Читать книгу Wed To The Montana Cowboy - Carol Arens - Страница 9
ОглавлениеCoulson, Montana, June 1882
Lantree Walker listened to the full-bodied whistle of the River Queen. From where he stood on the boardwalk he watched the riverboat’s twin smokestacks blow sooty smoke into the pristine sky.
A stand of trees grew between him and the dock so he couldn’t see how many passengers were disembarking.
In his opinion, the fewer the better.
Not only did newcomers bring their bags and other possessions, they brought unintended disease. Fevers and plagues rarely announced their arrival.
Even Coulson, a place as wicked as they came, did not deserve to be decimated by disease.
To his bones, he felt Moreland Ranch calling him home, where the air was fresh and the trees tickled the sky.
This was not a town a man wanted to linger in. It had more saloons than legitimate businesses and more brothels than saloons. Wild and rowdy was the rule of the day and more so, the night. This was a town without a single church to redeem the lost souls of its inhabitants.
The sooner he loaded the supplies he had purchased into the wagon and headed back home, the happier he would be.
He figured he ought to pay a visit to the barber before heading out, since his hair hung well past his shoulders. Hell, he hadn’t shaved in days...since before he left the ranch.
What he ought to do was not what he was going to do. He could shave on the trail if his face itched.
A man stumbled across his path. He caught the fellow’s arm to keep him from landing face-first on the boardwalk. Out of long habit he studied red eyes and felt the skin under his fingers for unnatural warmth.
As he’d suspected, the man was merely drunk, so he straightened him and pointed him on his way.
Crowds had not always made him uneasy. In his former life, before fever had decimated Amberville, he hadn’t minded them...he’d even enjoyed the hustle and bustle of town.
Not anymore. Ghosts haunted crowds.
Not the vaporous departed...but there was always the flash of a stranger’s smile that reminded him of a neighbor who had died while Lantree had wiped his brow. Or the high-pitched laugh of a woman sounding like Abigail Steen, who had fought for her last breath while she gripped his hand.
He shook his head, took a long, slow breath of air. He filled his lungs with the fresh, muddy scent of the Yellowstone River.
As soon as he deposited his wages he would load the wagon and be on his way.
It was no accident that the bank was located only a few doors down from Sheriff Johnson’s office. The sheriff was a giant of a man with a mean reputation. A thief, or a drunk, would think twice before robbing the bank.
He strolled past the sheriff’s office with a nonchalant stride, but he was anything but relaxed.
A fresh set of wanted posters decorated the lawman’s front door. He needed to look at them, but he hell and damn did not want to. The closer he got, the harder his heart beat, the more damp his armpits felt.
He slowed his pace and scanned the broadsheets. Relief eased his heart back to its normal rhythm...one more trip to town without seeing his “likeness” staring back at him.
He dreaded the day that he would see his twin brother’s face staring back at him.
In spite of his brother’s crime, he loved him and the thought of him being captured or killed made the blood hitch in his veins.
Then again, in an odd way, it might be a relief to see the broadsheet. It would mean he had not yet been apprehended, had not faced a noose or an itchy-fingered bounty hunter.
With that worry put to rest for the moment, he felt lighter in his soul. Home was only days away with its crisp air and polished blue sky.
The three years he had spent working for Hershal Moreland had been some of the best he had known.
Moreland Ranch was a bit of heaven on earth. Its southern border lay along the Yellowstone River and its northern border stretched to the mountains. The house had a view of both the Beartooth Range and the Crazy Mountains.
He’d spent more than a few quiet hours fishing Big Timber Creek where it cut through the ranch.
The land had given him a place to heal, but it was Hershal Moreland who had found a broken soul and brought him home, given him sanctuary and shown him a new way of life.
There had been a time when he’d believed that the only life he could be happy with was that of a medical doctor.
With what Boone had done, he believed he owed something to...well, he didn’t know to whom, but he’d felt that dedicating his life to healing in some way made up for his brother’s crime.
Life had certainly set him straight on making anything up to anybody. The fever that had swept through his town like a putrid wind claimed the old, the young, sweet mothers and their little babies.
Hadn’t touched him, though. The ones who depended upon him, upon his skill as a healer, died all about him, but he remained standing with his stethoscope dangling about his stooped shoulders and his confidence buried along with most of his fiancée’s family.
He’d never blamed Eloise for calling things off, not even when she’d accused him of incompetence, taken off her engagement ring and flung it out the window of the schoolhouse-turned-hospital. How could he say, with her loved ones lying dead, that she was wrong? That the bitterness in her gaze was undeserved?
Hell, he’d turned bitter against himself. He’d only really begun to live again when Hershal showed him another way. Over the past few years the old man had become more than kin.
Truly, the only person he’d been closer to in his life was Boone.
But his brother was lost to him. One thoughtless act, an accident really, had made Boone an outlaw. It had also made Lantree who he was...or had been.
“Hell, Boone,” he mumbled. “Why’d you have to draw your gun?”
* * *
Rebecca had been prepared for Montana being an untamed land. During the two months she had spent aboard the River Queen, she’d heard stories of bears, cougars and violent storms that washed folks right away.
What she had not been prepared for was Montana’s natural, shout-out-loud beauty.
Over the past week, she would barely catch her breath over one wonder before another would appear.
She’d watched from the balustrade while the River Queen drifted past grassy meadows surrounded by great trees. She’d heard the wind sighing and moaning through them at night while she slept on deck, gazing up at a sky so sparkling that it seemed to be in constant, glittering movement.
It was the sight of the distant mountains, though, still capped with snow, that brought her to her knees.
Literally.
Getting off the boat a few moments ago, she had been so engrossed by their grandeur that she had tripped over a small piece of baggage that someone had carelessly left near the gangplank. She had hit her knees and stayed that way, staring at what she had been told were the Beartooth Mountains. If at that moment she had been swallowed by a bear or shredded by a cougar, Aunt Eunice would be proven right, but Rebecca would die satisfied.
Although, she realized, still on her knees and gazing at the town, the real danger might come from that direction rather than God’s stunning mountain range.
Was she mistaken that even at this hour of the day the scent of alcohol wafted on the air...and tobacco? Surely her nose was oversensitive, she didn’t really smell sweat and stale cologne?
Even if her nose was conjuring smells, her ears heard things quite accurately. The jarring sound of an out-of-tune piano drifted out of a saloon nearby, along with a woman’s laugher, a man’s cussing...and a gunshot.
By George, she had not imagined the gunshot or the one that answered it.
“Miss Lane?”
Rebecca looked up from where she knelt in the dirt to see Tom, a young, fresh-faced deckhand, looking down at her. He had her trunk slung across his shoulders.
She stood up, dusted off her skirt and tweaked her hat.
“Where would you like for me to deliver your trunk?” he asked.
Sunshine illuminated a smattering of freckles across his nose. He stared with a frown at Screech, who sat on the perch in his travel cage. The bird eyed Tom with a pivot of his yellow-and-blue head.
“Yummy,” Screech said. “Here.”
The bird had not made many friends on the trip, very likely due to his tendency to nip...and screech, which he did with regularity at sunrise.
The safekeeping of her trunk was a problem. She could not have it delivered anyplace in town since she had no intention of getting closer to it than the dock.
“Where are Mrs. Henson and her daughters staying?” Perhaps she could accompany them until she figured things out. She had met the women briefly on the boat when they had come to the lower deck to check on their goods.
Tom blushed. “Those weren’t her daughters, Miss Lane. They were more like...well...I reckon you’d call them recruits. They’ve probably taken up business at the Sullied Gully by now.”
Oh, dear... They had looked like normal women. Aunt Eunice would be stricken if she discovered that the niece she had taken such pains to raise to be a lady had spoken with prostitutes. No doubt her aunt would compare them to Rebecca’s mother.
Tom was beginning to show the strain of holding her trunk.
“Just leave it here beside the dock.”
“But where do you aim to go?” It made her uncomfortable to see his eyes widen in alarm.
“My grandfather’s ranch near Big Timber.”
“That’s near eighty miles, you’ll need someone to get you there.”
“I’ve been told that men who are out of work often act as guides.”
“You sit tight here. Coulson’s not the place for a lady like you. I’ll pass the word around.”
“Thank you, Tom.” She handed him a quarter. “I appreciate your help.”
“Don’t wander off, now,” he said with a doff of his cap. “I’ll send someone down shortly.”
She watched him saunter away. The afternoon sunshine gave him a long, fluid shadow. Tom entered the first saloon he came to.
“I hope he sends someone out soon,” she said to Screech. His pupils flashed, a certain sign of his intelligence. “Because I’m not leaving our goods unattended.”
To be honest, she didn’t have the kind of goods that a thief might be interested in. Still, they were hers and she needed them. And there was the one item of great value, the one she didn’t even dare display so close to town.
Her grandmother’s violin, wrapped carefully in her spare petticoats and centered in the trunk, was more than polished wood. It was a link to the grandmother she had never known.
No matter how long it took, she would sit on top of the trunk like a bird on her nest, keeping her precious cargo safe.
She only hoped that Tom really was arranging an escort to Moreland Ranch. A young man in a bar with alcohol, and ladies after his quarter... Well, his attention might have wandered from her plight.
“Yummy,” Screech said. “Ummm, yummy.”
“Yes, me, too,” she answered, then settled her derriere onto the lid of the trunk.
* * *
Having finished his business at the bank, Lantree walked the isolated path that wound through the trees behind the main street of town.
The boardwalk in front of the establishments would have been a quicker way to get back to his wagon, but this way was more peaceful, more private.
Unfortunately, this path tended to be a dumping ground for drunks who had been tossed from the saloons. He spotted one now, face down in a mud puddle.
With the inebriated as plentiful as fleas on a hound, no one much cared if one of them never came out of his stupor. Boot Hill was home to a fair share of unfortunate alcoholics.
Lantree crouched down beside the man. His skin was an unhealthy color. He touched the man’s throat, feeling for a pulse.
It was there, sluggish under his fingertips. Turning the fellow over, he sighed. The drunk was more a boy than a man. If he kept up this behavior he wouldn’t live long enough to grow a full beard.
“Let’s get you out of here,” he said. Slinging the limp body over his shoulder, he stood up.
The closest thing to a doctor that Coulson could boast was the bartender at the Gilded Cage Saloon. “Doc” Brody had assisted an army doctor for three years so he did what he was able.
Brody would have enough skill to see the kid back to sobriety.
Lantree walked past the River Queen on his way to the Gilded Cage. Only one passenger remained in sight.
This one straggler made him pivot at the hip, stop and stare. She sat upon a trunk beside the dock, apparently conversing with a large green bird in a dome-shaped cage.
Decent women in Coulson were rare. Perhaps she was a lady of the night, but if that were the case, she would just be starting her career.
Her skin looked fresh...lovely even. Her expression was bright and untroubled.
Evidently, the bird must have done something funny because the woman laughed out loud. She didn’t try to hide her amusement coyly behind her hand, but let it out, lifting her face to the sky, looking joyful.
He wanted to weep for her. Give the girl six months, and she would be visiting Doc Brody with sores that she would never recover from.
Maybe he ought to sit down beside her and warn her of the danger, but he had the boy slung over his shoulder.
At any rate, the young woman would resent his interference and he was in no position to advise or heal anyone.
Still, it was a shame to imagine such beauty fading to despair and illness.
A few moments later, he deposited the boy on a chair inside the Gilded Cage.
He approached the bar and signaled Brody with a wave.
“That one’s no more than a kid,” he explained to the “Doctor” and pushed a five-dollar bill in his direction. “See what you can do to get him sober.”
“You and your strays, Lantree.” The bartender poured him a shot of amber-colored whiskey. “Just a dram to keep you warm on the ride home.”
“Appreciate it, Doc.”
He took a sip, enjoying the smooth heat sliding down his throat, warming his belly.
At the other end of the bar, a young man...a deckhand from the Queen, he thought, chatted with Big Nosed Mike. No one knew Mike’s real name, but everyone knew about his bullish reputation...everyone apparently but the boy chatting amiably with him.
Lantree slugged down the rest of his drink. Coulson was wearing on his nerves. The sooner he got home to the tranquility of the ranch, the happier he would be.
On his way out the door, he paused to straighten the boy in his chair and check his pulse one more time.
He’d recover this time, but if no one took him in hand he faced a sad, short future.
Outside, June sunshine warmed his face, but come tonight the weather would turn downright cold. It was a lucky thing he’d purchased several heavy blankets and a couple of rain slickers.
“Walker!” came a voice from behind him on the boardwalk. “Hold up a minute.”
He’d hoped to get in and out of town without a confrontation with William Smothers, Coulson’s power-hungry mayor.
He stopped, turned. When he did, he spotted the fresh young woman with the bird. She was standing beside her trunk, stretching. She was tall, very tall, with a lithe, lovely figure. He wished...well, he wished for a lot of things, but it was a shame about the girl.
Smothers gazed up at him, yanking then smoothing the lapels of his fancy suit over his portly belly. “I heard you were in town.”
“Just on my way out.”
“Arrange a meeting for me with your boss.” As usual, Smothers was short and to the point.
The fellow was shifty, all right. Just because he wore a tailored suit and polished boots didn’t make him any less of a snake.
“Mr. Moreland sends his regards and his regrets.”
“See here, Lantree. The railroad is coming. This town is going to grow up overnight. We need lumber. Moreland’s got more trees than he needs.”
“Not interested.”
Smothers might yak all day without Hershal giving up so much as a branch.
He’d refused to sell it to fuel the steamboats. He’d escorted the railroad folks off his land with a shotgun. His boss was as protective of his trees as he might have been with his own kin, if he’d had any.
There was the granddaughter, but her mother’s family had poisoned her opinion of Moreland. The girl would never come here, no matter how much comfort she would be able to give the old man.
“You arrange a meeting, and I’ll make it worth your while. How much do you make as ramrod for Moreland? Not as much as you’d like, I’d be willing to bet.”
“I watch out for Moreland’s interests.”
“Just deliver the message this time.” Smothers’s face began to mottle. A red circle blotched his nose. “Or I’ll find another, not-so-gentle way of delivering it.”
“Is that a threat, Smothers?” Lantree took a step closer, bent down to the mayor’s level and spoke softly. “I reckon you didn’t mean it to be.”
“I want those trees.”
“Get them somewhere else.”
“You know that property has the best lumber, and all near the river. We need it and we need it fast if Coulson is going to be the railhead and not Billings. The survival of this town depends on it.”
One more reason for Hershal to hold on to his trees, as far as Lantree was concerned. If the railroad boss picked another place for his town and this one died, so much the better.
“If you try anything illegal, I’ll know it, Smothers.”
He walked away, leaving the man steaming in his fancy duds.
Home, Moreland Ranch, could not come soon enough.
* * *
Thanks to Tom, Rebecca had a guide. She watched while the squat but solid-looking man built a campfire for the night.
To appearances, Mike looked like a ruffian, with shaggy hair that could use a wash, along with the rest of him. But this was a rugged land, full of rugged men, and she would not judge his character by his grooming habits. Besides, Tom would not have sent him to her unless he was of dependable character.
Wisely, she had only paid him half his due, the rest to be delivered upon her safe arrival at Moreland Ranch. Even if Mike did not care about her welfare in a personal sense, he would want the rest of his money.
If nothing else, her guide did build a roaring fire. The flames chased away some of the chill setting in, now that the sun had set. She walked to her trunk where it was stored for the night beside the pair of saddles lying on the ground.
If the rest of the journey went as easily as the first three hours, it would be a pleasant trip.
She withdrew a key from the pocket of her skirt, opened the trunk, then lifted out her coat and shrugged it on.
Mike glanced over at her with a grin.
Compared to the place she had grown up, Montana was big and wild. In Kansas City, one ran into folks on every street corner. Here in the wild, even street corners were scarce.
She listened to the night sounds, how they all blended, composing a song. When she closed her eyes, she could clearly pick out the melody created by a pair of hooting owls. The sough of the breeze through the treetops made up the chorus. Far away, lifting on the wind, she heard what sounded like a man’s voice, but was more likely the yipping and yapping of a pack of coyotes on a distant hilltop.
“Beans?” Kneeling by the fire, Mike pivoted on his knee, his face lit up like a gap-toothed jack-o’-lantern. He lifted a can in his fist. “Ain’t much of a cook, so to speak, but I can warm beans.”
“Thank you, Mike.” She smiled brightly at him. Since they would be journeying together for a couple of days, they might as well be cordial. “Anything warm would be a dream come true.”
He stared at her for an uncomfortable moment, nodded his head, then shot her a sidelong wink.
How odd.
Ten minutes later, they sat beside the fire, each with a mug of warm beans cupped in their palms.
“How long do you reckon that birdie of yours is going to last?” Mike pointed his fork at Screech, who sat on his perch grooming his pretty feathers beside the fire.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s a tough land, ma’am. Most critters tend to blend in. That one’s bright as a fancy gewgaw.” Mike picked a fragment of bean from his teeth with his fork tine and flicked it into the fire. “For an extra dollar, I could make sure he doesn’t get mistaken for a chicken.”
A chicken? Was the man daft? Show her the chicken that spoke English and had feathers so pretty they were iridescent in the sunshine.
She would like nothing more than to set her guide straight but she held her tongue, wanting to keep things friendly between them.
“Since it’s only the two of us, I can’t think that will happen.”
“Someone not as civilized as you and me might come along. Have themselves a right fancy dinner.”
A chill skittered up her spine wondering if he was truly concerned about Screech, or if that had been a veiled threat. How was she to know?
She was suddenly uncomfortable being alone in the forest with a strange man whose only recommendation was that he was available when no one else was, and he claimed to know the way to Moreland Ranch.
By George, she had better sleep with Screech’s cage on her lap. A woman in her situation could not be too careful.
“We seem so isolated out here,” she pointed out. “Is there really much danger of someone coming upon us?”
He slid toward her two inches. She slid six the other way.
“There’s wild things out there in the dark...bears, wolves, wildcats...wilder men. But don’t you worry, pretty lady. Big Mike is here to see to your needs.”
That ought to be a comfort, but the hair rose on the back of her neck and the goose bumps on her arms.
Tom, she had to remind herself, would not have sent her off with an unsavory fellow.
“Any beast or ruffian shows up, you run to me, snuggle in good and tight.” He opened his arms. She scooted away. “Come on, girlie, give it a practice.”
“If the time comes, I’ll know what to do.” She eyed the iron kettle sitting on a rock beside the fire.
“I don’t know about you, but I plan to keep good and warm tonight,” he mumbled.
His gaze wandered over her, slow and overly familiar. He scooted his rump uncomfortably close.
Suddenly his gaze jerked up, spotting something over her shoulder.
Her “protector’s” expression hardened. His lips peeled back in a snarl.
“Move away from the woman,” came a deep voice from behind her.
Oh, goodness. They were not as isolated as she had assumed. An intruder had come upon them without crunching a leaf.
She turned to see one of the ruffians Mike had warned of...a very large ruffian.
He had to be more than six and a half feet tall! In a moment, when she stood to defend herself she would have to look up at him.
Firelight reflected off his solid-looking form. The evening breeze blew streams of long blond hair in front of his face. Golden highlights flickered in the strands. It distracted her that his hair gleamed with cleanliness.
What kind of ruffian had clean hair and the build of a handsome Viking?
It didn’t matter what kind. A ruffian was a ruffian...and he was threatening her guide.
Her guide who, faced with danger, did not open his arms to protect her as he’d promised.
“Go find your own way to get warm tonight.” Mike stood, growled and balled his fists, clearly ready to protect his own pitiful self.
The intruder, rather than backing off, took several steps toward Mike.
Mike scuttled backward, nearly tripping over a large rock.
Screech began to screech when Mike began to holler about the man having no claim on her.
And, by the dickens, no man did!
Since the men were railing at each other and paying no attention to her, it was an easy matter to seize the iron bean kettle and swing it at the giant’s head from behind.
He crumpled to his knees, grasping his temples in his large fists.
Mike did not take that moment to defend her. Instead of tying up the disabled villain, he dashed for her trunk. He lifted the unlocked lid. Somehow, he seemed to know exactly where she kept her money. He plucked it out.
She ran after him, swinging the kettle, but he was up on his horse before she could do more than land a blow to his calf.
In his rush to get away, he left the older horse, the one she had been riding, and both saddles.
In all fairness, the animal and the abandoned belongings now belonged to her.
She would name the horse Hoodwinked.
“Screech! Be quiet!”
The bird obeyed for a full two seconds before declaring, “Uh-oh.”
This was a fine mess! Abandoned in the forest with a wounded criminal. Lost with no idea how to get to Moreland Ranch.
At least this fellow couldn’t steal her money. And, the kettle gripped tightly in her fist, she would fight for her virtue.
Let the man make a move, let him utter one untoward thing, and she’d smash his nose. She would batter his ears and knock out his teeth.
He looked up at her, silent. The light of the campfire revealed the intense blue of his eyes.
What kind of brigand had eyes like that? And perfect white teeth...and clean hair?
Surely his voice would give him away as an evildoer. Curse words would probably accent his every utterance.
“You’re a fair hand with a kettle, ma’am.”
“And I’m not afraid to use it again.”
He touched the back of his head. His long fingers came away streaked with blood. He swayed on his knees.
She hurried to Mike’s abandoned saddle packs, looking for some sort of binding and found a short section of rope.
“Are you twins?” the man asked. “Or just one lady?”
“Triplets... Give me your wrists and don’t try anything.”
“I’ll try not to be sick.”
His hands hung limp at his sides so she snatched them up and made quick work of tethering them.
All at once he lurched forward. His weight knocked her to the ground.
By the saints, this was a muddle. Not only was she lost in the wilderness, but she now had a questionable man’s bleeding head cradled on her bosom.
She wriggled and pushed until the man’s head lay in her lap. Humph! He had long eyelashes, sandy and dark at the same time...and lovely hair that she wanted to... Well, quite honestly, she wanted to stroke it.
Perhaps she should have paid attention to Aunt Eunice, who had announced that she would come to ruin in Montana.
Still, she wasn’t ruined, at least not as long as her captive remained passed out.
A strand of hair streaked with blood lay across his cheek. She brushed it aside with her thumb and felt the rough scrape of his beard under her skin.
She had never been this close to a full-bodied man before, had never smelled the scent of warm masculine breath so close to her face. She certainly had never pressed her hand on one’s chest, feeling muscles and ribs rise and fall.
This, and she could only be honest, was a handsome man.
And as long as she was being honest, what was there to indicate that he had been up to no good?
Her assumption, was all. Thinking back on it, Mike was the one who had been taking liberties.
This man had simply demanded that Mike back away.
Oh, dear, had she beaned her defender? All of a sudden she felt horrible. If his intention had been to protect, she owed him a great deal.
Then again, if he had only wanted to take Mike’s place, she still owed him a great deal.
From a distance not far off, a wolf howled. She glanced at the smear of blood on the man’s cheek, hoping that the scent would not attract predators.
The safety and the warmth that the fire provided would not last all night.
“Wake up, mister.”
She gently patted his cheek but he did not stir.
No matter who he was, she wanted him awake.
By the look of him, and the solid weight of bone and muscle lying across her, he was a fellow who would be able to fend off a wolf without trouble...maybe even a bear.
“I’m sorry I hit you. Please wake up.”
His eyeballs moved under the lids, but other than that he did not stir.
After a while, the fire grew dimmer. The warmth receded and a bitter chill rushed to fill its place. It would haunt her conscience forever if she allowed her captive to freeze to death.
She shrugged her arms out of her coat, draped it over her shoulders, then spread the long tails over her hero or assailant.
It only covered him to his knees, but some warmth was beginning to build between their bodies.
A very curious warmth. It seemed to come from within her.
If she survived until morning, she would think more about it. Just now, the events of the day had worn her through.
She huddled over the man and tried to relax, but she was more than half-certain that eyes peered at her from the brush.
