Mustang Annie (3 page)

He'd briefly considered joining the search in progress, but delaying his return to the ranch any longer was out of the question. He'd been away too long as it was. So he'd come back to the Triple Ace and begun planning his own excursion into the canyon. Mustang Annie or no Mustang Annie, he had horses to catch.

Then out of the blue, she shows up on the Triple Ace with her stiff spined demeanor and dead-sea eyes, demanding outrageous prices no sane man would even listen to, much less agree to. He'd agreed to them only because, as much as it galled him to admit it, he had neither the time to waste nor a better chance of getting his fillies back before the stallion ruined them.

The question was, what had changed her mind? Desperation? The illusion of easy pickings?

His immeasurable charms?

The last thought made him grin. For a woman who so obviously wanted nothing to do with him, she'd developed quite a fascination with his nether region. He hadn't seen anyone turn so red since Melanie Haverson had gotten caught in the swamp with his brother, Adam.

Brett had to give Annie credit, though; she'd recovered much faster than he had. If ever a woman had given him such a swift and painful arousal with just a look, he couldn't remember it. If she'd stared at his crotch any longer, he swore he'd have busted a seam. She'd really have blushed then.

“You wanted to see me, boss?”

Startled, Brett swung toward the door where Henry stood, his ten-gallon hat gripped in a gnarled hand. He cleared his throat, then strolled toward the cabinet and refilled his snifter. “Is our guest settled in?”

“I tried to put her up in my cabin but she wouldn't budge. Insisted on taking up in the stables, so I put her up in the spare tack room.”

“She refused one of the rooms upstairs, too.”

“Sounds like Annie,” Henry replied with a yellow-toothed grin. “Stubborn as on old cay-use.”

Brett returned to the window overlooking the dark stables. “Tell me everything you know about her.”

Through the reflection in the window, Brett watched Henry shove a plug of chaw into his mouth and work it around to his cheek. An unspoken “why” hung in the air.

“Not much to tell,” he finally said. “Me and her granddaddy used to work with the same outfit till I hired on with Durham. Ole Clovis owned a bitty spread down south of here and took up sheep. Annie was just a girl back then. Perty as a sunflower, but good glory, she was a wild one. When she wasn't stirring up mischief, she was out chasin' the horses.”

“So that's how she got her name,” Brett said with a smile.

“Her name?”

The old man looked genuinely puzzled, yet a strained note in his voice put Brett's suspicions on instant alert. Did Henry not know what had become of his old friend's granddaughter? Or did he know, and just wasn't saying? Loyalty had always been one of the traits Brett respected most about Wade Henry—so long as it wasn't misplaced.

Well, he'd let the man keep his secrets for now. He'd be spending the next couple of weeks with the infamous horse thief. By the time they caught his horses, he'd know everything he wanted to know about her—and more.

Chapter 4

D
awn crept softly over the tops of the sage-brush, drizzling the woody shrubs with gauzy pink. Steam rose from the sea of dewtipped buffalo grass surrounding the house and outbuildings, giving the land an ethereal appearance.

Brett stepped out onto the shaded gallery, saddlebags draped over one shoulder, and paused at the railing to savor the view. Mornings had always been his favorite time of day. Even as a kid, he could remember waking up long before the trainers on his father's farm, just to watch the sun rise. The habit had stayed with him through adulthood. No matter where Lady Luck led him, no matter how late the stakes kept him awake, he'd wait until the blushing sky gave way to orange and blue before dropping exhausted into whatever bed he'd found available.

But there was no more beautiful a sunrise than those he'd seen here on the High Plains. And no more beautiful a woman than the one emerging from the stables.

Brett watched Annie lead her horse, a fine buckskin with a java brown mane and tail, and a mustang's distinctive stocky build, to the series of blocks and sawhorses his men used to tend their equipment.

They'd gotten off to a rocky start, he and Annie Harper, but new days brought new beginnings.

Adjusting the saddlebags to a more comfortable position, he strode down the steps and across the yard. “ 'Mornin', Miss Harper.”

She didn't so much as glance at him.

“I trust you slept well?”

Continuing to ignore him, she grabbed a coiled lariat off an up-ended barrel between the horse and the corral fence. Beside it waited a bulging pair of well-used saddlebags, a cowhide canteen, and a gray bedroll. Packed and ready. Brett wondered if she'd been planning on leaving without them.

Keeping his thoughts to himself, he circled the mare. “Nice piece of horseflesh here,” he complimented, running his hands across her sleek hide. “You catch her yourself?”

Still no response, and Brett had to chuckle at her refusal to acknowledge him. “Nobody could ever accuse you of talking a man to death.”

She finally turned toward him. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Corrigan. You're paying me to catch your horses, not chit-chat, so save the small talk for someone who might appreciate it. It's wasted on me.”

His smile faded. Her words held no inflection, yet they stung like nettles. “Would you like a cup of coffee before we head out or is common hospitality wasted on you, too?”

She actually had the grace to look chagrined. “Coffee would be welcome, thank you.”

So she had manners after all. Hard to tell. The woman was as temperamental as an old cayuse.

Hoping a good, strong cup of Arbuckle's would soften her disposition, Brett entered the main room of the bunkhouse where he knew a fresh pot would be brewing. He'd just passed the bunk room door when raised voices—one voice in particular—made him pause.

“All we need is a woman getting underfoot.”

He took two steps backward and perked his ears just outside the bunk room.

“Women got only two uses far as I'm concerned—lying on their backs or standing at the stove.”

Brett's jaw tightened. The remark might as well have come straight from his father's mouth.

Time swept him back over twenty years.
You think you can do better than me, Maggie? You should be thankful I married you, because sure as shootin' no other man wants you. Only things you're good for are baking and breeding, and you can't even get those right.

Never had he felt more powerless than he had as a twelve-year-old boy, listening from the top of the stairs to his father degrade his mother.

He wasn't powerless anymore, though.

He stepped through the doorway, his shadow casting a long length of intimidation on the hardwood floor. A half dozen men froze next to the iron bunkbeds stacked along both walls.

Brett leaned his back against the frame and slid a cheroot out of his shirt pocket. He took his time lighting it, purposely letting the tension build. Finally he targeted his gaze on the tallest man, a twenty-year-old wrangler who had shown up at the Triple Ace nearly a month ago with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. To Brett's knowledge, no one had ever broken the code and questioned Rafe about it, but it quickly became apparent that his newest hand was still young enough and audacious enough to rile up a pile of goose feathers if he had a mind to.

“Is there a problem in here?”

For a long time no one spoke. A couple of the men averted their faces, a couple more shuffled their feet.

“You hired a mustanger to bring in the horses,” Rafe finally said, his tone bordering on belligerent.

“That's right.”

“But she's a woman!”

“I'm aware of that.” Sorely. Despite her masculine duds, no man with eyes could fail to notice the curves under the simple cotton shirt and loose denims. “It seems to me that you've forgotten who deals the cards at this table. But you'll have plenty of time remembering over the next few weeks, while you're constructing the breeding pen.”

Rafe's tan gave way to ruddy indignation. “You're leavin' me behind over some skirt?”

“That
skirt
happens to be the best mustanger alive, and it wouldn't have been necessary to hire her in the first place if you hadn't let that stallion steal my fillies.”

Rafe's complexion grew even more mottled. For a second there, Brett thought he'd press the issue. It would be a shame to lose one of the best wranglers he'd ever had, but one thing he never tolerated was having his decisions questioned, and every hand on the ranch knew it. If any one of them didn't agree, he could pack up his spurs and head down the road. There were plenty of others willing to keep their mouths shut and their minds on their job instead of in the boss's business.

That thought must have occurred to Rafe, too, because he shoved his hat on his head, grabbed an ax from the wall by the door, and strode out the door without another word.

Brett turned to the rest of the men watching the scene with a mix of wariness and discomfort. “Anybody else got a beef with the way I handle my business?” he challenged in a quiet tone that belied the anger simmering in his blood.

Not a one spoke up. Obviously they valued their jobs.

“Then Emilio, Flap Jack, and Tex, load up your gear. We're heading out in fifteen minutes.”

The men he'd chosen scrambled out the door faster than he could say tumbleweed.

Brett followed, drawing in deep, even breaths in an effort to calm his temper. He didn't know what angered him more—the slurs against Annie or the blatant disregard of his authority.

The trouble with cutting Rafe from the crew was that it left him short a wrangler to tend the extra mounts each rider would bring. He already had every man he could spare—eleven in all—divided between himself and Tex.

The only wrangler left was. . . .

Brett closed his eyes and cursed. He had no choice. He'd have to bring Dogie.

 

“I can't believe it!”

Startled by the exclamation, Annie spun on the ball of one foot to face a lantern-jawed boy in his early teens wearing the loudest purple shirt she'd ever set eyes on. She'd been so preoccupied with eavesdropping on the conversation drifting through the bunkhouse window—and rattled at the way Corrigan had come to her defense—that she hadn't heard anyone approach.

“I just can't believe I'm standin' on the same spot of ground as Mustang Annie!” The boy grinned widely.

Annie's heart stuttered. Hell, did everyone know who she was? And why was he hollering at her? She pushed past him to fetch her saddlebags from an up-ended barrel. “You've got me mixed up with someone else,” she muttered.

“What?” He smacked the side of his head a couple times. “Sorry, since the explosion I don't hear so good.”

She raised her voice a notch. “I said, you've got me mixed up with someone else.”

“Oh, no, I'd recognize you anywhere!” he insisted. “You probably don't remember, but I met you a few years back, after you broke a mustang down by the Tongue River.”

The Tongue River? She hadn't been there since—oh, God, now she remembered. How could she have forgotten? She and Sekoda had gone down to trade a few mares and discovered a contest in progress. She never should have let Koda coax her into entering the competition, for it had made public her talents on horseback that she'd much rather have kept a secret.

“I'm Dogie.” The kid swiped a sweat-and-soil-stained hat off his head. A shock of curly wheat-brown hair tumbled past his ears. “I tend the horses and tack.”

She'd guessed that. Most wranglers started out young, learning the trade, building their skills. He seemed a little younger than most—no more than thirteen—but ranchers often employed their own relatives, and there was enough of a resemblance between him and Corrigan to hint at a kinship.

“Wade Henry says you're gonna help us catch Ace's fillies,” he said while she flipped her saddlebags across Chance's rump. “I'd give my right arm to be going with ya, but Wade Henry says I ain't seasoned enough yet. How's a man supposed to put any cracks in his chaps if nobody ever lets him sit in a saddle?”

She didn't have an answer for that one. She'd been sitting in a saddle since the beginning of time. A hazy memory of riding in front of a tall, blond cowboy lingered in the back of her mind to this day, the only memory that she had of her late father.

“Here comes the rest of the crew now.”

Annie looked across the yard at a trio of men emerging from the bunkhouse. The first had black hair and brown skin, the second was lean and wiry, and the third was as burly as a buffalo and twice as tall.

“The Mexican is Emilio. He's the best roper I ever saw. Can lasso a dragonfly at full gallop. Hope you know some Mexican, though, cause he can't speak a lick of English.”

The only Spanish she knew couldn't be spoken in public.

“And that there's Tex in the middle. He can break a horse like nobody's business. I once saw him take a mustang down in seven seconds. Flap Jack there is the big feller on the end. He can track a hoot owl in a snow storm. Wait here—I'll bring 'em ov—uh, I just remembered there's somethin' I gotta do.”

Dogie hadn't skulked more than a few paces away before the cutting call of his name stopped him in his tracks.

Annie turned and spotted Corrigan emerging from the stables. It had taken every ounce of will power she owned to ignore him earlier. After the way he'd manipulated himself into her life, she hadn't trusted herself to look at him, much less carry on a polite conversation with him.

He wasn't an easy man to ignore, though. With a voice like thunder and eyes like lightning, Corrigan could make stout-hearted women wilt and fierce-tempered men cringe. Even now, as he strode toward them in a loose-limbed walk, he carried an aura of authority that commanded notice as much as respect.

And Annie definitely noticed. Damn. She tossed the forgotten saddlebags over Chance's rump. No man should look so devastating this early in the morning, and wearing simple work clothes to boot! Yet the gray shirt and leather vest he wore stressed the broadness of his chest, and tawny chaps fit over his faded blue jeans with glove-tight perfection. Polished silver spurs banded a pair of dark brown box-toes that had seen plenty of days in a pasture.

And with that rolled-brimmed, crown-creased “Boss of the Plains” Stetson completing the outfit, the gambler could almost pass for a seasoned horseman.

A pang of guilt assailed her for the uncharitable thought when he held out a steaming mug of coffee.

“Are you the one making all the noise around here?” he asked Dogie.

The boy's face went ashen white. “Just havin' a chat with Miss Annie,” he said.

“Your chatting can be heard clear across the Mexican border.”

Annie looked first at Dogie, then at Corrigan.

Both were speaking in perfectly normal tones.

Realizing that Dogie wasn't hard of hearing after all, Annie tightly remarked, “It seems I've been made the day's entertainment.”

Corrigan's eyes twinkled. “If it makes you feel any better, he once pulled the same prank on me.”

It didn't make her feel better. After the restless night she'd spent, then the confrontation with Corrigan, she was in no humor to be played with.

Just then, the men joined them. Though they seemed harmless enough, she couldn't stop herself from retreating a few steps—directly behind Corrigan's solid back. Annie silently cursed her cowardice, and sidestepped out of his shadow. She thought she'd gotten that weakness under control years ago.

When he introduced each crew member, Annie returned their nods of greeting with one of her own.

Corrigan then addressed the youngest of their gathering. “Dogie, are the extra horses rounded up?”

“Yessir,” the boy replied, running his sleeve under his nose. “All five of 'em.”

“Then what are you doing standing here?”

He looked stumped for an answer. “Sir?”

“You've got five minutes to get a horse saddled and your gear loaded, or we're leaving you behind.”

The boy's eyes glittered with surprise and disbelief. “I'm going? I really get to ride with you?” He punched the air, then like a colt with its first taste of freedom, leaped into a full gallop toward the bunkhouse. “Yee-haw!”

Annie's mouth fell open, unable to believe her ears. “You're letting him ride with us?”

“I'm one man short.”

Annie crossed her arms over her front and retorted, “So you replace him with a boy?”

Corrigan's expression went rigid. The men around him looked thunderstruck. An instant later, they mumbled a few excuses, then left her standing alone with six feet, two inches of simmering anger.

Quietly, he told her, “You laid your cards on the table; now I'm laying mine: if you have any objections to the decisions I make, take it up with me in private. Never do so in front of my men.”