Читать книгу Oklahoma Wedding Bells - Carol Finch, Carol Finch - Страница 9

Sol frowned after Josie shifted her speculative gaze from him to the approaching riders. He dearly wanted to know why the intelligent blonde had been staring at him with her lustrous blue eyes narrowed in thought. It made him nervous, reminding him of prisoners that were mentally plotting their escape.

Sol had an unblemished reputation of not losing prisoners. He brought them in alive or dead. Their choice. However, dealing with the feisty female was another matter entirely. She was up to something; he’d stake his reputation on it. He wanted to interrogate her privately, but Grant and her friend drew their horses to a halt in front of them.

“Thank God!” Muriel gushed as she looked Josie over carefully. “You are all right, aren’t you? I was afraid that demon stallion might have left you in a broken heap on the ground.” Her accusing gaze settled on Rooster.

The animal tossed his head proudly and ignored her.

Josie flashed a blinding smile that would have knocked Sol’s knees out from under him if he’d been standing. Her face came alive and her radiant expression nearly stole his breath. He glanced at Grant to see if he had experienced the same stunned reaction, but the commander’s focus was trained on the attractive brunette.

“I’m perfectly fine, as you can see,” Josie assured her friend. “You’re okay, too, I hope.”

Muriel nodded reassuringly. “I finally regained control of my mare while she sloshed through the shallows in the river. But I was so worried about you that I headed straight for the garrison for assistance.” She angled her head toward Holbrook. “Thankfully, I didn’t have to ride very far before we crossed paths south of the fort.”

No doubt Grant had been on his way to their rendezvous site at Shallow Springs, Sol mused.

“I asked the commander for permission to cross the border to ensure your safety,” Muriel added. “He came along in case you were injured and I needed help transporting you to camp.”

Sol scrutinized the two women closely. Especially Josie. It seemed that Muriel had answered an unspoken question, because her friend relaxed in the saddle. Whatever passed between the two women was meant to exclude Sol and Grant.

Here was yet another example of a puzzling reaction Sol didn’t understand. But then, he had spent considerably more time with men than women, so he couldn’t read their behavior quite as easily.

“I had no intention of crossing the boundary line,” Josie assured Grant. “But the gunshots in camp frightened Rooster, and away he went without a care about what’s off-limits and what’s not.”

“A rabbit bounding out of the grass and hopping across the prairie would set off Rooster,” Sol commented as he stared at the horse, which refused to stand still. If it was possible for a stallion to strut, Rooster could pull it off, he decided. “Give me two days with that cantankerous animal so I can teach him discipline.”

Josie rolled her eyes, then glanced at her friend. “Muriel, this is Solomon Tremain.”

She smiled cordially. “You’re the horse trader. I remember seeing you in town. And this is Captain—”

“We’ve met,” Grant interrupted. “I checked Tremain’s special license this morning. He’s legal, but he’s making a killing off his livestock.”

“The horses aren’t stolen, are they?” Josie asked, so innocently that Sol knew instantly that she was up to no good. “Heavens, I’d hate to think the man who saved me from fatal disaster was a thief.”

Sol managed to maintain his trademark deadpan expression, but he inwardly fumed when Josie batted her eyes at him. What the hell was she doing? Fifteen minutes ago, she’d bitten his head off and insisted she didn’t need rescuing. Now she was hailing him as a hero for saving her. He was beginning to think there were two women housed in that luscious body of hers—a witch and an angel—and you could never know which one would show up at any given moment. She sure as hell had him buffaloed.

“I’m not a thief,” Sol insisted, while Muriel stared at him and Grant bit back a wry smile. “I’m half Cheyenne, and my people are offering their well-trained herds of horses for sale to the invading whites. We might as well make money off this outrageous theft of our land. Not to mention another peace treaty broken by the white government.”

Sol shut his mouth so fast he nearly bit off the end of his tongue. Why had he blurted that out? He waited for Josie’s and Muriel’s reactions to his mixed heritage, and told himself he didn’t care what they thought.

To his surprise, neither woman recoiled in repulsion, just stared at him for a few moments before nodding in acceptance of his announcement.

“That explains it,” Josie said eventually.

“Explains what?” Sol demanded, a little too defensively.

She grinned at him, which made him nervous, because he couldn’t figure her out … and it aggravated him that he wanted to be able to.

“That’s why you dislike me,” she continued, still smiling. “You resent my intrusion on Cheyenne-Arapaho land, and you’re also taking your dislike out on my horse.”

Sol snorted. “I find fault with that stallion because he is a disaster waiting to happen. Do yourself a favor and buy one of my horses. You’ll be safe instead of risking your neck on that unpredictable misfit.”

“You two will have to continue your debate elsewhere,” Grant interjected. “You are on the wrong side of the boundary line and I have a meeting to attend.” He glanced at Muriel. “Can you and your friend return to camp without an escort?”

“We’ll be fine,” she assured him crisply. “I already told you that in most instances we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

“But you should ignore the gunshots you’ll hear coming from camp when we return,” Josie suggested flippantly. “I plan to shoot the men who fired their pistols, spooked our horses and sent them racing out of control. I expect Muriel will stab those inconsiderate hooligans with her knife a few times for good measure, too.”

Grant glanced at Sol after the women trotted off, with Rooster still tossing his head. “She’s kidding, right?”

How was he supposed to know? Sol couldn’t figure Josie out. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He frowned when he noticed Grant was watching Muriel intently. “I thought you didn’t like the brunette.”

The commander swung his head toward Sol. “I don’t. Personally, I think she delights in all that male attention, despite her claim that she isn’t interested in accepting a marriage proposal before the race for land.”

“Why do you care one way or the other?”

“Didn’t say I did,” Grant muttered defensively.

Sol let the matter drop, since the man appeared to be highly sensitive about the brunette, regardless of his insistence to the contrary.

“Did you find out anything about the gunslingers we spotted in town?” he asked as he led the way to their secluded rendezvous site near Shallow Springs.

Grant nodded soberly. “The gunmen met up with a Texas rancher named Carlton Bradley at the Oasis, a local brothel. Later, I saw Bradley chatting with several hopeful settlers at one of the tent communities while I was making my rounds.”

“Which camp?” Sol questioned as he walked Outlaw into a copse of willows near the rippling springs.

“I think he’s camped just north of the one where Josie and Muriel are staying.”

Sol nodded pensively. “I need to find out what Bradley and his small army are up to. Robbery, maybe. He might be trying to familiarize himself with the settlers’ routines. There are a lot of people about, carrying their life savings to make improvements on the land—if they manage to stake a claim without getting killed during the race.”

“I talked to Sam Colby, the city marshal, this afternoon,” Grant commented. “He mentioned that robberies were occurring with alarming regularity. Bradley and his thugs might be stealing all the money they can get their hands on before hightailing it back to Texas.”

“The same sort of things happened in the two previous land runs,” Sol reported, then frowned curiously. “What does this Bradley character look like?”

“He’s about your height, with reddish-brown hair, a false smile, gray eyes and a square face.” Grant rattled the description off. “I think he is as fond of females as he is of money. I see him flirting constantly with married and single women alike.”

“Maybe we should sic Josie on him,” Sol said drily. “I just met that firebrand, but I think she could put Bradley in his place in nothing flat.”

“We’ll send Muriel with her. She has tried to put me in my place on several occasions,” the commander mumbled. “And I don’t fling insulting innuendos the way Bradley reportedly does.”

“If you come across anyone else that arouses your suspicion, let me know.” Sol glanced back at his colleague as he reined Outlaw away from the springs. “By the way, my cousin spotted two squatters tucked in a ravine about eight miles northwest of the fort. Both men were heavily armed with pistols and rifles.”

“I’ll take out a patrol to confront them tonight,” Grant promised. “After we overtake them, they can camp out in the stockade with the rest of their conniving kind.”

“Good place for the bastards. You may have to expand the size of the stockade before this damn race for land takes place,” Sol muttered before he rode off.

The moment Josie and Muriel reached the tent community, four would-be fiancés approached, eagerly offering to unsaddle their horses. One of the men thrust a tattered jacket at Muriel to repair. The eager suitor followed her like a puppy when she hiked off to fetch her sewing kit.

“If you don’t mind, I need my privacy,” Josie told the three who lagged behind.

The men bobbed their heads and backed away, much to her relief. She was not in the mood to be polite or listen to more flattery. She just wanted peace and quiet while she brushed down Rooster and staked out Bess, Muriel’s mare, to graze.

Privacy was difficult to obtain these days, though. The area was jumping with people who anticipated the day of the run. More competition, Josie thought, disgruntled, as she groomed the stallion. She smiled, noting this was the only time he stood still. He liked the personal attention.

When weariness settled over her, depressing thoughts closed in. Josie wondered what she would do if she couldn’t find a piece of property with a good water source and natural protection from inclement weather. What if she failed to stake a claim at all?

She’d heard in town that at least twenty-five thousand people were expected to make the wild run for free land. She knew some of them were settlers that had been unsuccessful in staking claims during the first two such events.

What if she and Muriel ended up with nothing?

Rooster pricked his ears and shifted sideways suddenly. Josie snapped to attention when she heard rustling in the underbrush. Now what? she thought in annoyance.

To her dismay, a scruffy cowboy, who looked part Spanish, staggered from the bushes. His shaggy black hair scraped the collar of his dingy shirt. His wide-set black eyes were at half-mast. He had a six-shooter strapped to each hip and he carried a near-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. Josie swore the hombre must have ingested most of the liquor, then used several drops as cologne, because offensive smells oozed from every pore.

“Well, well, well,” the stocky cowboy drawled. “If it ain’t Button-Eye Malloy all alone for once. I’ve had you in my sights for a week, honey.”

“The answer is no,” she said, out of patience with all men everywhere. “I’m not interested in marrying you. Go away.”

“Marry?” He snickered, exposing a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Hell, honey, I don’t wanna wed you. Just bed you.” He discarded the bottle and advanced toward her.

Josie had found herself in similar situations on several occasions. Drunks with lust on their minds were more dangerous than overeager suitors. “Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry,” she warned, scooping up a fallen branch to use as an improvised club.

The unkempt hooligan just kept coming. Josie stepped around Rooster, using the horse as a shield. To her frustration, the ruffian swatted the stallion’s rump. The flighty horse bolted sideways, knocking Josie flat on her back. She let out a yelp and tried to regain her feet before the ruffian sprawled atop her, but he overpowered her and trapped her beneath him.

She was reminded instantly of having Tremain fall on her, but this was not the same. She had felt a fierce physical attraction to the ruggedly handsome horse trader. She felt nothing but disgust and repulsion for this lusty drunkard.

He clamped a beefy hand around her leg, jerking it sideways to make room for himself between her thighs. Josie tried to whack him over the head with the tree branch, but he blocked the blow with his elbow.

“Get off me!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Not till you give me a kiss,” he growled. His shaggy head moved steadily toward hers.

Furious, Josie bucked beneath him and turned her face away. He grabbed a hank of her hair and yanked hard. She screeched in pain and outrage, and clobbered him on the shoulder with her makeshift club. Unfortunately, the blow only served to make him vindictive.

“You wanna play rough, do you, bitch?” he sneered. “Your choice—”

To Josie’s surprise, her attacker suddenly levitated off the ground, flew through the air, then landed again with a grunt and a thud. She glanced up to see Solomon Tremain looming over her, looking like Satan arriving from the gates of hell. His eyes were narrowed slits of green flame and his facial expression was as hard as a tombstone. His menacing growl would have scared the living daylights out of anyone sober enough to realize Tremain was not a man to challenge if you valued your life.

“Get yer own woman,” the drunkard spat as he climbed onto all fours. “I found her first!”

“Might be the last thing you ever do,” Tremain snarled ferociously. Then he swooped down on her attacker.

Panting for breath, Josie braced herself on her elbows and watched the horse trader clutch the front of the hooligan’s shirt. He hauled him roughly to his feet and knocked the stuffing out of the brute, who hit the ground again—hard. The brain-scrambling blow caused his dark eyes to roll around like a pair of dice.

She watched in satisfaction as the ruffian shook his head to gather his wits, then gasped in alarm when he made a grab for one of the pistols on his hips.

“Watch out!” she called to her rescuer.

She wasted her breath. Tremain had lightning-quick reflexes and had already sprung into action. He shoved his boot heel against the man’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and making him howl in pain. Tremain confiscated both pistols, then stepped on the hooligan’s neck to discourage him from trying to gain his feet.

For a horse trader, Tremain was downright impressive when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Josie wondered if it was his Cheyenne training that prepared him to react so quickly and effectively. Probably, she decided. She could use a few lessons in self-defense from him. Clearly, she wasn’t as good at fending off attackers as she’d thought.

“Do you have something you’d like to say to the lady?” Tremain asked in a low, vicious tone as he towered over the downed man like a seething thundercloud of doom.

“No, and you can go to hell,” the man choked out.

“Already been there. Now it’s your turn to see what it’s like.”

Josie pushed herself into a sitting position to massage her aching back, which had slammed into the ground one too many times in the past two hours.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Tremain asked, without taking his fierce glare—or his booted foot—off her tormentor.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But thanks for asking.” She rolled to her hands and knees, favoring the wrist she’d hurt earlier that evening, and then rose slowly to her feet.

Her rescuer grabbed the drunkard and hoisted him off the ground. The man swayed as Tremain shook him, as if to clear his whiskey-saturated senses. Josie knew it wouldn’t help. She had pounded her attacker with her makeshift club, but he had consumed a pint of whiskey, and the blows hadn’t fazed him.

“Come with me,” the horse trader demanded sharply. “You need to sober up, and a bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”

With satisfaction, Josie watched Tremain shove her assailant into the creek. The hombre landed with a splash and came up cursing the air black-and-blue.

When Josie heard more thrashing in the underbrush, she whirled around. Her yelps had drawn attention, apparently. A dozen men, weapons at the ready, appeared.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Orson Barnes, the leader of the group, asked worriedly.

“I am now,” she assured the rescue brigade.

The settlers glared at the drunkard, who had slogged ashore and stood there dripping wet, glowering at Tremain.

“There was no call to rough me up,” he muttered, then gingerly examined his bloody lips. “I was just having a little fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Josie huffed indignantly. “If my fiancé hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have been mauled.”

For the life of her, she didn’t know why she blurted that out. Maybe because she had been mulling over the prospect during her ride back to camp. She had planned to see what Muriel thought of the idea, but they hadn’t gotten around to the topic before they arrived and found themselves swarmed by four eager-to-please suitors.

For certain, Josie had shocked this latest group of men speechless. Whiskered jaws dropped. Eyes popped. Weapons sagged in the men’s hands. In synchronized motion, the would-be settlers’ stunned gazes swung to Tremain, who stared at her with that poker-faced expression he wore so well.

“Your fiancé?” the crowd crowed in unison.

“That’s right,” she confirmed, as she turned her back on them and walked up to Tremain. “My fiancé.”

She cast him a please-don’t-deny-it stare, then slipped her hand into his before she pivoted to face the baffled men. She noted that Muriel had arrived on the scene, along with another dozen men. The recent arrivals looked as shocked by the announcement as the first group.

Muriel didn’t appear the least bit surprised, however. She stifled a grin of wry amusement and hung back from the congregation of men.

“That true, horse trader?” someone called from the middle of the crowd. “You proposed and she accepted your offer over everybody else’s?”

Josie held her breath, wondering if Tremain planned to humiliate her in front of their captive audience, or play along with her impulsive announcement.

“Didn’t she just say so?” he asked, his deep, resonant voice carrying over the crowd.

She nearly swooned in relief, but tried her damnedest not to let her reaction show. Her relief turned to amusement when the men quickly switched their attention to Muriel, who flung up both hands and said, “Don’t look at me as a potential wife. I accepted Commander Holbrook’s proposal an hour ago, while we were riding.” She flashed a beaming smile. “Josie and I are planning a double wedding after the land run.”

Beside Josie, Tremain leaned down as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. “Are you proposing to me? Isn’t that unconventional in white society?”

“Where is it written that a woman can’t propose?” she challenged quietly.

“Nowhere I know. It’s what I’d expect from a misfit like you … so I accept.”

He draped his arm over her shoulder, drawing her closer. Ordinarily, she was inclined to step away when a man crowded her. She’d learned early on not to accept displays of affection, because suitors always wanted more than she intended to give. Oddly enough, however, she didn’t object to Tremain’s feigned interest. She felt safe and protected after her run-in with the foul-smelling drunkard, who would have molested her if Tremain hadn’t shown up when he did.

“Does Holbrook know he recently became engaged?” Tremain murmured against the side of her neck, causing goose bumps to pebble her skin.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice a little on the unsteady side. “Muriel and I didn’t have a chance to discuss anything privately. Four men approached the minute we dismounted in camp.”

“You know this is going to cost you, don’t you?” Tremain whispered devilishly. “Muriel, too, I suspect.”

“How much, Tremain?” Josie asked, when she saw the wicked gleam in his sea-green eyes and the ornery grin twitching his lips. “I’m saving my funds for improvements on my homestead, if I manage to stake one.”

“We’ll work something out, trust me.”

She flashed a smile for the benefit of the attentive males watching their every move. Then she said in a low voice, “Just so you know, I don’t trust any man’s intentions….”

Her voice trailed off when Tremain’s raven head came slowly and deliberately toward hers, as if giving notice that he was going to kiss her in front of God and everyone watching. Not only that, but he was staking his claim on her. Josie waited, unsure if she wanted to know how he tasted, to know if he kissed the same way he fought—roughly and forcefully.

“You’re a smart woman not to trust a man’s motives,” he murmured, his lips a hairbreadth from hers. “I myself don’t trust anyone’s motives, yours included. Just so you know …”

Then he kissed her, satisfying her curiosity—and stirring something wild and hungry deep inside her. She hadn’t expected tenderness from a man who had reminded her of the flapping buzzard of doom a quarter of an hour earlier. Yet tenderness was what she received from Solomon Tremain. Though he was amazingly gentle, molten fire simmered beneath the surface. It seeped into her blood, bringing it to a quick boil, triggering white-hot sensations she hadn’t wanted—or expected—to feel.

She didn’t realize she had curled her arm around his neck to inch closer until she was there, enjoying the feel of his powerful body meshed familiarly against hers. She found herself wanting something she couldn’t explain, and until this very moment hadn’t realized existed.

Josie was sorry to admit she was dazed, dumbfounded and aroused by the gentler side of Solomon Tremain. Desire thrummed through her, raising her temperature another ten degrees. When he lifted his head and let loose a dimpled smile, it knocked her for another loop … until he looked over her head at the crowd of men and grinned in cocky male triumph.

“And you are going to pay for that, Tremain,” she warned as she tossed him a smile for appearance’s sake.

“Then we will have to owe each other, won’t we, blue eyes?” he murmured huskily.

He dropped a featherlight kiss on her lips, then stepped away to quick-march her assailant to camp. The rescue squad fell in behind him, leaving the two friends alone together.

“Well,” Muriel said. “I hope this scheme of yours doesn’t blow up in our faces.” She stared curiously at Josie. “What did Tremain say when you proposed to him?”

“I didn’t actually propose.” Josie shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and avoided her direct stare. “It just sort of popped out of my mouth that he was my fiancé, after my ordeal with the drunkard.”

Muriel gasped in amazement. “You gave him no warning? Just blurted it out in front of everyone?”

Josie nodded her tousled head. “You and I discussed the possibility this morning. Tonight seemed the perfect time to set the plan in motion,” she reasoned. “The news will buzz around camp this evening and tomorrow we can enjoy some peace and quiet. For once.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have yielded to the same reckless impulse,” Muriel said worriedly. “Now I have to ride out to the garrison at night to confer with Holbrook … and face possible rejection. The captain might not play along the way Mr. Tremain did.”

“You could send Tremain to propose for you,” Josie suggested.

Her friend’s shoulders slumped in relief and she bobbed her head. “I hope he’ll agree to speak in my stead, because I’d rather not face Holbrook. I hope your pretend fiancé can square it with mine.” There was a long pause as she stared anxiously at Josie in the gathering twilight. “Do you think we might have acted too irrationally with this scheme of desperation?”

“Most likely,” Josie admitted. “But what’s done is done. Hopefully, we have resolved the problem of so many unwanted proposals.”

Her friend inhaled a bracing breath, squared her shoulders, then spun on her heel. “I’ll go ask Tremain to be the bearer of surprising news.”

“It’ll probably cost you,” Josie called after her. “It’s what you should expect when you bargain with a wily horse trader.”

Sol escorted Josie’s assailant into camp, intending to tie him up, retrieve Outlaw and gather the horses he had stopped by to sell at the settlement. Damn good thing he had arrived when he did, he mused as he glared at his unkempt prisoner. Sol recognized the man as one of the six gunmen he’d seen loitering around the Saddle Burr Saloon earlier in the day.

“What’s your name?” he demanded sharply.

“None of your business,” the shaggy-haired hooligan said with a scowl.

“I’m making it my business,” Sol snapped. “You tried to molest my fiancée, and we both take offense to that.”

Fiancée? Damn, that sounded odd. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to have one of those—ever. He knew absolutely nothing about dealing with females, especially one as high-spirited and quick-witted as Josephine Malloy.

“If that hellion is yer fiancée you shoulda kept closer tabs on her,” the attacker snorted.

Sol scoffed. How many desperadoes who blamed him for their shortcomings had he encountered over the years? More than he cared to count. The bastards never wanted to own up to their sins and transgressions.

“You go near Josephine again and I’ll shoot you a couple of times,” he growled threateningly. “If you try to retaliate against her for fighting back, I’ll slit your throat. If you touch her, you’re a dead man. Do you understand me?” He stared at the hombre with fierce intensity. “And make no mistake, you won’t be the first man I’ve killed, and you won’t be the last. Now … what’s your name?”

The defiant ruffian thrust out his stubbled chin and clamped his swollen lips shut.

Sol untied one of the horses he had for sale, then stabbed his forefinger at the prisoner, silently ordering him to climb aboard bareback. Scowling, the man mounted up, then swore foully when Sol coiled a rope around his neck, tied it to his wrists, then hooked it around the mount’s neck and belly.

“We have our own ways of dealing with men who mistreat women,” said a voice behind them.

Sol half turned to see the frizzy-haired, self-appointed leader of the rescue brigade, which had formed a semicircle behind him. “This man is headed for the stockade at the garrison,” Sol declared authoritatively. “This area is under martial law, and vigilante justice is prohibited here and everywhere else.” Damn, he sounded like a lawman, he realized. Sol told himself to watch what he said and how he said it in the near future.

The stocky man, whose face was covered with so much brown hair that he reminded Sol of a buffalo, lumbered forward to extend his hand. “Orson Barnes is my name. I guess you have a right to do as you see fit with this molester of women. And congratulations on your betrothal to Miz Malloy,” he added begrudgingly. “You are the envy of all the single men in camp. I’m surprised she changed her mind, though. When I proposed to her this morning she said she wasn’t ready to settle down anytime soon.”

Sol smiled faintly as he looked past Orson and noted that he was receiving plenty of annoyed glances from Josephine’s jilted suitors. The competition for a woman’s affection in these mostly male tent communities was fierce, he reminded himself. “I must’ve caught her at a weak moment.”

“Didn’t know she had any weak moments.”

Sol doubted she did, either.

“That’s a lot of woman you got there, Mr….?” Orson waited for Sol to fill in the blank.

“Tremain. I’m a horse trader.” He inclined his head toward his prisoner. “Do you happen to know this hombre by name?”

“Harlan Kane,” Orson replied. “He shares a tent with three other scruffy men on the north side of camp.”

“Do you know their names?” Sol questioned.

“Bernie Hobart, Wendell Latimer and Ramon Alvarez.” He rattled them off.

“You’d do well to mind your own business, too,” Harlan muttered threateningly at Orson, who shrugged, undaunted. “My friends might pay you a visit when you least expect it.”

Sol narrowed his gaze at his prisoner. No doubt threats of violence were this gang’s specialty.

“You want me to keep an eye on Miz Malloy until you get back from the fort, Tremain?” Orson volunteered as the crowd of men behind him dispersed.

“Good idea. Thanks,” he said as he mounted Outlaw. “I won’t be back tonight, so tell my fiancée to sleep with her pistol under her pillow and one eye open.”

When the man lumbered off to become Josie’s temporary protector, Sol headed west. He halted Outlaw when he saw Muriel scurrying toward him, waving her arms to flag him down.

“May I have a private word with you, Mr. Tremain?” she asked anxiously, panting to catch her breath.

“Sol,” he corrected. “Give me a minute to secure my prisoner.”

Smiling to himself, Sol dismounted. He had a pretty good idea what Muriel wanted. He had to hand it to these two spirited women; there was nothing passive about either of them. They didn’t sit and wait for the world to come to them, but grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns.

Sol predicted that any man who got tangled up with them would never experience a dull moment.

But hell, he wouldn’t know what a dull moment felt like, even if it walked up and slapped him in the face, Sol mused. He existed in a rough-and-tumble world where flying bullets, slashing knives and hellish weather conditions prevailed. Becoming engaged—even to a lively spitfire like Josephine—couldn’t be that bad … could it?