Читать книгу Oklahoma Wedding Bells - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 8

Josie gnashed her teeth as she led her contrary sorrel, with his striking flaxen mane and tail, away from the camp after supper that evening. The stallion was not the horse she had originally planned to ride in the high-speed race during the run.

Unfortunately, the gelding she had trained had stepped in a prairie dog hole while she was exercising him, and had injured his leg. She’d been forced to resort to the high-strung animal that had bucked off her brother a few weeks earlier. Noah was still hobbling around with an injured back.

“Behave, Rooster,” she cooed to the flighty stallion. “You’ll get your chance to run at breakneck speed this evening, so have patience.”

“I agree with your brother,” Muriel said as she brought her docile dapple-gray mare, Bess, alongside. “That horse is cantankerous.”

“He’s also all I have,” Josie muttered, pulling herself into the saddle while Rooster pranced in a tight circle and tossed his head. “He runs like the wind … once I get him pointed in the right direction.”

“You think Rooster won’t come unglued when the soldiers fire off the cannons and shoot their rifles to signal the beginning of the race?” Muriel scoffed. “You should have bartered with that horse trader we saw in town today. You could have selected a mount with a better disposition.”

Josie recalled the green-eyed, raven-haired man whose five o’clock shadow was about three days old. He’d seemed nine foot tall sitting astride his horse—and was likely well over six foot when he wasn’t. She couldn’t figure out why the powerful-looking horseman had captured her attention immediately. After all, she was fed up with men and their constant badgering.

“There’s no guarantee the horse trader’s stock would be better behaved than Rooster,” Josie contended as she pulled on the reins to bring the stallion under control—if that was possible.

“If you don’t watch out, you’ll end up like your brother, or worse,” Muriel warned. “You will be forced to accept a marriage proposal, because you won’t be in any condition to make the race for a homestead by yourself.”

“Thank you, Miz Gloom and Doom,” Josie muttered caustically. “And let me point out that if you don’t brush up on your riding skills, you won’t stay on your horse long enough to claim any property.”

Muriel expelled an audible sigh. “You’re right. I didn’t get to ride as much as I wanted while working such long hours and tending Mother.” She got that determined look on her face that Josie had seen often. It was like staring into a mirror. “But I’ll die trying to stake a place of my own,” she declared.

Josie winced. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that for either of us. As for tonight, let’s ride along the—”

Pistol shots rang out in a copse of nearby trees, cutting her off midsentence and spooking her flighty stallion. Her head snapped back when Rooster reared, then plunged forward, galloping headlong across the rolling hills—inside the boundary to territory that was off-limits until the day of the run.

“Josie!” Muriel shrieked, as her own horse jumped sideways, then shot toward the sandy creek bank.

Josie yanked back on the reins as hard as she could, but Rooster lowered his head and raced across the prairie, where belly-high grass waved in the evening breeze. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted that Muriel hadn’t been bucked off, thank goodness. Josie decided to quit trying to control Rooster and let him have his head.

Wasn’t this what she expected of the stallion during the race? She wanted him to run in a high-speed gallop so she could outdistance the other settlers and locate the best land. Then she’d place her stake in the ground to claim her one hundred sixty acres. The trials and frustrations she had dealt with the past three weeks would be worth it.

Keeping that in mind, Josie nudged Rooster in the flanks and held on to him for dear life. She’d always thought she had a way with horses, but had to admit that not all her whispers of encouragement and tempting treats affected Rooster’s unpredictable temperament. The horse lived to run, like the untamed mustangs—and she’d better clamp herself to him like a barnacle to a ship or she’d end up in worse condition than her brother!

Sol glanced up sharply when he heard the unmistakable thunder of hooves. His mount, a sleek buckskin stallion named Outlaw, pricked his ears and shifted beneath him. The string of fifteen horses Sol had picked up at Red Hawk’s cabin milled around, tugging restlessly on the lead rope he held.

To Sol’s amazement, he saw the same blonde he’d encountered in El Reno flying over the hill on a powerful sorrel stallion. With its contrasting flaxen mane and tail, which matched the woman’s long, shiny hair, the twosome would capture any man’s attention. The horse equaled Outlaw in strength, speed and stamina, but was running out of control, and the blonde was in danger.

Sol hurriedly tethered the lead rope to the extra horses around the nearest tree. He gouged Outlaw in the ribs and raced off to intercept the woman at the mercy of the runaway stallion.

He held his breath when the flashy-colored sorrel leaped a creek. Sol expected the rider to go flying, kerplunk, into the water. Miraculously, with her arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, she stayed on board—this time at least.

Scowling at the blonde’s idiocy in mounting such a spirited horse, Sol slapped Outlaw on the rump, demanding his fastest gait. Their path intercepted the rogue stallion on a steep downhill slope. Sol snaked out his hand and grabbed the reins in an attempt to stop the animal.

Wild-eyed, the sorrel reared up, jerking Sol off his horse and unseating the woman. She fell backward with a thud and groan—and Sol landed directly on top of her, forcing out her breath in a whoosh. His thigh wedged intimately between her legs and his chest slammed against her breasts.

She shrieked, panicked and shoved him aside. But their arms and legs were in a hopeless tangle, so they were knotted together as they rolled pell-mell down the hill. When they finally came to a dizzying stop on level ground, Sol was sprawled on top of her—a position he admitted held provocative appeal for him.

The same didn’t appear to hold true for her.

She struggled again to push him off her, but suddenly her eyes rolled back in her head and she wilted. Sol watched her flushed face turn an interesting shade of blue, then pasty-white.

“You okay, miss?” he asked as he rose onto his hands and knees above her.

Her ample breasts heaved while she struggled to draw breath—and couldn’t. Sol grabbed her arm and jerked her over his knee, to whack her between the shoulder blades until she began breathing again.

“Stop—whack—doing—whack—that!” she wheezed, then squirmed away from him to fall back on the ground.

Sol watched her inhale several shuddering gulps of air. But his attention kept dropping to the top button of her blouse, which had come undone during their downhill tumble, exposing her enticing cleavage.

“You okay now?” He tried to focus on her rattled condition, not her enticing physique. It wasn’t easy. She had sensuous curves in all the right places. And he had been trained to be exceptionally observant. Now that talent was working against him.

Forget-me-not-blue eyes zeroed in on him, narrowing into an accusing glare. “I was okay before you jerked me off my horse and threw yourself on top of me!” she huffed indignantly.

“I didn’t unseat you,” he contradicted. “Your devil horse did that when he reared up. Then he yanked me off my horse.”

“It’s what you deserve for roughing me up,” she muttered as she twisted gingerly from side to side to assess her condition. “You’re that horse trader I saw in town today, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “And you’re that blonde with wedding proposals galore. Find one to your liking yet?”

“No.” She rose unsteadily to her feet, rejecting his offer of support. She brushed grass off her breeches and glared at him some more.

“Not to worry, there are several single, wealthy shopkeepers and hotel owners in town, in case your slew of cowpunchers and plow-boys don’t meet your high expectations,” he assured her, then smirked.

She jerked up her head, causing the coil of shiny, spring-loaded, silver-blond curls to dangle above her left ear like a lopsided fountain. She took a challenging step toward him. He noticed she was tall for a woman—five foot five inches of feminine defiance, to be specific. Since he was six-two, he held the height advantage. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop her from standing toe to toe with him, refusing to be the slightest bit intimidated.

“And what is that supposed to imply, Mr. Horse Trader?”

The woman was bristling with indignation and bad temper—all directed at him. And Grant swore the brunette had a worse disposition? Ha! She had nothing on this sassy blonde, who hadn’t even bothered to thank him for risking his neck to save her gorgeous hide.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said sarcastically.

Her chilling glare could have formed icicles. “For what?”

Sol did a double take. “For saving you from disaster, of course. That devil sorrel didn’t look like he planned to slow down until his legs gave out or he launched you off his back. Whichever came first.”

“Which is the whole point of the exercise,” she insisted in a scathing tone.

“What exercise?” he scoffed caustically. “Catapulting off his back to see how many bones you can break at once?”

“No, I have to be able to hold on while Rooster runs hell-for-leather if I want to stake my claim in the run.”

“Lady, the only claim you’ll stake is a cemetery plot if you ride this animal.” Sol flashed her a stern glance. “You need to buy one of my horses. They are trained for riding, not green broke like this unruly stallion.”

She tilted her chin and scoffed at him. “How convenient that you just happen to have a string of mounts for sale. And you call me an opportunist? Ha! That’s a laugh.”

To his surprise, she became huffier by the second. She nearly stood on top of him, despite the fact that she was a head shorter and at least one hundred pounds lighter than he was. “I will have you know, Mr. Horse Trader, that I am not trolling for a husband in this sea of would-be settlers. I’m here to claim land for a ranch of my own, so I can raise horses and cattle. I don’t need a man lording over me and getting in my way. I do not need to be saved from the sire of my future horse herd … and you stay off me!” she shouted as she stabbed her forefinger into his chest.

Sol tried to pay attention to her lecture while she was yelling at him, he really did. Nevertheless, his betraying gaze zeroed in on her lush, tempting mouth. She had plump pink lips that he hungered to taste. The thought prompted him to lick his own lips in anticipation.

Apparently, he’d been too long without a woman, if this firebrand aroused him and sent his thoughts skittering off in the wrong direction. She was all sharp claws, biting teeth and prickly criticism, as spirited and contrary as her stallion. Not to mention wildly attractive—if a man could convince her to use that sassy mouth for something besides delivering scornful lectures.

When she lifted a questioning brow, Sol blinked and scrambled to find his place in the one-sided conversation. He finally gave up and said, “What?”

She cast him a withering glance. “Never mind. You men are all alike. You can’t get past outward appearances to pay attention to anything as inconsequential as intelligent conversation.”

She pivoted around to hobble toward her horse, which was trying to pick a fight with Outlaw. The two stallions laid back their ears, snorted and pawed the ground.

It reminded Sol of his confrontation with the blonde.

“I suppose I don’t need to know you by name.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder flippantly. “I can think of plenty to call you, even if you refuse to provide the one you were given at birth.”

Which was not the name he used now, he reminded himself. He had been born in a Cheyenne camp, not in white society.

Why did she want to know his name, anyway? So she could tattle to the El Reno city marshal that he had attacked her? Which he most certainly had not … but he was thinking about it now.

Before she could walk between the two stallions and get trampled, Sol let out a sharp whistle, startling Rooster and bringing Outlaw obediently to him.

“The name is Solomon Tremain,” he said as he grabbed Rooster’s trailing reins, then handed them to her. “And you are?”

She climbed slowly onto the horse and grimaced. Obviously, she had sustained some sort of injury during her fall and his subsequent collapse on top of her.

“I’m Josephine Malloy.”

He nodded in recognition. “You’re Button-Eye Malloy. I’ve heard your name mentioned in several tent communities hereabout. You’re the mender of shirts and the breaker of hearts, or so I’m told. I expect you’re doing a thriving business to earn extra money. The brunette I saw you with in town must be Patches Wilson.”

The blonde stared him down, making grand use of her elevated position on her demon horse. “At your service, Tremain,” she said loftily. “Is there anything I can sew shut for you? In that, I can be bought for a fair price … but for nothing else.”

He had to hand it to the minx, she gave as good as she got. He liked teasing her, just to watch those expressive eyes flash blue fire. He also liked the way her chin shot up in defiance. Not to mention the way she squared her shoulders, refusing to feel threatened, preparing herself for an oncoming challenge or debate. There was nothing docile or dull about Josephine Malloy.

“Maybe it’s best that you don’t accept any of the marriage proposals tossed at you,” he advised. “I’m guessing you’d be as difficult to live with as your contrary stallion.”

Josie studied the swarthy horse trader as he mounted the muscular buckskin, the coal-black mane and tail of which matched the color of Tremain’s thick, shiny hair. She had to admit there was something intriguing about the man. He moved with the controlled grace and agility of a powerful predator. She reluctantly noted how his dark breeches, shirt and leather vest clung to his powerful body, accentuating his muscular physique. She didn’t want to show the slightest interest in this man. Or any man, for that matter. She had more important things on her mind.

When Josie managed to drag her gaze off Tremain, she noticed his stallion behaved much better than Rooster did. “On second thought, I’ll trade you straight out. My stallion for yours,” she bartered impulsively.

He threw back his dark head and barked a laugh as he settled himself comfortably on his horse. His sea-green eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes, danced with amusement. Josie blinked in surprise when she saw the dimples creasing his bronzed cheeks. Tremain was actually quite handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way.

Not that she cared, of course. He could be God’s gift to women and she wouldn’t want him. She didn’t need a man to complicate her life right now—maybe ever. The idea of a husband ordering her about, as if it was his natural-born right, didn’t sit well with her. She wanted to avoid restrictive ties, so she could take complete control of her destiny and focus all her efforts on staking a claim for a homestead.

“Outlaw is worth a half-dozen horses like your cantankerous mount,” Tremain insisted as he reined toward the string of waiting mustangs on the hill. He cast her a pointed look. “And you are not supposed to be out here, not even to exercise that ill-mannered animal.”

“But you can be?” she challenged, as Rooster followed after Outlaw—probably looking to pick another fight, knowing him.

“I have a special trader’s license, Josephine,” Sol said, glancing at her over his broad shoulder. “You don’t. Since you are trespassing, I might decide to tattle to Commander Holbrook. He can lock you up with the other sneaky Sooners and you can watch the run from behind bars.”

“But you won’t if I what, Tremain?” she asked suspiciously. “If I offer to provide some sort of services to you?”

His rakish grin did strange things to her pulse, for reasons she couldn’t account for. More than a hundred men had tried to court her since she had set up camp beside the boundary line for the run. Yet this ruggedly attractive rascal appealed to her. Why? She couldn’t say. She wasn’t sure she even liked the man. Still, there was something about him that intrigued her—and that made her wary and defensive.

It likely stemmed from the fact that he had sprawled on top of her earlier, she mused. She had become fiercely aware that he was one hundred percent male. During their downhill tumble, Josie had found herself riding his muscular thigh, and her breasts had been mashed against his broad chest. It had been unnerving … and titillating. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t think about that!

She quickly turned her attention to the authoritative air that surrounded him like an invisible cloak. His demeanor reminded her of Captain Holbrook’s commanding manner, which seemed odd for a wandering horse trader.

Her thoughts trailed off and she shivered, becoming aware of the evening chill settling around her. She wished she’d worn her jacket. It would have provided warmth, not to mention extra padding during her fall and wild tumble. Even now, her hip throbbed and her wrist ached from being hyperextended.

“You should buy one of the other horses I have for sale,” he repeated belatedly. “Not Outlaw. He belongs to me.”

She was disappointed he hadn’t tossed out an inappropriate, off-color remark in response to her previous comment. Then she would feel justified in lashing out at him again. It would assure her that she had every reason to dislike him and would be well advised to maintain a cautious distance.

“No, thanks. I’m sticking with Rooster. He’ll get me where I want to go the day of the race.” She hoped.

“Or see you buried,” Sol mumbled as he leaned out to grab the lead rope on the other horses.

“Muriel said something to that effect, but I intend to prove you both wrong,” Josie insisted. She glanced curiously at him. “Are you going to make the land run?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I’m not one to stay in the same place for long. Born under a wandering star, you might say.”

Which meant he and Josie held opposing objectives in life. She dreamed of putting down roots and having a home of her own. She’d endured seven years of feeling unwanted, though she had stayed in a grand house where most women would delight in living. She had been overly anxious to escape that tormenting place. Nowadays, a sod house or crude dugout seemed like a welcoming palace to her.

“You can drop by my homestead after the run and see how well I’m managing without a man’s help or intrusion,” she invited. “Unlike you, Tremain, I want a place to call my own.”

He studied her for a long, contemplative moment. His penetrating green eyes bored into her, as if searching out hidden secrets.

“So … Miz Josephine, where do you hail from?” he asked as they rode toward the tent community that had become her temporary home.

“Iowa. My mother died when I was ten. Three years later, Papa married a wealthy, influential widow who could improve his social standing.” Josie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Although Papa inherited property from my mother’s family, he had no interest whatsoever in ranching. Eventually he sold it for extra money, after his new wife pressured him into it. Needless to say, my brother and I were hugely disappointed.”

“You had constant conflicts with your stepmother,” Sol said perceptively.

“Yes. She would have preferred if Papa didn’t bring Noah and me into her grand house,” Josie confided, and wondered why she was discussing her personal life with a stranger. Ordinarily, she kept her feelings to herself. She figured everyone had their own problems, and didn’t want to hear about hers.

“It was her house, after all,” she continued, surprising herself again. “She had a daughter and son by her first marriage, and she did her best to make my brother and me feel unwelcome and unaccepted in her circle of highsociety acquaintances.”

“Her home, her money, her friends,” he said with a knowing smile. “She didn’t want to run the risk of you outshining her children. She sounds anything but delightful.”

“Needless to say, I leaped at the chance to join Noah and his then-fiancée, Celia, when they came south to make the Run of ’89. They married after they claimed their adjoining homesteads.”

“But you didn’t claim property nearby?” he asked curiously.

“Couldn’t. The Homestead Act states a single woman of legal age can stake land in a run, but I wasn’t yet twenty-one at the time. Since Celia was, they could combine their property after they filed their individual claims. I helped them set up their farm, which is east of El Reno, and I lived with them until recently.”

“And now it’s your turn to follow your dreams.”

“Exactly. I couldn’t make the Run of ’91, which opened land to the east of their homestead, either.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he asked interestedly.

“Because I couldn’t work the fields and erect buildings for barns, hog sheds and chicken coops by myself,” she explained. “At the time, I didn’t have the funds to hire workers, either. But I can raise cattle, train horses and build fences on the soon-to-be-opened range land.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it.

He grinned and glanced meaningfully at Rooster. The horse had been tossing his head and sidestepping every chance he got.

“Yes, I can see how well trained this devil is. But you can claim twice as much land if you accept a marriage proposal and wed after the run, like your scheming sister-in-law did,” he pointed out.

“She isn’t a schemer, and that was different,” Josie said defensively. “Celia loves Noah and he loves her. And don’t think my prospective suitors haven’t mentioned repeatedly the advantage of claiming more land for a ranch. But I’m not like my father. He married both times for position and prestige, the second even more than the first. I lost all respect for him when he practically deserted my brother and me to seek acceptance in society’s highest circles.”

Josie inhaled a calming breath, determined not to let hurtful feelings from her past upset her. She had a new life now and her always-critical stepmother was miles away.

“I had you and Miz Wilson pegged as clever opportunists.” He inclined his raven head. “I was wrong to believe the worst without hearing the facts. I apologize.”

“What about you, Tremain? What is your story …?”

Her voice trailed off when she saw Muriel trotting her dapple-gray mare over the hill—with none other than Captain Holbrook riding beside her. What the devil was her friend doing with him? And why were they out here?

Josie stared apprehensively at Tremain, wondering if he planned to accuse her of trespassing, as he’d threatened earlier. But he simply glanced at her, shrugged a broad shoulder and gazed curiously at the approaching twosome.

Dear Lord! Josie thought suddenly. Had Muriel taken her rash suggestion of proposing to the man she disliked as a tactic to fend off unwanted suitors? Muriel and she hadn’t had time to hammer out the details of such a drastic plan yet. Perhaps Muriel had acted impulsively and persuaded Holbrook to become her temporary fiancé.

Josie tossed Solomon Tremain a speculative glance. Maybe she should follow her own advice. The aimless horse trader would make a perfect pretend fiancé. He wouldn’t hang around after the run, and other potential suitors would be too busy establishing their own ranches to notice. She would be left alone to set up her homestead.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked warily.

Josie flashed a wide grin and didn’t reply, just turned her attention to the approaching riders—and wondered how Tremain would react if she proposed to him….