Mustang Annie (4 page)

He spun on his heel strode toward the corral, where Henry and the other men were studying a map spread out atop an upended barrel.

Overbearing ass, she thought, glaring at his back. The last thing she needed on this trip was a barely weaned kid. What if the marshals caught up to her? Bad enough she had Corrigan's men riding along—now she had the added responsibility of seeing that a kid didn't get hurt. Unfortunately, pushing the argument with Corrigan would do nothing but raise suspicion.

Still, if Corrigan thought she'd put up with his attitude the entire trip, he had another thought coming. She'd take it only so long before she told him what he could do with his horses.

With jerky movements, she finished loading her gear onto Chance's back. Just as she fastened the last buckle, the men's conversation drifted toward her.

“We'll head northeast toward the Canadian and follow the river south. The men lost him here, just south of McClellan Crick. My guess is he's takin' them into the canyon. There's plenty of places to hide there.”

Annie's hand went limp as she listened through a growing fog. The Palo Duro? Corrigan had never mentioned the Palo Duro. Not once. Not even a hint. Of course, it was logical that the stallion might head into the canyon. The steep ridges and deep ravines offered plenty of safe havens for grazing and roaming and breeding. . . .

But logic didn't stop the stuttering of her heart or the sweat from breaking out on her palms. If she'd known. . . .

“Somethin' wrong, Annie?”

Her gaze snapped to Mr. Henry. “That's Comanche land.”

“Not anymore,” Corrigan stated. “The Rangers rousted them out last year.”

The news came as a surprise to Annie. She'd expected it might happen one day, but it still seemed impossible that the Indians could no longer call this area home.

“We'll still keep our eyes peeled for renegades, though,” Henry said. “No use gettin' caught off guard. If we're lucky, the stallion will have found himself a paradise along the river and we won't have to go that far.”

Corrigan nodded in deference to Wade Henry's judgment. “Emilio, Flap Jack, and Dogie, you'll ride south with me and Henry to the north end of the canyon. Tex, you take your crew along McKenzie Trail, then cut west at the South Fork. Whoever finds the herd first will get a message to the saloon in Sage Flat. Otherwise, we'll meet up there.”

Nodding in agreement, the men claimed their horses.

Corrigan folded the map and slipped it into his vest pocket. “Annie, you ready to ride?”

She could handle it, she told herself. Just a quick trip into the canyon. Knowing the Palo Duro as well as she did, she'd have the task done in no time, then be on her way to Mexico. Managing a strained smile, she replied, “As ready as I'll ever be.”

 

Brett tried his damnedest to keep his eyes on the land as they rode through the knee-high grasses, yet time and again, his attention strayed toward Annie. Riding well ahead of him, she sat the buckskin with the straight-spined confidence of a woman well seasoned to the saddle, her figure moving to the motion of the animal, her long flaxen braid swinging down her back like a bellpull.

She hadn't said a word since leaving the ranch. That in itself didn't strike Brett as odd; he could sum up their conversation since meeting in one paragraph. But the set of her posture told him how she resented the company of his men and the protection he'd imposed upon her.

Or maybe it was just his company she resented.

The thought grated as much now as it had the first time he'd met her. Gaining the attention of a woman hadn't ever been a problem, and the thought that Annie would give a pile of dung more notice than him frosted his chaps.

Well, she could fuss and fume all she wanted, but damned if Brett would let her venture off on her lonesome, no matter how reputable her skills.

He had an investment to protect.

Even the reminder of Annie's criminal history didn't stop Brett's gaze returning to her yet again, despite his best effort. What was it about her that he found so compelling? Sure, she was pleasing to look at—her honey-toned features strong-boned and natural, wide sapphire eyes set under arched blonde brows, a straight-bridged nose and stubborn chin.

The rest of her wasn't so hard on the eyes, either, he admitted, his attention dropping to her legs.

The image of those shapely limbs wrapped around him sent the temperature of his blood rising, and made him painfully aware that hard leather and even harder flesh did not make a comfortable match. He shifted, trying to ease the discomfort, but it didn't help.

If she had any clue where his thoughts were heading, there was no doubt in his mind that she'd bust his jaw.

Brett grinned. God, what a woman.

Urging Fortune into a lope, Brett closed the distance between himself and Annie until their horses were neck and neck. They traveled in silence for a while, and Brett realized this was the first time he'd ever ridden with a women beside him. “So, what do you think of my little dynasty?”

She shot him a startled look. “We're still on your land?”

“Yep. Quite a spread, isn't it?”

“I had no idea Durham owned so much property.”

“I had no idea you knew Levi Durham.”

“Our paths crossed on occasion,” she replied absently. “This place doesn't look anything like I remember it. I almost didn't recognize it.”

“I'll take that as a compliment.”

“Take it any way you want. Durham wasn't one much for orderliness and it showed in the way he kept his spread. Still, I never thought I'd see the day he'd sell.”

“He didn't. My hand beat his.”

“Ah, now that makes sense.”

Brett almost laughed at the sudden clarity in her tone. “What's that supposed to mean?”

“You don't strike me as the horse rancher type.”

Was it that obvious? “What type
do
I strike you as?”

She gave him a good once over. “The type who will take advantage of any situation where you'll come out the winner.”

“I'm glad you think so highly of me,” he said dryly.

“I call a spade a spade.” She shrugged. “So what was the hand? Royal flush, joker's wild?”

Brett grinned at her astuteness, both of his character and his means of acquiring the Durham spread. “Aces—three of a kind. Hence, the Triple Ace.”

“Where was the fourth one, up your sleeve?”

Brett chuckled. “Darlin', the only thing up my sleeve that night was the hand of a comely Frenchwoman—”

“Spare me the details.”

“Can I help it if women find me irresistible?”

“It's a wonder you can sit upright, with the weight of your conceit.”

He let out a full-bellied laugh. “To tell the truth, Durham got off easy. This place nowhere near covered his bet. He was in debt up to his eyeballs. Took almost everything I had just to get this place in decent shape.”

“So you won not only his land, but his hired hands as well.”

“In a manner of speaking. Some came with the deal, some came later. It seemed foolish to replace the men here when they already knew their business.”

“You made a good decision. Wade Henry could ramrod a horse ranch blind. I'd ride shotgun with him any day.”

At the time Brett had just thought it a convenient decision, but Annie's backhanded compliment warmed his insides. He couldn't remember the last time his actions had met with approval, and he savored it like a kid with a piece of horehound candy. “If you'd known he worked for me, would it have made any difference?”

She shrugged. “Probably not.”

The answer didn't surprise him. Annie struck him as the kind of woman who wouldn't let personal ties influence her decision. “Then what did change your mind?”

Long seconds passed before she answered. “Unfinished business.”

The remark hung in the air long after she rode ahead. Usually by the end of a conversation with a woman, Brett knew everything from her favorite color to the size of her corset. Yet Annie left him more puzzled than the day he'd met her. She had a way of answering a question without revealing a thing, and he wondered if it came naturally or if it took a concentrated effort.

They reached the southern border just after dusk. After they unsaddled and brushed down the horses, the men went about setting up camp. Dogie scoured the ground for whatever fuel he could scrounge up, Henry brought out the makings for coffee and supper, Flap Jack fetched water, and Emilio examined the tack.

None of them required Annie's help, so she found herself a spot beneath a mesquite tree, cleared the ground of pods and thorns, then sat on her rolled-out bedding and unraveled her hair.

Brett knew he should be doing something more productive than standing by the horses, gaping at her, but for the life of him he couldn't think of what. Hypnotized, he could do nothing more than watch as the flaxen ropes came apart beneath her nimble fingers. He'd imagined what she'd look like with her hair unbound, but imagination came nowhere near the actual sight of glossy strands falling over her shoulder and over one breast in waist long waves.

When she brought out a brush from her pack, Brett thought for sure he'd died and gone to heaven. Each stroke was a no-nonsense swipe that nonetheless grabbed him by the vitals. How could so ordinary and artless a task send all the blood in his body shooting straight to his groin? His hands begged to touch her hair, to draw the strands through his fingers and carry them to his nose so he could inhale the Eden of her scent. The outside glossy and tangle-free, she flipped the mass over her head and started the process all over again.

Brett closed his eyes and groaned.

A forceful nudge to his arm knocked him off balance. Brett regained his footing, and found Fortune staring at him, vexed at being ignored.

Brett cursed and strode away from camp. It was going to be a helluva long trip.

Chapter 5

T
he gentle strum of Emilio's guitar flowed around Annie like a warm prairie wind as she packed away her brush, then rested against the peeling trunk of the mesquite tree, her arm slung over one upraised knee. The odors of scorched coffee, burned beans and sweaty skin hovered in the cool evening air, as much companions to her as the packed ground beneath her bottom, the glitter of stars overhead, and the taste of grit on her tongue.

A few feet away, Dogie and Flap Jack lay on their sides on their wool soogans, the cow chip campfire shedding light on the cards each held. Emilio sat closest to her against his saddle, and Wade Henry lay opposite them, in his hand a worn edition of the Good Book.

Some things never changed. He'd had a Bible in his hand for as long as Annie could remember. Granddad once told her that Wade Henry had found religion after a job gone bad. A bullet shattered his thigh, and he'd nearly bled out before they got him to a doc. According to Clovis James, Henry had made a bargain with the Almighty: let him live, and he'd never rustle another horse. The Lord lived up to his end of the deal, and so, apparently, had Wade Henry.

As for Corrigan, Annie had no idea where he'd disappeared off to. Nor, she told herself as she closed her eyes, did she care. The farther she stayed away from him the better. She didn't know how much he knew about her or her past, but the man asked too many questions. Worse, he was too shrewd. If he didn't have suspicions already, he would before long. Annie hoped she could track down and catch his horses before U.S. Marshals picked up her trail, and he learned the truth of why she'd left Nevada.

At the rate they were traveling, that didn't look too promising.

He'd surprised her today, though, she'd give him that. She wouldn't have thought he'd last an hour in the saddle, much less ten. Hell, he wore silk vests and drank bourbon. Even his horses were high class. Why would a man whose tastes ran toward the more refined go through all this trouble for a rangy mustang?

No, she didn't want to know. Corrigan's reasons were none of her concern. As long as he stuck to his end of their bargain, there'd be no problem. This job would be over soon. When the money she earned ran out, she'd move on to the next job and load up her pockets again.

Yeah, the next job, she thought with unaccustomed bleakness. The next bronc. The next dollar. The next sunrise. One of these days she might get lucky enough to see an end to it all.

The sharp crack of Dogie's name sliced through Emilio's rendition of “Laredo.” Annie opened her eyes and sought out the source. On the fringe of the campfire's glow, Corrigan stood beside the first horse in the string, his hand on the animal's forelock.

Dogie glanced in his boss's direction, then quickly at the men. From their shrugs, none had any more idea of what had riled their boss than he did. Dogie dropped his cards face down, rolled to his feet, hitched his droopy britches, and swaggered with false courage toward his boss.

“What burr got under
his
saddle?” she asked Wade Henry.

He glanced briefly toward the remuda, then returned his attention to his reading. “Nothin' to worry your perty head about. Ace is just bein' Ace, is all.”

Flap Jack drew a card from the deck. “The boy's probably just gettin' his hide chewed a bit.”

That was obvious, but for what? Corrigan couldn't be finding fault with the way Dogie took care of the horses; he cared for them as tenderly as a mother with a new babe.

Then again, what concern was it of hers? If Corrigan felt there was cause to upbraid the boy, that was between the two of them.

“How long do you think it will take to track down the horses, Miss Annie?” Flap Jack asked. For such a giant, deep-chested man, he had an incongruously mellow voice.

“Tracking them down won't be the hard part,” she told him. “If they've gone into the canyon, and if renegades haven't already claimed them for themselves, we should find them in a few days. It's catching them that'll be tough.”

“That's been our problem all along,” Wade Henry commented. “That bandit won't let us get close enough to the herd to rope 'em.”

Annie nodded. “A lead stallion is naturally territorial. He's worked hard to build his harem, and he won't let them go without a fight.”

“Maybe, but that devil don't stand a snowball's chance against you.”

She frowned at Wade Henry's confidence in her. What if she didn't get the stallion? It had been years since she'd gone after mustangs. What if she'd forgotten everything Sekoda had taught her?

Dogie returned then, distracting her from the image of her neck in a noose if she didn't accomplish the task she'd taken on. Despite the grin on his face, his brown eyes carried a shadow of dejection that pulled at her heartstrings.

“What the matter, kid?” Flap Jack asked him as he sat cross-legged on his blanket. “Forget to brush down one of the horses?”

“Naw. Ace just didn't like the halter I put on the pinto.”

“Don't let him get to ya.”

“Heck, he don't bother me none.”

None seemed inclined to challenge the bald faced lie.

Wade Henry closed his Bible. “Come on, boys, time to hit the sack. We got an early day ahead of us.”

Emilio packed away his guitar, Flap Jack pocketed his cards, and everyone settled into their bedrolls. Within minutes the peacefulness of night descended, broken only by the song of cicadas and the bark of a prairie dog.

Despite her fatigue, Annie couldn't make herself relax. Corrigan still hadn't returned and she couldn't help wondering what kept him. Damning her curiosity, she rolled to her feet and strolled toward the edge of camp. The spotted horse Corrigan had been inspecting earlier blew a greeting through his nostrils as she passed the remuda. Annie paused, then cupped her palm over the animal's velvety nose. He nuzzled her collarbone for a moment before losing interest in her.

Moonlight shed a dim glow to see by as she examined the tack closely for whatever flaw Corrigan had found. It was almost unnoticeable to an untrained eye. If Annie hadn't been braiding halters since God was a baby, even her keen eyes might have missed the tiny knots threaded into the rope. Knots that eventually would have chafed against the horse's tender cheek.

Was this the boy's great crime?

A muffled curse drew her attention beyond the campfire's glow, where a lone silhouette stood head bowed amidst the billow of buffalo grass.

Leaving the horses, she crossed toward the figure, knowing it could only be Corrigan.

A moment later it was her turn to curse. He'd stripped himself of his shirt and chaps, and the quarter moon outlined his broad shoulders and narrow torso. Even the dim lighting couldn't disguise the impressive expanse of bare arms and back.

Annie's heartbeat suddenly picked up pace. She was no stranger to a man's nudity, but catching Corrigan alone and half naked seemed some-how . . . forbidden.

Just as she turned sharply away, a gentle whirring sound made her pause. She looked back. He'd set the lasso circling above his head, and Annie was drawn to the sight of his body in motion. Tendons flexed, muscles rippled . . . was there not an ounce of loose skin on the man?

He released the noose. It soared toward a saddle set on the ground about fifty feet away.

She'd had no intention of spying on him, and even less intention of alerting him to her presence. But when the lasso landed short of its mark, she found herself saying, “You aren't rotating your wrist enough.”

He glanced over his shoulder. “What are you still doing awake?”

Neither hellfire nor wild horses would get her to admit she'd been checking on him. “It's all in the wrist,” she said instead. “If you don't give it enough rotation, the noose won't build up enough speed to fly.” She hesitated, then held out her hand for the rope.

He surrendered it with a smile and a bow.

Gripping the rope tight in her fist, Annie stepped in front of him, certain the heat of the day had baked her brain. She'd gone out of her way to keep her distance from this man, and here she was, strolling straight into the dragon's lair.

Annie pressed her lips together and tossed the coil in her hand, testing its weight and feel. “You start out with a slow circular motion,” she instructed, swinging it first at her side, then above her shoulder. “Keep your elbow up. As it builds up speed, loosen your grip on the neck, letting the loop get bigger. Then release it.” The rope fell directly over the horn. Annie gave a swift yank, tightening the noose.

She looked at him to gauge his reaction, only to find his heated gaze on her rear end.

“Very impressive.” One eyebrow rose and he gave her a crooked smile that had her nerve endings tingling. “Care to show me again?”

Annie snapped her mouth shut and lurched forward to retrieve the rope. She hated it when he looked at her like that—as if she'd been put on this earth solely to satisfy his appetite. “I didn't learn overnight. And when I made a mistake, I didn't have someone tanning my chaps about it.”

“Ah, so
that's
what this little lesson was all about. And here I thought you just wanted to be alone with me.”

She ignored the dramatized sigh of disappointment. “There was nothing wrong with that hackamore that couldn't be fixed.”

“It was shoddy braiding.”

“I suppose you can do better?”

“This isn't about me—”

“You can't, can you?”

He stared at her for several long seconds. Then he took the lasso and began to coil it. “A person doesn't have to carry a tune to recognize good music. I was raised around horses. It's been a lot of years since I worked with them, but I haven't forgotten that sloppy work will cause unnecessary injury to the horse or the rider.”

“Ah, and raking a child over the coals is such an effective way of teaching him.”

He leaned in close enough to tease her with the musky scent of his skin. “Careful, Annie, I think your heart is beginning to soften.”

He drew back, and Annie's fingers curled into her palms to keep from smacking the smirk off his face. But he was right, as much as she hated to admit it. She was acting as protective as an older sister against the town bully, and she couldn't think of a single reason why.

It had to stop. The kid was on his own. Let him figure out that the world was a tough place and life didn't always play fair. And that there wouldn't always be someone to stand up for him, to shelter him, to protect him. . . .

Those who did wound up paying the ultimate price.

 

“Rise and shine and give God the glory!” Wade Henry called in the same cheerful tone as he did every morning.

Brett wanted to strangle him. If he'd gotten two hours of sleep last night, he'd count himself lucky—and it was all Annie's fault. Every time he closed his eyes, images of her taunted him—the erotic motion of her body on that bronc back in Nevada, the controlled defiance when she'd spouted off her terms in going after the horses, that mind-numbing display with her hair, and the fire in her eyes when she'd taken up for Dogie last night. . . .

Never had he met a woman who could so infuriate and amuse him at the same time. He didn't have to justify himself to her or anybody. How he handled his men was his business. At least they had jobs. And if they wanted to keep them, then by damned they'd better be willing to do the work he assigned them in the manner he expected.

Didn't it occur to Annie that going easy on the boy wouldn't do him any favors in the long run? That a stern hand built character? Obviously not, or she wouldn't have invented that little lesson. Brett couldn't decide if he should thrash her for her meddling or applaud her for her mettle. Few men dared to talk to him the way she did, yet Annie stood her ground and spoke her mind as if
she
ramrodded the place. Hell, if he hadn't been so aggravated with Dogie, he might have thanked him for inciting the first bit of emotion he'd seen in Annie since they'd met.

If she displayed half as much passion in bed as she did out of it. . . .

Spanish curses provided a merciful distraction from his wayward thoughts. Brett glanced up from his coffee toward Emilio. Clad only in his long-handled underwear, the roper was tearing through his belongings like a Texas twister.

“What are you looking for, Emilio?”

“
Mis ropas! Alguién me robó de mis ropas!”

Just then Brett spotted Dogie racing away from camp. A strip of something that looked suspiciously like a pant leg flapped behind him from the wad of material in his arms.

“Dogie!”

The boy stopped as suddenly as if a brick wall had shot up from the ground in front of him, then twisted around to face Brett.

“Give Emilio back his clothes.”

Shoulders slumping, the boy did as ordered. “I was just funnin' with him.”

Brett sighed in exasperation. He should have known bringing Dogie along would cause a stir. The thirteen-year-old had shown up at the ranch a few months back, scraggly and unkempt and looking for work. There'd been no reason to hire him on. They didn't need the help, and Brett sure as hell didn't need an inexperienced hand around his beauties. He found himself putting the boy on the Triple Ace payroll anyway, if for no other reason than Brett remembered what it had been like to be young and cold and hungry.

That should have been his first warning.

He shook his head at his own foolish impulses. They'd gotten him into more than one kettle of hot water over the years.

Just as he started to take a drink of his coffee, he caught sight of Annie over the steaming rim. The cup halted mid-air, and his mouth went as dry as rawhide.

She stood in a ray of saffron sunlight, wriggling into a pair of chaps. Inch by inch, soft leather worked its way up those never-ending legs, the outer length of each thigh decorated by five silver conchos.