims with holes cut for the eyes. There was no doubt as to where they were headed. He counted eight riders as they descended the hillside, the outside riders banking hard to the north and south.

This can’t be good.

“Garret?”
Everett froze midswing, the hammer still in the air, his wide gaze on one of the masked men trying to sneak over the rise.

“We gotta move.” He slipped the hammer through his belt loop and followed Everett to the ladder.

“They’ll burn you out,” Everett said, his voice trembling. He stepped back, his eyes wide with panic.

Garret grabbed the rifle propped against the barn and took Everett by the arm, hauling him toward his saddled horse. He
wasn’t about to chance the boy living through such a hell a second time.

“Ride to the Morgans. Tell the first man you see we’ve got trouble.”

“But the others—”

“Are working too far out to do us any good. Those men have fanned out. No telling how many there are. Now git!”

Everett didn’t argue. He swung into his saddle. “I can make it there in thirty minutes,” he shouted as he set off toward the western rise.

An hour too long,
Garret thought as he made his way back to the front yard. They hadn’t topped the next rise. He couldn’t see his dog in the tall grass but he could hear him.

“Boots! Heel!”

Black fur flashed through the dense green. Still barking, Boots ran back. Reaching his side, his dog turned to stand guard, the hair down his neck standing on end. As was the hair on Garret’s neck. Something about armed men hiding their faces behind flour sacks led him to believe they didn’t have talking in mind. Garret had waited too long for answers and preferred an enemy he could see. He backed toward the chicken coop, taking cover.

“Got to be patient, old man. Let them come to us.”

Five riders topped the last rise, which meant at least three others were sneaking around to surround the ranch.

Boots’s bark became a low growl as the masked men made a steady approach. He fought the urge to start shooting, picking off as many as he could. He’d only draw return fire from more directions that he could cover. These men didn’t ride for any struggling rancher and with cattle barons controlling the law, a bloodbath on his land could still earn him a noose. His best chance was to stall them as best he could.

The moment they cleared the grass at the edge of his yard he murmured, “
Git ’em,
Boots.”

His dog bolted into action, darting for the riders, his bark at full blast as he made tight circles between the horses, nipping at their legs and haunches. The animals reared, stamping as Boots rushed them back. Two dumped their riders. Shouts filled the air, the men tried to control their mounts and dodge hooves.

“Call him off, Daines!” one shouted, struggling to control his mount.

Not a voice he recognized.

Another rider raised his rifle, taking aim at Boots. Garret sighted the man’s hand and fired. The bastard’s shout and fall from his saddle was hardly noticed by the others in all the chaos. One masked man dropped to his belly. Two others ran after the horses Boots chased farther into the tall grasses.

Spotting movement beyond the barn, Garret dropped back and pressed tight against the barn door as he turned his focus to the figure crouched on the far side of the hog pen. Scouting the open ground around the house and bunks for any others, he edged his way to the north side.

The intruder straightened to find Garret standing over him. His eyes flared wide behind the ivory cloth just before Garret cracked the butt of his rifle against his skull. The man dropped like a sack of oats.

Paybacks are hell.

“Hold it right there, Daines.”

Not likely.
He turned and barely dodged a fist. He swung, his knuckles slamming into the canvas-covered face with a satisfying crack.

Spotting a second man coming up on the right, Garret pulled the hammer from his belt and sent it spinning while fighting off his companion. A cry of pain assured him he hit his target as a blow to the gut sent the man before him crumpling to the ground. A fist clipped his chin as the brawl shifted to another target.

Each time he knocked a man back, another sack-covered face appeared before him. Delivering two punches for everyone he received, Garret moved against the wave of men. Boots growled and barked from somewhere behind him. A man’s scream was punctuated by a gunshot. His dog yelped.

Garret whipped around to see Boots lying on the ground, blood pooling beneath him. Something struck the back of his head, the ring of pain sending him to his knees. A dozen hands slammed him down, pinning him against the dirt. Garret looked up at Boots and was relieved by the slightest movement of fur.

“That dog was a goddamn nuisance!” shouted one of his captors.

Garret twisted against the weight bearing down on him. “He knows that scarecrows belong in cornfields. What’s your business here?”

A hand slammed his face into the dirt. “I owe this one a bullet!”

“Not yet,” argued another.

“Should we stand him up?”

“Hell no!” another man shouted. “Hold ’im down!”

The pressure on his back increased, the heel of a boot digging into to his spine. Garret fought the hold on his hair and looked up at the man striding toward him. His gaze focused on a small circular brand burned into the lower flair of the man’s chaps—
Circle S.
It was a practice among loyal foremen to wear the brand of their employer—which gave Garret the answer he’d been seeking for nearly three months.

The man stopped a few feet away and lifted his flour sack just high enough to reveal a dark mustache as he spit out a mouthful of blood and at least one tooth.