The Wrangler (7 page)

"Funny." He hitched up the brim of his hat, studying the rolling prairie for any sign of trouble. "Found some fresh tracks. Careful to walk around them, that's right. Looks like two men came from the north, circled around to this spot and watched your camp. Both kneeled down, looks like they were here for a while. Likely have been here before."

"Darn. I was sure wishing it might be another wild animal or something, but not this." Her knees knocked a little. "This means they've been watching us for awhile now."

"I'll be able to tell you come daylight. I'll come back and study the tracks." He holstered his Peacemaker and braced his feet. The moonlight burnished the span of his shoulders, emphasized the strength in his arms. He could have been carved from granite, as grand as the distant mountains.

"Does this mean you're staying?" she asked.

"Until tomorrow." He rubbed the back of his neck, still studying the wide open prairie. A distant blur of movement grabbed his attention and he motioned toward it. Stayed silent as they both turned to squint at the eastern section of her property.

"The mustangs," she breathed. Wonder filled her as it always did, driving out everything else—the worries, fears, suspicions—leaving only awe.

A small band of the magnificent animals raced toward them across the platinum landscape, heads up, flying like the wind. They drew closer and the moonlight revealed glossy colors of black, white, red and bay, silver and spotted. Such beauty, such wildness. They took her breath away.

"Look at them go." Dakota's tone rumbled low and reverent, as if he were moved, too.

She couldn't answer, couldn’t find the words, as her dreams galloped closer. She could see their faces, now, eyes bright, nostrils flared and ears pricked. Manes rippled against sleek necks. Sweat gleamed on their smooth backs and flanks. Dainty hooves and legs churned.

The stallion led the way, glorious in black, whinnying in alarm when he spotted the two humans on the rise. He swung away toward Tannen's land, leading his mares and foals from this new possible danger.

Kit couldn’t draw air as the herd charged by, too captivated by the horses to breathe. Adorable little colts and new fillies struggled to keep at their mama's sides. The horses had been running for awhile, poor things.

"Look at that straggler." Dakota gave a single nod at the horse trailing the herd, falling farther behind.

"What's wrong?" Kit asked. The mare's sides were heaving, her gait much slower than the others. If she fell too far behind, she'd be alone, vulnerable to predators and men who might do her harm.

"She's safe with her stallion. He'll protect her. If she falls behind, he'll likely come looking for her." The herd stampeded away, and the mare fell to a walk. Too winded to continue, she hung her head, drew in great gasps of air, watching them warily.

He stepped forward anyway, hands out the way he'd done with Blue, and waited. When the palomino raised her head, her gaze latched onto Dakota's. For one brief second she hesitated, despite the fear rimming her eyes with white and prickling her coat. She turned tail and cantered off, following after her herd racing toward the stars.

"What will become of her?" Kit hated how thin her voice sounded, how vulnerable. Survival of the fittest was a law of nature, and the weak always failed. She thought of her sister and brother and the man-made tracks, and wished she were stronger. Wished she'd been able to shoot the bear herself, stand up to Tannen in the saloon and fight him off in the street. But she was more like the mare than she wanted to admit, at a disadvantage, defenseless against those who were stronger.

She couldn't fail. She had to see her plans through. She had to prevail.

"Maybe she'll come back." Dakota's hand settled on her shoulder, big and blazing hot and tender.

He had in him a capacity for tenderness, and that moved her heart in a whole new way. She'd never had anyone stand up for her the way he had or stand beside her with understanding in his eyes and a shared love of horses.

She didn't trust men, but there was something about him, something good. Tonight, for this moment as he turned her toward camp and stayed with her step by step, she didn't feel alone.

 * * *

In the pitch dark, Dakota stared up at the sod barn's thatch ceiling, the first roof he'd had over his head since winter. He missed the distant starlight wheeling across the sky; he could tell time by their positions. He had no notion what time it was, although he suspected that the twilight of pre-dawn was not far away.

In the stall beside him, Blue whooshed out a breath in his sleep, his hooves slightly moving. Running in his dreams. The older horse in the front stall snored worse than most of the soldiers he'd served with. Still, it was nice to have company. He let his eyelids fall shut and hoped sleep would come, but the bullet wound in his upper arm throbbed hard enough to keep him from drifting off.

It was gonna be hard to find work until his arm healed. Trying not to think what that would mean to him, he rolled onto his side, thought about the mustangs running free across Kit's property and the young woman's dreams.

The human tracks troubled him. Kept him from drifting off, too.

It wasn't long before bars of gray light eked around the wood doorframe. He threw off the blanket and before he could stand he heard footsteps padding outside. Quick and light.
Kit's,
he thought, recognizing her gait.

The latch lifted and the leather hinges whispered as the door opened. She stood framed by the last stars in the night's dying sky, her calico skirts swirling around her slender ankles.

"You're awake," she whispered, perhaps not wanting to disturb the sleeping horses. "I came to check on you. How are you feeling?"

"Better." A lie, but he couldn't admit to the truth. He wished he felt free to leave, but those tracks bothered him. More than he cared to think about. He climbed to his feet, fighting the weakness from blood loss and his body's shock, but he felt sturdier this morning. Not the worst wound he'd ever suffered. "I sure hope you've got coffee."

"It's boiling. Should be ready before long." She waltzed ahead of him in the dawn. "You look like you're wobbling again."

"You'd be wrong."

That made her laugh softly as she gestured for him to sit. She'd spread a blanket on the grass, and a little medicinal tin sat at the ready.

"Stay in denial all you want," she said. "You're sitting down here and I'm cleaning that wound. If you're strong enough, you can stop me."

Oh, he could stop her single-handedly, but he wasn't that kind of man. He slid down the barn wall, landed on the blanket and didn't say a word as she unbuttoned his shirt and peeled the fabric off his left shoulder.

She smelled of strawberries, ripe and sweet. Wisps of her unbound hair caught on his whiskered jaw as she bent close, and goose bumps broke out on his skin. Sharp desire charged through his bloodstream and he stared out at the shadowed field trying to master his physical reaction.

"Oh, this looks better than I'd hoped." She tugged away the last of the bloody bandage and uncapped a small tin of alcohol. It stung as she washed his stitches, taking care not to snag them. "Dewayne did a fine job. He said he'd never stitched up a man before, but he did work on leather and it wasn't all that different."

The woman could make him grin, he'd give her that. "You could have left me in the street. You should have. For that matter, you should have taken off when I had a gun on Tannen and escaped while you could."

"Well, I've taken a liking to you. I'm not sure why." She carefully dabbed his wound with honey. "Maybe it's because you're the first man who ever bought me supper."

Hard to miss the wry tone and quirky smile. She was teasing him.

Fine, he could tease, too. "I can't remember the last time I beaued a woman who gambled, got me shot and wore a mustache."

"I'm thinking of giving it a trim," she said. "It might be a little too long."

"Looks fine to me."

"Sure, but it was tickling my lip." Her fingertips brushed heat across his arm as she strapped a new strip of muslin into place, winding it gently. "I don't know a lot about men's facial hair. Maybe tickling is normal."

"I can't believe we're having this conversation."

"Neither can I."

He gave a low bark of laughter, ignoring the wince of pain as she tied the bandage tight. No one had made him laugh this much in years. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

"Here's some tea." She produced a steaming cup, hidden out of sight on the other side of the tin. "This might be a tad bitter, but I dumped honey into it hoping it would help."

"I remember choking down some last night at Dewayne's." Before he'd passed out. He took the cup in his good hand, was thankful it had cooled some in the crisp morning air and drank it in two big swallows. Bitterness puckered his mouth and assaulted his taste buds. "Willow bark tea. You know your remedies."

"A little." She packed up her supplies, head bent to her task, and the cascade of her golden hair shimmered in the first rays of the rising sun.

"Hey, Kit!" Fred dashed around the corner and skidded to a stop on his bare feet. His bright blue eyes were as big as saucers. "Who's that?"

"Fred, is that a polite way to greet a guest?" She arched a brow at her brother and tucked the medical tin in the crook of her arm. "This is Dakota. He'll be staying with us for a bit."

"Not long," Dakota emphasized. "Good to meet you, Fred."

"Gosh, how'd you hurt your arm? It looks real bad." Fred dropped to his knees on the blanket. "Did it bleed a lot?"

"Some."

"Are you an outlaw?"

"No."

"You look like an outlaw."

"It's the clothes."

"It's not the clothes." Fred leaned in to get a better look. "That's a scar over your eyebrow. How'd you get it?"

"Knife."

"What about that scar there on your side?"

"Bayonet."

"Gosh, is that scar from a bullet?"

"Fred!" Kit rolled her eyes. "Do I have to say it? You can torture him with questions later."

"My questions don't torture anyone." Fred flashed a grin, hopped to his feet and headed to the barn.

"Not true," she called out. "You torture me with them all the time. Sorry about that, Dakota."

"I survived it."

She'd noticed the scars too, and that's not all. When she and Dewayne had wrestled him out of his shirt and he'd been bleeding and nearly unconscious, she'd spotted something else—whip marks crisscrossing his back in thick, scarred ridges. She wondered what his childhood had been like. She knew what those scars were from. Her pa had similar marks from his growing up years, inflicted by a cruel father.

"I have the feeling you've survived a lot of things," she said.

"Like your doctoring." The sun found him, casting long shafts of gold over him like a loving touch. She'd never seen his face in full daylight. It was softer and younger than she'd assumed. Pleasant lines were carved into the corners of his eyes and bracketed his chiseled mouth.

"Don't speak too soon," she couldn't help teasing. "You haven't entirely survived yet. There's more doctoring to do. And I'm prescribing bed rest. I'll be back with coffee, a pillow and something to eat. If you argue, I'll only make it worse for you."

"Lady, I'm good at arguing."

"So am I." She bounced away laughing, her skirts swirling around her.

She left him feeling like a man he used to know. Funny how he'd forgotten about that man. Painful to see a glimpse of him now.

"Hey, Mister Dakota." The boy, maybe twelve, trotted over from the grassy spot where he'd picketed the old bay gelding. "Is that really a bullet wound scar on your chest?"

"Yep, kid, it was from a bullet. And call me Dakota. Just Dakota."

"Yes, sir. I'm on horse duty. Kit and I are gonna start a ranch. See where we've already started putting up a fence?" Fred stopped to pluck a strand of grass and stuck it between his teeth. "Hey, I didn't see your horse in the barn. Where is he?"

"I don't have a horse."

"
Everyone
has a horse. Even we got two."

"I'm down on my luck, kid." His gaze drifted across the way to where Kit stood in front of the tent, where a campfire was smoking. She spoke to a younger girl, clearly her sister. Maybe she was fourteen. He looked away before the past could grab hold of him.

He really shouldn't stay here. He didn't see how he could leave.

Chapter Six

"It was two men and judging by the look of things, last night wasn't the first time they'd visited." Dakota took the time to show her the scuffle of tracks layered on top of tracks and worn into the chalky Montana earth. Knee prints, old splats of tobacco juice, and body impressions where the men had hunkered down on the crest of the hill, leaning on their elbows, stretched out with a perfect view of the yard below.

Kit shivered. How many times had she felt watched going to draw water or tending the horses? She had to sit down. The grass crackled around her as she sank into it, blinking against the bright sun that slipped beneath her Stetson's brim.

"How long do you think they've been watching us?" The words croaked out of her too-tight throat, making her sound like a frog.

"Hard to tell. When did the last rain go through here?"

"Ten days, maybe more."

He broke away, stared out at the open plains, the muscles in his jaw bunching. His long, lean shadow fell on the ground in front of her. "Whoever is keeping an eye on you wants something. Three kids staying here alone—"

"I'm not a kid." She'd be twenty next month.

"You may as well be. You don't have anyone to protect you."

"From Tannen?"

"He's a worry. But there are a lot of bad men in this world. Horse thieves, outlaws, murderers. The only thing men like that respect is a strong arm and a loaded Winchester."

"Part of me doesn't want to admit that this is serious. I want to stay in denial and pretend we can stick it out here. This is the best home we've had in a long time."

"Home? You're living out of a tent."