Читать книгу Winning Over the Wrangler - Linda Ford - Страница 9
ОглавлениеChapter One
Eden Valley Ranch, September 1882
Stampede!
Brand knew what was happening before it took place. He saw the horses press against the corral gate, frightened by something beyond his vision. It could have been anything from a stalking cougar to a tumbling tumbleweed. Wouldn’t take much to alarm a bunch of wild mustangs. Wood creaked. The gate wouldn’t hold under the pressure of frightened horses.
Brand’s fists tightened so hard on the reins his knuckles cracked. His heart squeezed his blood out in a flash flood.
He would shout a warning to those along the fence, tell them to stand back. But he barely had control of the horse under him, which until a few minutes ago had never been ridden.
The gate snapped. The horses reared and screamed and pushed at each other, as frightened by the noise of the breaking fence as they had been by being confined. Brand held his mount with a firm hand. The horse was not ready to ride in tight quarters, but from the first, he’d sensed a willingness in it that was absent in many of the others he’d worked with. With no choice but to trust himself and the others to the green horse, he rode in the direction of the escaped animals. He had to turn them away from the people, get them back into the pen before anyone got hurt.
He saw a little boy and one of the women who had been watching. They stood only a few feet from the kicking, screaming, twisting animals surging in their direction. Choking dust clouded the scene.
He kicked his mount, raced for a gate, slipped it open with lightning speed and galloped toward them.
The stampeding horses were ahead of him. Before them, the boy scampered toward a fence and rolled under it. But the woman stood frozen, her mouth hanging open. Brand couldn’t tell if she screamed, couldn’t have heard it in the uproar if she did.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the movement of other cowboys racing for their own horses. No one else was close enough to rescue her. Brand leaned over the horse’s neck and urged him onward, closing the distance between them and the woman.
Ten more feet. He dared not look to the right or the left. All that mattered was that frightened woman.
Five feet.
One more leap of his horse and Brand reached her side. He leaned down and swept her into his arms, clutching her to his chest as they raced onward, out of the way of danger as pounding hooves thundered past and dust-laden air swirled.
He slowed, grateful the horse cooperated. “You’re okay now. You’re safe.” He pressed her trembling body closer.
He’d noticed her earlier as she stood by another woman, watching him at work. How could he not keep stealing glances at her? She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, with her golden curls flashing in the sunshine. He could describe everything about her in detail...the autumn-gold top she wore, the brown skirt that swung about her legs as she moved. The way she walked, as if life held nothing but promise for her. The way she smiled so sweetly at others.
It had taken all his concentration not to be distracted by her presence. It was his single-minded attentiveness that gave him his reputation as the best bronc buster in the West, and he wasn’t about to lose it.
And now she rested in his arms, holding his shirtfront as if it was a lifeline, and lifted her gaze to him. His world tipped at the way her cobalt-blue eyes caught his in a pleading look. How was he supposed to keep his mind off her in this situation?
Cowboys turned the herd of wild horses back to the corral amid more dust and more shouting.
“You’re safe,” he murmured again, as fierce protectiveness filled his insides. He wanted to promise both himself and her that he’d make sure she was always safe.
Then his world righted and reason returned. He could never make such a promise. In fact, he carried more risk than any woman deserved, and certainly more than he meant to give one. He warned himself to stay away from her before he brought danger into her life.
A mahogany-haired woman rushed toward them—the woman he’d seen earlier with his golden beauty. And then Eddie Gardiner, the ranch owner who had hired him, raced up on his horse. Already the dust had begun to settle.
“Are you hurt?” Eddie asked.
“No. I’m fine.” The woman had a gentle, soft voice with a sweet English accent. A voice full of music and peace, despite the danger she’d just been in. Was her life really as peaceful and perfect as her voice caused Brand to think? From what he’d seen of her, he knew her to be a high-class lady. Likely she had never had reason in her privileged life to deal with the harsh realities of a place like his.
Realizing he still held her tight, Brand forced his arms to unfold, and lowered her to the ground, where her friend took her hand and pulled her close.
“That was exciting,” the other woman said.
The golden beauty shivered. “A little too dangerous for my liking.”
If she thought a herd of wild horses was dangerous, he could not imagine what she’d think if she knew the truth about him.
Eddie glanced about. “Where’s Grady? Wasn’t he with you?”
The woman gasped. “He was right here.” She and her friend spun around, looking for him.
They must mean the boy who had wisely taken himself out of harm’s way. Brand’s smile formed as he looked toward where the boy had hidden.
“I’m here, Papa.” The little fella crawled from under the fence and dusted himself off.
Brand would have guessed the blond-haired, blue-eyed child to be about five or six.
Grady swiped at his runny nose and looked up at Brand. “I wasn’t scared.”
Brand laughed at his bravado. “I was.”
Grady hung his head. “Maybe I was a little.”
“It’s a good thing to be scared sometimes.” A message he wished he could send to the woman he’d rescued and who now looked up at him with big trusting eyes.
He touched the brim of his hat and reined around. Already others had the horses contained and were moving them back into the corral. He should have checked the enclosure better. His oversight had put people at risk.
Eddie’s wife raced down the hill, her skirts held in one hand. He’d seen she was in the family way, and hoped she wouldn’t fall.
As soon as she was close enough, she caught Grady and sank to the ground, cradling the boy in her lap. “Thank God you’re safe.” She glanced up at Brand. “I saw the whole thing. You saved Sybil’s life. You’re very brave.”
Brave! This woman was called Sybil. As if that could cancel out danger. It couldn’t.
Brand wanted to ride away, avoid all this fuss, but he was surrounded by people.
He felt Sybil’s gaze on him. Felt its warmth and watchfulness. He tried to avoid looking at her, knowing her blue eyes did something funny to his resolve. Made him weak and vulnerable.
“I don’t think you have met Brand.” Eddie pulled the woman close. “This is my wife, Linette, and my son, Grady.” He turned to the other two ladies. “Mercy Newell.” The darker of the pair. “And Sybil Bannerman, our guests from England. Ladies, this is Brand, best bronc buster in these parts.”
“Pleased to meet you.” Brand touched the brim of his hat. His dusty clothes and hat had seen better days. Normally he didn’t care, but Miss Sybil was so neat and proper, he felt grubby.
“Mr. Brand, you are indeed a hero.”
Her gentle words drew his gaze and he smiled despite himself. “No hero, ma’am. Just in the right place at the right time and glad I could be.” He doffed his hat and edged away.
“Wait,” Linette called. “You must let me do something to show my gratitude. Please join us for supper.”
“Appreciate the offer, ma’am, but I got a dog back at my campsite and he’s waiting for me.” Dawg would be fine on his own, but Brand grasped at any excuse to avoid joining the others. Again, he vowed to ignore Miss Sybil. Again he failed to do so. He met her gaze. She flashed a bright smile that caused his heart to shift sideways, and almost made him lose his balance.
He touched the brim of his dusty hat again and turned his attention back to his job. The horses milled about, upset at their sudden escape and equally sudden corralling. The one he rode picked up the tension. “Enough for today,” he said to the men fixing the fence. “No point in trying to work with them when they are riled up like this.” He dismounted and turned his horse into another pen, away from the mustangs he hadn’t yet ridden.
Cal, the young cowboy who’d given Brand nothing but dark glances since he started work on the horses, looked him up and down. “Guess you think you’re pretty special, having rescued Miss Sybil.”
No mistaking the challenging tone in the other man’s voice. “Nothing special about doing what a man can do. I’m sure you would have done the same if you’d been on a horse at the time.”
“You got that right. And I could break these horses if the boss would give me a chance.”
“Yup. I figure you could, all right.” He had no mind to start a disagreement. “Maybe next time the boss will let ya. Seeing as I won’t be back here again.”
“Huh. Figures.” Cal stalked away.
Brand had no idea what bothered Cal and didn’t rightly care. He would be here long enough to do the job Eddie had hired him for, then be gone, never to see any of them again. It was how he must live his life.
At that knowledge, he turned and stared up the hill. Linette and Eddie, with Grady between them, entered the house, Mercy on their heels. But Sybil had paused halfway to the house and stared toward him. He couldn’t see her eyes at that distance, but nevertheless, felt the intensity of her look. Wondered at it. For a moment, he couldn’t tear himself away.
Then, with a great deal of effort, he pushed forward all the reasons he had to ignore her.
Dawg would be waiting for his supper. “I’ll be back in the morning to work on the rest of those mustangs,” he said to any of the nearby cowboys who cared to listen. He didn’t glance about to see if anyone acknowledged his words.
His gaze lingered two more seconds on the beauty up the hill. Then he jerked around and strode to the clearing he’d chosen as his home away from home. Not that he had any home to be away from. Hadn’t had one since his ma died six years ago. Even before that their homes had been temporary at best, as Ma tried to keep ahead of Pa and Cyrus, Brand’s older half brother.
Brand had asked her often why she’d married a man who robbed houses, banks and stagecoaches. She said he hadn’t done that until later, when things went wrong once too often.
“He said it didn’t make sense that the rich got richer and the poor got poorer no matter how hard a poor man worked,” his ma had said. “So he decided to even things out.”
Only the way Pa and Cyrus went about doing it put their faces on wanted posters as the Duggan gang. And in order to protect Brand from the shame and the danger, Ma took him and fled.
At the memory he pressed his palm to his chest—the same spot where Sybil’s head had rested—then jerked his hand to his side. He crossed to the fire pit he’d built out of river rock, and lit a fire. His memories flared along with the flames.
Brand had continued to run for the same reasons—to avoid the shame and the danger. He avoided friendships for the same reasons, plus more. One thing he’d learned well in his twenty-three years: associating with Brand Duggan put others at risk. Pa and Cyrus didn’t hesitate to threaten his friends in order to try and force Brand to cooperate with them. Besides, simply being associated with the Duggan name spelled ruin, and shunning by decent people.
He’d once allowed himself to grow fond of a young lady, but when he’d grown bold enough to tell her his last name she had reacted in anger and firmly informed him she’d have nothing to do with a man bearing such a stained name. She’d made sure he understood all the risks and shame she could face simply by being allied with him.
And she was right. Knowing him put her at risk from his family and at risk of censure from the community. People like Sybil, Eddie and the others at Eden Valley Ranch could live where they chose, in a big house, open and free, while he must always be on the lookout.
So Brand put down no roots, told no one his last name and didn’t get close to others. Not even beautiful women like Miss Sybil. Especially not a woman like her.
Dawg had trotted toward him as he reached the clearing. Brand bent and scrubbed his fingers through the dog’s silky fur now. This was all he could allow himself in the way of friendship.
He had no hope of a life full of peace and serenity. Nor did he intend to disturb Sybil’s sweet world.
It took a lot of kicking clumps of dirt and throwing wood on the fire for him to persuade himself he didn’t mind dealing with the truth of his life. Finally, he looked about, determined to find reasons to be grateful. Fall was in the air, filling it with deep-throated scents. Sure, it meant winter would soon be upon them, but he liked the color of the changing leaves, the cool night air and the migrating animals. He glanced up, hearing the honking of a V of geese overhead.
After a bit, his emotions back in order, Brand hunkered down beside the blazing fire, forced to sit a good distance away to avoid being scorched.
Dawg stretched out at his side.
For a time Brand stared into the flames.
“Dawg, you should have seen the commotion.” He didn’t know if he meant the runaway horses or the reaction to his rescue of Sybil.
“Miss Sybil just stood there as if frozen.” He’d seen her eyes. Expected the fear he saw. But there was something more—a watchfulness that surprised him. There was something intriguing about the golden miss.
He dug his fingers into Dawg’s fur. “Could be it’s because she’s such a fine looking woman that I can hardly keep my eyes off her.” But his gut said it was more than that. Something that made him consider turning his back on the facts of his life and living recklessly free for a few days, just so he could enjoy spending time with her.
He reminded his gut that to do so would put her in danger. Association with a Duggan—even one not involved in the unsavory exploits of the gang—would sully her name.
Trouble with his gut was it never listened to reason.
* * *
How mortifying to be pressed so intimately close to a complete stranger. A big, strong, deep-voiced stranger. Sybil had struggled with trying to decide if she should swoon or fight, when in truth she didn’t care to do either. What she’d been tempted to do was so strange, so foreign, she wondered if she’d momentarily taken leave of her senses. She wanted to look into his face and memorize every detail.
Surely her reactions were confused because of the thudding stampede of horses she felt certain would run over her.
She and Mercy had joined the cowboys crowded against the heavy rail fence cheering for the man riding the wild horse. She hadn’t felt like cheering. Instead, she’d shuddered as the animal bucked and twisted and snorted in an attempt to dislodge the man on his back. How did he stay glued to the saddle? And didn’t all that jolting hurt every bone in his body? Here was a man who thrived on danger. Yet, as she watched him clinging to the back of the wild horse, something tickled her insides. Excitement? Fear? Admiration? She couldn’t find words to describe it. And she fancied herself a writer!
The horse had stopped bucking and stood quivering as the big man brushed his hand along its neck and murmured words she couldn’t hear, but that stirred her deep inside.
Then a crack as loud as a gunshot had jolted through the air.
A dozen horses had crowded against a split gate. It swayed and then crashed to the ground. The sound of hoofbeats thundered. Frightened horses squealed. The animals were a blur of wild eyes and flying manes.
Sybil had taken a step back, her mouth dry. The noise boomed inside her chest. Dust clogged her nostrils. Uncertain which way to flee, she’d frozen in fear at the melee.
And then she’d been swept off her feet. Rescued from the screaming horses.
No wonder her heart thudded as if she’d run a mile, and she couldn’t look away from his face.
But she could not avoid the truth about how unusual her reaction had been, nor could she face the others until she had herself under control. As soon as she reached the big ranch house she excused herself to go to the room down the hall from the kitchen.
Life in the West was certainly different from the one she’d known back in England.
At the thought of where she’d come from, her tension returned. She sat on the edge of her bed and pressed cool fingers to her hot cheeks. Of course she was upset. Her fear had immobilized her. She would have been trampled to death if the bronc buster hadn’t swept her off her feet and pressed her to his chest.
A very broad, comforting chest.
Sybil, stop it. It doesn’t matter if the chest was broad or fat or sweaty or...
But it wasn’t. He smelled of leather and horses and wild grass. A very pleasing blend of aromas.
That doesn’t matter. He means nothing to you and will mean nothing to you. Besides, didn’t Eddie say the man would stay only long enough to break some horses? And hadn’t Eddie further said the man gave no last name?
Quite the sort of fellow any woman would do well to avoid.
Not that Sybil Bannerman had any intention of doing otherwise. In her twenty years, she’d had her fill of people being snatched from her life or simply leaving of their own will, breaking off pieces of her heart in the process.
She bent over her knees as painful memories assailed her.
At only twelve years of age, Suzette, her dearest friend in the whole world, had drowned, leaving Sybil, also twelve at the time, lost, afraid and missing a very large portion of her heart.
She’d recovered enough at age sixteen to give her heart to Colin, the preacher’s son. They’d spent hours talking of their hopes and plans, and dreaming of a future together. She’d finally found a soul mate to replace Suzette. She had opened her heart to Colin, expecting his attention to grow into a formal courtship. She even dreamed of the frothy white dress she’d wear at their wedding, and considered where they might live. For the first time since Suzette’s death she’d felt whole and eager to share her thoughts and dreams.
No one had warned her it was temporary. Colin had never hinted that he’d changed his mind about how he felt about her, but a year after they met he left without a word of explanation. He never wrote or made any effort to keep in touch.
Another slice of her heart was cut off.
Losing her parents to fever a year and a half ago, within a few weeks of each other, had been the final blow.
From now on, she vowed, she would guard her heart, though she had very little of it left.
She sat up. Why was she having this argument with herself? It wasn’t as if being rescued by Brand meant anything. As he said, he was simply in the right place at the right time. It made sense that she would feel some type of bond with a man who saved her life. But that’s all it was.
Intending to calm herself, she pulled a notebook to her lap, just as Mercy rapped on the door and entered, without waiting for an invitation to do so.
Mercy nodded at the journal. “I’m guessing you’re writing all about that handsome cowboy.”
Her friends knew she made short notes about each day in her diary. They would never believe she wrote for publication. She’d never told them. Most people she knew didn’t think a young woman should have her name mentioned in such a public way.
She didn’t mind that as much as knowing most people didn’t think a young woman would have anything of value or interest to say. That had been the comment of the only editor she’d been brave enough to speak to, a couple years back.
But surely Mercy would understand. She didn’t share the same sense of outrage at women doing different things.
Sybil retrieved papers she’d secreted away earlier. “I’m writing a story.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Do you remember reading that article written by Ellis West? You know. The one that described the ship’s captain from our journey here.”
Mercy laughed. “He really made us see the pompous man.”
“I’m Ellis West.”
Mercy snorted. “Ellis West is a man.”
“No. It’s a pseudonym I use.”
Her friend’s eyes widened, then narrowed. “Are you sure?”
Sybil laughed. “Of course I’m sure. Why do you find it so hard to accept?” Was she wrong in thinking Mercy would understand?
“You?” Mercy shook her head. “It just seems so out of character.”
“Look at this if you don’t believe me.” She held out her notes for an article about the life of a cowboy.
Mercy read them through. “You wrote this?”
Sybil sighed. “What does it take to convince you? Remember Mrs. Page on the boat? She’s secretary to the editor of a newspaper back East. She saw me writing and asked about it. I showed her what I’d written about the captain. She asked if I had more. I gave her four stories I’d composed, mostly for the fun of it.” Though even after the rude rejection by the one editor Sybil had seen, the desire to write just wouldn’t leave her. “She took them immediately to the editor, who offered to publish them. I gave him half a dozen stories before I left the ship.” They’d been published and she’d sent several more describing the West and the inhabitants of the territory. She expected they might have already appeared in the Toronto paper. The newspapers didn’t reach Edendale for several weeks after they appeared back East.
Mercy hugged her. “How exciting.”
“The editor has asked me to find a bigger-than-life cowboy and write his story.” He’d offered a nice sum of money for such an article.
An idea flared through her head. She’d had recent experience with a bigger-than-life cowboy, a hero, as she’d said. “Brand—best bronc breaker in the country—fits the bill to perfection.”
Mercy bounced up and down on the bed. “He’s exactly what you need. I say write his story.”
“But how am I to get the details of his life?” Sure, Sybil could ask others what they knew. Certainly make her own observations. But the best source was the man himself.
Her skin burned. Her lungs refused to do their job. There was no way she could ever approach this man and ask personal questions. There was something about him that threatened the locks on her heart.
You’re being silly. He is just a man. Observe. Ask questions. That’s all you need to do. He doesn’t have to know that you’re writing something about him. Besides, she’d learned people were more honest, their answers more raw, if they weren’t aware they were being interviewed. And who would suspect a woman of interviewing them for a story, anyway?
She could not let this opportunity pass. Or let her natural reticence—or as Mercy insisted, her fear—get in the way of this story.
“All you have to do is ask him questions. You’re very good at that. People seem to trust you.” Mercy flung herself back on Sybil’s bed. “With good reason. You are a good person.”
“It’s very kind of you to say so.” Sybil listened distractedly as her friend chattered on about whom she’d seen and talked to, and how she meant to pursue certain activities, until Sybil caught the words, “learn to trick ride.”
She spun around to confront her. “Tell me I didn’t hear you say you mean to learn to trick ride.”
“Okay. You didn’t hear me say that.” Mercy grinned.
“Good. Honestly, sometimes you scare me with your rash words and even rasher actions.”
Mercy regarded her with a teasing grin. “No more than you worry me with your careful way of living. Sybil, my friend, if you’re not cautious you’ll end up living a barren life, when there is so much to know and enjoy out here.” She waved her arms in a wide circle as if encompassing the world.
“I’d sooner be safe.” Sybil hoped Mercy would never learn that barrenness felt better than having your heart shredded. Besides, she experienced lots of adventures through the stories others told her. All without the risk to herself.
Mercy laughed. “And I’d sooner have fun.” She draped an arm about Sybil’s shoulders and rested her forehead against hers. “We are an odd pair and yet you are my best friend.”
“What about Jayne?” Jayne Gardiner Collins had been good friends with her and Mercy for several years...since they’d met at a tea party given by a dowager of London society. Despite their differences in nature, they got along well, and the three of them had crossed the ocean and traveled across most of Canada together. Sybil had allowed herself these friendships, knowing from the start they wouldn’t last forever. The three of them would go their separate ways. Some to marriage. Likely they would lose touch. Truth was, Sybil simply kept most of her heart safely protected from the pain she knew she’d experience by allowing any friendship to grow.
“Pshaw.” Mercy waved her hand dismissively. “She’s no longer any fun. She’s only interested in Seth. Honestly, I get tired of ‘Seth said this, Seth did that, Seth likes such and such.’”
Sybil giggled. “They’re in love. What do you expect?”
Mercy laughed, too. “I’m never going to let her forget she had to shoot him to catch him.”
“It was an accident,” Sybil protested.
They fell back against the bed, laughing at the memory. “I tried to warn the pair of you that no good would come of shooting a gun.”
“And she proved you wrong.”
“I guess she did.”
“Goes to show you should live a little dangerously once in a while. It’s worth the risks.”
Mercy left a few minutes later.
Sybil stared at the wall. Could she write Brand’s story? Yes, of course she could. The bigger question was could she do it without endangering the carefully constructed walls about her already damaged heart? The man held inherent risks for her, as she’d already discovered by her reaction to being rescued by him.
Oh, stop fretting about that. You were frightened. Snatched into the arms of a tall, dark stranger. It was an unusual experience. Of course you had an unusual reaction.
She made up her mind. She’d write the story, keeping her eyes wide-open to both her initial, surprising response and her prior knowledge that he didn’t mean to stay. Eddie said the man never did. He was a born wanderer. Forewarned was forearmed. This time, unlike her unfortunate experience with Colin, she knew what to expect.
She pulled out pen and paper and wrote a letter to the publisher.
I have exactly the man for the assignment you’ve offered. He is a bronc rider, a quiet loner, a strong and mysterious man. Certainly bigger than life in a world that is full of strong, bold men.
She would find ways to get information about him without letting her silly reaction to being rescued cloud her good sense.
