Читать книгу To Tempt A Texan - Georgina Gentry - Страница 8

Monday afternoon, April 22, 1889, the Unassigned Lands of Indian Territory.

Lacey clung to the cowcatcher of the moving train as the scenery rushed past.

My word! This damn-fool, outrageous stunt was going to get her killed. Worse than that, it was blowing her hair and smudging her perfect white shirtwaist. Lacey Van Schuyler Durango had never done anything so outrageous. Well, maybe twice…

She wouldn’t think about that now. It was all she could do to hang on and keep from falling under the churning wheels of this racing locomotive. The wind whipped her hair loose and caught her dark blue skirts, making them billow so that her white bloomers showed. So very unladylike!

Would most ladies be clinging to the front of a moving locomotive anyway? Certainly not. And to think she had bribed the engineer to let her ride up here. The fumes from the engine choked her and, beneath her feet, the cross ties raced by as she clung both to the iron cowcatcher and her claim stake and hammer. Lacey was only too aware that if she loosened her grip, she might fall beneath the train. The thought was frightening, thinking of what a mess she would be when they found the body; so undignified and dirty. Instead, Lacey concentrated on looking up ahead as the site of that new, nameless town came into view. It was a hodgepodge huddle of tents, dusty, lopsided shacks, people arriving in wagons with a few riders galloping into town to stake a land claim.

So untidy, but she would change all that. Yes, she would. Emboldened by new resolve, Lacey hung on to the cowcatcher as it chugged along the track. Yes, she would help change this pitiful settlement into a perfect town for the Ladies’ Temperance Association to populate. They’d made no mistake when they’d elected her president.

The train was slowing now as it neared the scattering of tents and hurrying people. Up here on the cowcatcher, she’d be first off the crowded train, a distinct advantage in staking a claim to a choice lot for her newspaper, the Crusader. She clasped her wooden stake and hammer tightly and searched the horizon, trying to choose a lot before the train chugged to a halt.

Ah, yes, there was a choice corner lot in the center of this nameless settlement. It would be a perfect place to build her newspaper office. Even before the train came to a complete stop, Lacey hiked up her skirts, jumped off the cowcatcher and ran as fast as her long legs could carry her.

Galloping into town on his fine, chestnut stallion, with his bloodhound, Lively, following behind, gambler Blackie O’Neal’s dark gaze searched the town site for the perfect location for the big saloon and bordello he planned to build here. Ah, up ahead lay a prize corner lot right downtown. It would be an excellent site for Blackie’s Black Garter. Out of the corner of his eye as he rode, Blackie saw a train chugging into town. Great God Almighty, he had to beat that train. It would be full of eager settlers racing to stake claims. He urged his lathered horse to run faster.

What was that ridiculous sight? A woman, yes, it was a woman clinging to the cowcatcher of that locomotive. Was she loco? All he could see was wildly blowing dark hair, billowing skirts, and white lace bloomers. At that moment, his horse stumbled and fell, throwing Blackie into the dirt. Lively loped up and licked his face.

Cursing, Blackie scrambled to his feet, grabbed up his wooden claim stake, checked to make sure his horse was okay, then began to run. The woman was off the cowcatcher now, holding her skirts high as she ran. What did that crazy female thinking she was doing? Her husband must be loco to put up with a damn fool like that.

Abruptly Blackie realized the woman was running toward the same lot he was. Surely she wasn’t going to stake a claim? He realized as he ran that that’s exactly what she was planning to do and on his lot. He renewed his speed, but he was out of shape and puffing. Cigars and late-night card games did nothing to improve one’s athletic ability, and it had been awhile since he’d worked a ranch. But he was a Texan. Surely he could outrun a woman.

They met in the middle of the prize lot at a dead heat, she looking as surprised as he felt.

“No, you don’t, sister, this is my claim!”

“No, it’s mine, you cheap tinhorn!” Lacey glared back at the tall, broad-shouldered man and began to pound her stake in the ground. After risking her life to get this free land, she wasn’t about to be bluffed out of it by some arrogant rascal.

He muttered a curse and began to pound his own stake into the dirt with the butt of his six-shooter. “Listen, sister, I’ve got big plans for this lot.”

“So do I, and I’m not about to give it up.” She wiped her hands on her dusty dark skirt and glared up at him. She was tall for a woman, but he was taller by more than a head, and some women might think him handsome. He paused now, put one dirty black boot up on his stake and tipped his Stetson hat back.

He frowned at her, a masculine and suntanned brute of a man as he lit a cigarillo. “What does a gal need a lot for? Your husband not providin’ for you?” A Texas drawl. She might have known.

Lacey glared back. He was a rogue, she was sure of it by the way he dressed. The flat black hat, the string tie, the bright silk vest and a diamond ring on his little finger. “I am not married,” she replied with ice in her voice. “Now get off my claim, you cheap tinhorn.”

He shook the match out and took a puff. “Listen, sister—”

“I am not your sister, thank God.”

He grinned at her with easy charm. She knew his type immediately. God’s gift to women. Or so he thought. “I tell you what I’ll do, sweetheart—”

“I’m not your sweetheart, either.” She didn’t budge an inch as he grinned and smoked.

“Well, hell, you’re certainly no lady, comin’ in like that with your skirts blowin’ and your underpants showin’—”

“A gentleman would not mention that.” My word, she must look a mess, but there was no mirror to check, although she did make a vain effort to push her hair back. “Don’t try to sweet-talk me, you rattlesnake.”

He grinned in that superior way that made her want to smack him. “Sister, I never claimed to be a gentleman. Now I know it’s futile to talk reason with a female, but I reckon the little millinery shop or bakery you’re plannin’ could just as easily be built on some side street—”

“You arrogant pig, I intend to build a newspaper right here on this land.”

“A newspaper? You?” He looked baffled.

She took a deep breath, proud of herself that she didn’t hit him with her hammer. It would be so undignified to be arrested right here on Main Street. Okay, so some women might think him attractive, but he wasn’t perfect. His ears were a bit too big and he had one slightly crooked front tooth. “My word, you can read, can’t you? I’ll bet the only reading you ever do is a deck of marked cards.”

Blackie felt himself flush and took a deep breath as he holstered his pistol. Her accent told him she was a Texan, too. This dusty, untidy mess of a gal was the most stubborn, annoying female he’d ever met. He had a strong male urge to yank her up and spank her backside, but he knew that to win this fuss, he must hold his temper and use his charm. Women told him he could talk a dog off a meat wagon. Would it work for a Texas bitch?

He smiled at her, thinking she wasn’t bad looking for a woman, although it was hard to tell with that dark hair a tangled mop and her face smudged by smoke from the train that was now pulling out. “We’ve gotten off to a bad start here, Miss.” He took off his hat and made a sweeping bow. “I am Blackie O’Neal, lately of Del Rio, and you are?”

“None of your business.” The girl snapped back. “Don’t waste your sleazy charm on me. If you were a gentleman, you’d let me have the claim.”

He started to tell her again that she was no lady, not when she rode into town on the cowcatcher of a train with her skirts billowing and her bloomers showing. Since she was a Texan, that meant she might be as stubborn as he was himself. “Suppose I go look after my horse, Miss, and then I’ll buy you some dinner and we’ll talk about this.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

Well, damn. Even though she looked like she’d been ridden hard and put up wet, she still had full, round curves and she might be pretty under all that soot. If he could get a few drinks in her and an hour to sweet-talk her, he’d not only get the land, he’d enjoy an hour’s entertainment besides. “Perhaps I could buy your claim from you.”

“What if I buy your claim from you?”

“No. I need that land worse than you do.” He was out of patience and very hot and tired. This gal was different, and he didn’t like it. He was used to getting his way with women. This one was not only savvy, she was too smart. Blackie didn’t like smart women, he liked eager ones. “All right, sister, we seem to be in a Mexican standoff. So now what do we do?”

In answer, she hailed a passing settler. “Hey, Mister, how do I legalize this claim?”

“My claim,” Blackie corrected, but she paid him no heed.

The settler was a worn old farmer. He took off his straw hat and wiped his sweaty brow. “No land office here.” He pointed north. “Got to go up to Guthrie to register your claim.”

“Guthrie?” The girl said, “how far is that?”

“’Bout five miles.”

Blackie grinned as the farmer ambled away. The train had just pulled out in a cloud of smoke and the sooty girl turned and stared after it.

“Well,” Blackie grinned and touched the brim of his hat in salute. “I’ll see you in Guthrie—if you can find a way to get there.”

He turned and sauntered away to where his horse grazed on the grass at the edge of the dirt main street. Lively, the bloodhound, had lain down next to the horse and dropped off to sleep, which was always what Lively did best. This stubborn gal wasn’t going to be any problem after all. Just like most women, she couldn’t play when the stakes were high, she didn’t have the brains or the cunning, even if she was a Texas gal.

Blackie mounted up and turned his stallion north. The chestnut took two halting steps. Immediately, Blackie dismounted, everything else forgotten in his concern for his horse. “What’s the matter, boy? Hurt a hoof in that fall?”

After a moment’s inspection, he decided the stallion was temporarily lame. What to do? He hailed a passing freckle-faced boy. “Hey, sonny, if I pay you, you reckon you could find my horse some water and some good hay? I need someone to look after him until I get back.”

The boy nodded. “Sure thing, Mister.”

Blackie wiped his sweating face. He’d like a cold drink himself. “Any place I can rent a horse around here?”

The boy shook his head as he took the chestnut’s reins. “My folks came with a team of oxen pullin’ our wagon. There ain’t a spare horse in the entire camp.”

“We’ll see about that. I’ll be back for my horse later.” Blackie loved a challenge. Followed by the lazy hound, Blackie started down the dusty street, stopping to ask about renting a horse. The boy had been right; there wasn’t a spare horse or a fresh one in the settlement. Finally a cowboy pointed out a makeshift shack down the road. “I think Clem might have a horse and rig he’d rent out.”

“Much obliged.” Blackie grinned and started down the road. His luck was running good, as usual. By tonight, he’d be the legal owner of that choice lot and have the new saloon under construction by the time Moose, his bartender, and Flo and her girls arrived.

Lacey watched the Texan saunter away, furious with his confidence. Why, he was like a rooster that thought the sun came up in the morning because he crowed. Since he was a man and a Texan, naturally he thought he’d already bested her. Outrageous. Well, she wasn’t ready to yell “calf rope” yet; the Texas term for “surrender.” She ran to the temporary depot and saw that Isaac, her printer, was unloading the equipment and the crate with Precious in it. “There’s been a hitch,” she said to the short, balding man. “I’ll take Precious with me because you will be too busy to look after her. You see if you can find a temporary place to set up our offices.”

He paused in unloading the boxes and said in his thick foreign accent. “You didn’t get a claim, yes?”

Lacey sighed. “Sort of. If I can get to Guthrie in time to file it.”

“Whatever I can do to help, Miss Lacey, for you, anything.”

“I’m much obliged, Isaac.” Her mind was already busy. Damned if she was going to let that rogue gambler best her, but she’d seen he had a good horse.

She grabbed the cat carrier and the white Persian meowed in protest. “Now, Precious, dear, I know things are hectic, but when we get to Guthrie, I’ll get you some food.”

How was she going to get to Guthrie? There seemed to be hundreds of people milling about or brushing past her, all intent on their own business. “It might be just dusty shacks now, but it can be a perfect town; and I’ll help mold it.”

The train had pulled out while she was arguing with that cheap tinhorn. Maybe she could rent a mount instead. Lacey started asking up and down the street. There were no horses available. She couldn’t let that gambler claim that prize lot. Why, it was right downtown and a perfect place for her newspaper office. She’d been elected president of the Ladies’ Temperance Association because she was so resourceful. Where had the Texas tinhorn gone? She’d lost sight of the rogue. Maybe he was already on his way to Guthrie. Well, she wasn’t going to give up without a fight.

As she trudged along carrying her indignant cat, Lacey passed a horse trough and stared down at her reflection. My word. No wonder she hadn’t made any impression on that silver-tongued devil, she looked like she’d been dragged around under the porch by hound dogs. Lacey always kept her appearance perfect. Now she couldn’t even wash her face. Oh, the horror of being dirty. “First things first, Lacey,” she reminded herself. She dipped a palm in the water to give Precious a drink. Still carrying her cat cage, she stopped a passing army sergeant. “Sir, do you know of any way to get to Guthrie?”

He smiled, touched the brim of his hat. “Why, ma’am, there’s a train tomorrow.”

She felt tears of frustration gather in her dark eyes. “I can’t wait until tomorrow, I’m trying to file a claim.”

Immediately, his ruddy face turned sympathetic. “Tough for a little lady in this big world, huh?”

She resisted the urge to give him a good kick between the thighs. Instead, she let the tears run down her cheeks. “It certainly is, sir, and a helpless woman like poor little me just doesn’t know what to do next.”

He chewed his lip then pointed. “See that corral over there with the new barn? It delivers supplies up to Guthrie for the army. Maybe he’d rent you a rig or something.”

“Oh, Captain,” she sighed and fluttered her eyelashes, “you’re so wonderful.”

“I’m a sergeant, Ma’am, but being’s you’re a gal, I don’t expect you to know the difference.”

It was a good thing she had left the hammer with Isaac. She managed to grit her teeth and thanked him again, then hurried toward the corral, carrying her cat cage. Inside, the white Persian set up a howl. “Do be quiet, Precious, when we get to Guthrie, I’ll see if I can buy you some fish.”

She found a lean, weathered man loading crates of squawking chickens on a wagon.

“I need to get to Guthrie.”

He laughed and paused, wiping his face with a ragged red bandana. “You and about ten thousand other folks, Ma’am. Even my regular driver has run off to get a land claim. Lucky for me, a gambler who said his horse was lame offered to drive this load of chickens up to Guthrie to feed the troops. I can’t leave to do it.”

A gambler. She tried to look helpless, although it galled her. “A tall Texan with dark hair? Oh, that’s my husband.” The thought made her shudder.

He nodded. “Why didn’t you say so, Ma’am? He went off to get hisself a drink, said he’d be back about the time I got loaded out.”

A drink. Of course the rascal was a whiskey-swilling sponge. “You see, there’s been a change of plans. My husband told me to drive your wagon up to Guthrie. He’ll come later.”

The man looked at her and then at the wagonload of squawking chickens. “I don’t know, ma’am. You ever drive a wagon before?”

“My word, are you joking? Why, on our farm, I used to drive loads of hay into town all the time.”

He nodded. “All right then. You see these chickens get to Captain MacArthur, you hear?”

“I certainly will.” She put her cat cage up on the front seat, clambered up beside it, took the reins. “I’ll get your wagon back to you as soon as the soldiers get it unloaded. Which way to Guthrie?”

“North. Just follow the road.” He smiled, pointed and stepped back.

Lacey slapped the reins on the dozing bay horse and started north on the dusty road.

“Meow!” complained Precious.

“I’m sorry, kitty,” Lacey said as she urged the horse to step a little faster, “I can’t do anything about you until I get to Guthrie.”

“Squawk!” said the chickens, “Squawk! Squawk!”

“Meow! Meow!” yowled Precious.

This was going to be a long trip, Lacey decided, but it was the only way she had. Better than that, she’d beaten that Blackie O’Neal at his own game. It made her smile to think about it. In the meantime, it upset her to look a mess and that she was driving a ridiculous rig with chicken feathers leaving a trail behind her. Lacey always perfectly planned everything and she had come to this. Thank God, nobody from home (especially Homer) was around to see her making a spectacle of herself.

Resolutely, she kept driving. Her cat never stopped howling, nor did the chickens stop squawking. The afternoon was promising to be pure hell. The only thing that kept her going was the prize that awaited her when she got that deed registered. Well, there was something else. She grinned as she imagined the gambler showing up to drive the wagon only to discover he’d been outsmarted and out-maneuvered. If that rascal wanted to get to Guthrie, he’d have to walk and he was wearing boots. “Walk” was a dirty four-letter word to most Texans and in high-heeled cowboy boots, it would be painful. She hoped he got blisters on his blisters.

She’d gone only about a mile when from behind she heard a loping horse, and a man’s deep voice yelled, “There she is!” She recognized that Texas drawl without even turning her head and whipped up her horse, but the rider was gaining. She glanced up as Blackie, riding double with some cowboy, galloped up and dismounted, running to grab her reins. “Of all the lowdown, dirty tricks!”

Lacey stood up and slashed at him with her whip. Blackie grabbed it and jerked, Lacey lost her balance. The dog, scampering about and barking, ran behind Blackie, tripped him, and the gambler fell. Lacey tumbled out of the wagon, landing on top of him. The good-natured bloodhound promptly scampered up and licked her face with a long, wet tongue. The crates of chickens set up an ungodly squawking and feathers drifted. Precious meowed.

The young cowboy leaned on his saddlehorn. “Mister, that’s no way to treat your wife.”

“His wife?” She lay on Blackie and stared in horror into his grinning face. Now she regretted not keeping the hammer. Lacey managed to sit up and push the dog away. Before she could say anything else, that rascal was getting up, dusting himself off and turning on the charm to the cowboy. “Oh, it’s just a mistake. We had a little spat and she went off and left me, but everything’s fine now, isn’t it, sweetheart?”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.” Lacey stumbled to her feet, dusting off her skirts. “You lowdown polecat.”

“See?” Blackie grinned to the cowboy, “Isn’t she a typical Texas gal? Sweetheart, you shouldn’t have left me.”

The cowboy looked uncertain and Lacey was suddenly afraid for him. If he attempted to interfere, she had no doubt the big Texan could wipe up the dirt with him. Blackie looked like he’d won many a saloon brawl.

“Never mind, cowboy,” she said, “we’ll work this out ourselves. You can go.” As soon as he was out of sight, she intended to grab that whip, beat the Texan senseless, then take off with the wagon.

“If you say so, ma’am.” The cowboy touched the brim of his hat with two fingers in a polite gesture, turned his horse and started back toward the nameless town. They both watched him go.

When he was far enough away, Lacey made a sudden dive, grabbed the whip, and ran for the rig. Unfortunately, the good-natured hound galloped with her and she tripped and fell over him, landing sprawling in the dirt. “My word! This is outrageous!” Lacey scrambled to her feet and tried to climb up in the rig.

“Meow!” protested Precious. The hound, discovering the cat, ran about the wagon barking which set both the cat and the chickens off again.

“Hush, Lively! No, you don’t, sister!” The gambler grabbed at her and came away with a piece of her smudged shirtwaist, leaving her lace camisole showing. “You can’t outsmart me.”

“You scoundrel!” She whacked at him with the little whip and he grabbed her again. They went to the ground in a tussle of flouncing petticoats and lace bloomers as they wrestled for the whip. The dog gamboled around them, eager to get in on this new game while the chickens squawked and the cat howled.

“You little wildcat!” Blackie came up on top, lying on her full, soft breasts, his face only inches from hers. He was suddenly very aware of her warm flesh and how much of it was showing now. As he stared into her eyes, he realized just how pretty this female was. Well, she might be if her hair wasn’t so tangled and her face so smudged. He gave her his most disarming grin. “Now, honey,” he crooned, “maybe we can work something out. Maybe we could be partners.”

She smiled back. “Oh, I didn’t realize how charming you were, and so handsome, too.”

He relaxed, the overconfident Texas brute. He stood up and picked up his hat, dusted it off, put it on. Then smiled confidently as he offered her his hand. “Here, sister, let me help you up.”

The big dope. She smiled and let him take her hand. As she came up off the ground, she gave him a solid knee to the groin, the way the cowboys had taught her to defend herself at her uncle’s ranch. He went down like a felled tree, groaning and thrashing in the dirt.

“You oaf! How stupid can you get?” She made a run for the wagon and tripped over the barking dog, but scrambled up on the wagon seat and lashed the startled horse. The dog must have thought it was a new game because he ran along beside the wagon, barking and wagging his tail. The cat squalled and the chickens set up a bigger racket as she drove away. She glanced behind her, smiling with satisfaction. Men. They were hairy, flawed brutes who seemed to think with what hung between their legs. That was when they weren’t guzzling demon rum. Somewhere there must be a perfect, sensitive mate for her, but she sure hadn’t found him so far. That made her think of her wedding ceremony which had been so perfect right up until her ideal groom…She brushed that humiliating memory aside and concentrated on her driving. A few more miles and she’d be at the land office in Guthrie.

Blackie was in a world of hurt, writhing on the ground. He finally managed to sit up and wiped the drops of sweat from his brow as the pain subsided. “That sneaky little—! She almost deprived a lot of eager women some future pleasure.”

Pleasure. It would give him a great deal of pleasure to turn that sassy dame across his knee and paddle her until she was wailing as loud as that damned cat. She had outsmarted him and gotten away with the wagon. He almost had to admire her for her grit, but then Texas gals were always a cut above other women. If this had happened to another hombre, Blackie would have thought it was funny.

For him, it wasn’t. It was hot and he was thirsty. He stumbled to his feet and stared up the road. The wagon had disappeared to the north in a cloud of dust and squawking chickens. Even his own dog, the traitor, had gone happily along with the girl.

“Great God Almighty, Blackie, you let her outsmart you. You thought the prim old maid could be charmed and tempted like other women. You should have known better.”

Well, he wouldn’t make that mistake again. He’d get to Guthrie somehow and contest her claim if she did manage to get it filed. That choice corner lot was too valuable to give up. Besides, he wasn’t about to have it breezed around town that Blackie O’Neal had been bested by a woman. He looked up and down the deserted road. Nothing in sight except a few chicken feathers blowing on the warm spring air.

With a sigh, he started walking north. Walk. A dirty four-letter word to a Texan, especially in boots. “If man had been meant to walk, God wouldn’t have invented horses,” he muttered to himself and felt through his pockets for his cigarillos. They’d been all mashed and broken in the tussle. For a moment, he recalled the feel of her curvaceous body under his then remembered she’d outsmarted him. “Damn, my fine Havanas are ruined.”

He stuck a broken cigar in his mouth, lit it, and shook out the match. He was nothing if not stubborn, and he’d always been one lucky hombre since he’d managed to escape that shack back in east Texas when he was a hungry, motherless kid. He wasn’t licked yet and he wasn’t gonna be, not by a lanky gal who was as independent as a hog on ice. Maybe her wagon would break an axle or her damned cat would escape and she’d stop to hunt it down. There were lots of things that could delay her, still giving him a chance to file his claim first. He started limping toward Guthrie. “Sister,” he promised through clenched teeth as he stumbled along, “you ain’t seen the last of Blackie O’Neal!”