by Jillian Hart
"You take care of yourself, and I'll keep an eye on you while you're here. You'll be safe."
"Thanks for the help." The rhythm of her alto was entirely enchanting, as soft as the breeze on a perfect summer dawn. "I'd be in big trouble if it wasn't for you intervening."
"It was the least I could do." He couldn't explain the struck by lightning feeling, so he took it as a good sign that his chest was doing strange things as a direct result from looking at her. He wisely took a step back. "Adios."
His boots carried him away. She was young, maybe too young, but he liked her. This was going to work out after all. He already felt protective of her, he already needed her. The image of her face stuck with him. Flawless skin, high, dainty cheekbones, adorable slope of a nose, eyes as big as a man's dreams.
And that mouth...he shook his head. Man, he was going to be in trouble!
Mine your business, Mosley. He had to be crazy getting the cart before the horse. He had no business being eager for winning the young, gorgeous woman's affection when she had trouble. Judson and his gunman were glaring daggers at her.
Brennan's hand brushed his holstered Colt .45, strapped to his thigh. One of two. He wasn't afraid to use either. Or both.
He kept walking despite the curious gazes staring up at him from men he didn't know.
He wrapped his fingers around the back of his chair and gave it a tug out before he sat in it.
He couldn't fight the feeling that Miss Skye was going to be more trouble than she looked like. He grinned to himself. Maybe it was because he liked to think good still existed in the world.
"Are you in, fella?" the dealer asked.
"Yep." He tossed a buck into the pot, settling back against the wooden rungs of the chair, his gaze lingering on the woman three tables away.
He had time to kill before he officially met Miss Weatherby. She'd showed up early. Well, he would watch over her, keep her safe enough.
And he wouldn't stop.
* * *
Skye let the bubbly beverage slide across her tongue. She swallowed, savoring the sweet flavor. The man who'd helped her had disappeared into the crowd and the smoky haze of the saloon, but his impression remained.
She set the cool bottle on the table in front of her, a bit incredulous.
That man had taken her breath away. She could still see the image of him looking like part cowboy and part outlaw-drifter with the lamplight behind him, worshipping his fine masculine physique.
His dark gaze had captivated her, maybe, just a bit attracted to the man.
That was enough of that, Skye, she thought with a toss of her head. She'd learned the hard way. Men were nothing but trouble.
Now, the only thing left of her encounter with him was the drink in front of her and his bootprints on the dusty floor near her feet.
Her shoulders sagged despite her best effort to keep them straight. So many eyes stared at her. Curious eyes. Harsh eyes. Some even were cold, as if to let her know this was one place she did not belong.
She took another swig of straight from the bottle and took a look around. She'd never been inside a saloon before. Her sister would faint at the notion, if she knew. Her cousin would be shocked beyond words.
Her brother would leave his business appointment in California, get on the next train and come chugging all the way across the country just to talk her out of this saloon. He'd warned her about establishments like this before.
And for good reason! Look at all the roughness! One fellow way over in the corner got accused of cheating and two fellows punched him. Blood went flying and she heard more than one vulgar word.
At least, she thought they were vulgar words. She would have to remember them and tell her sister.
Wasn't it good that she'd come? And it was an interesting place. For instance, look at the upright piano perched against the wall at the far end of the saloon. It was being played by a middle aged woman in a shockingly purple dress (which, once again, looked more like a corset and petticoats). She paused at the end of a song and began the haunting, familiar melody of Moonlight Sonata.
The other patrons of the establishment were more or less involved in their poker games or their pursuit of drinking to notice the rise and fall of the piano's notes.
In the darkest corner, one of the poker players launched out of his chair and raised his fist to another player.
Their conversation was drown out by the other noises surrounding them, but the same scrawny lout who'd frightened her and grabbed her popped up out of his chair to join the argument. He radiated cold, cruel anger.
She looked away. He made her stomach bunch up with fear. Whoever he was, she wanted to keep her distance from him. Forever.
She took another sip of her drink. The glass bottle was cool against her lips.
"Howdy, there." A strapping man about her age pulled out one of the neighboring chairs. He dropped into it. "I see you're new here."
"No, I've lived here in Dog Wood for years now. Whew, time travels by fast." Now what did she do? She eyed the newcomer. He was dressed neat and proper. "You own the men's tailor shop, don't you?"
"That is why we've never crossed paths. I'm always sewing in my work room and running my business."
"Except for now," she pointed out.
"Well, sure, a man needs a break and a beer, am I right? Other than that, I don't get out much. When I do, I come to enjoy the music."
"Anyone would." She didn't believe that for a moment, but she did pause to listen to the strains of the sonata's first movement continue on. "I love Beethoven."
"Who?" The tailor gave a good-natured shoulder shrug. He was medium height, a little too lean and very tidy looking. "I'm Roberto."
And definitely not the man she was looking for. "I'm Skye."
He took off his hat to reveal a head full of thick, black hair curls. "What are you doing on the poor side of town?"
"I'm here to meet a man," she admitted, then finally heard it. She blushed. "For a job. To hire him."
"Oh, well, I'm out of the running but lucky him to work for you, being a woman and all. Not that most self-respecting men in these parts would ever stoop that low, but you're awfully fine for a woman."
"Thank you, I think, and he refused to meet me anywhere else, and I couldn't argue. He was traveling and I couldn't send another telegram." Her voice had quivered.
She remembered that she was safe here, even if it was a little scary. When she looked up, the man who'd rescued her was in sight, his gaze dark and inscrutable through the smokey air.
She shivered, although she wasn't cold. She reached for her bottle as a fight broke out two tables over. A chair crashed to the floor with a furious clatter. The men who'd hopped to their feet strode around the table to meet, their angry voices drowning out the somber notes of the piano.
"I saw you cheat. I saw it!" A rather short, rotund cowboy's fury boomed like thunder.
Conversations in the establishment stilled to curiously watch.
"I didn't do nothing." The lout gave a smirk and balled up his fist. "I'm innocent. You're the bad card player, not me."
"You're a cheat!"
The piano fell silent, the last notes fading into the argument brewing.
Skye's stomach fisted up even more. She didn't like conflict. A tall man with rock-hard shoulders strode into sight, attracting her attention. It was her rescuer. Her heart gave a little pitter-pat, either of relief or fright, she wasn't sure which.
The man in black paced closer, silhouetted by the background of bright chandeliers and the sun's glare through the windows. What a fine figure he made, even if he was highly intimidating. The angle of his black hat was confident, the line of his shoulders dependable and the knell of his approaching step imposing.
Her heartbeat kicked up unsteadily at the sight of his handsome, rugged face.
She lifted her bottle in a half salute of thanks to him.
"Move along, tailor." His baritone rang deep and commanding. "Leave the bea
utiful lady be."
"You're new to town." The tailor bounded to his feet, recognizing a more powerful man. "What's your name, stranger?"
"Not your business." He waited while the smaller, more docile man left quickly.
Skye gulped. So, she was alone with him again.
He stepped into the brush of the lamplight, giving her a perfect view of his rugged, surprisingly handsome face. His square jaw was iron-set, his chiseled face as rugged and as hard to read as granite.
He was handsome in both the classical sense and in the way that his presence stole her breath. A trickle of what felt like fear but might have been awe fluttered in her chest.
"How's the sarsaparilla?" he asked. He both looked and sounded more than a little dangerous.
Except for the grin hooking up one corner of his carved-granite mouth. His dark eyes warmed with a hint of good humor.
"It's tasty. One of my favorite drinks."
"Mine, too, but don't let that get around or it'll be hard on my tough guy reputation."
"I doubt much could polish that up."
He laughed, deep and rich and warm, an unexpected sound. An unexpected quality man.
He surveyed the room with a cool, appraising scan before he set the unfolded yellow sheet of paper on the table in front of her.
It was the telegram she'd sent him agreeing to meet him at this exact time and place.
That grin hooking one corner of his chiseled mouth became wider. Brighter.
Why him? She had to wonder. Of all the men in Wyoming Territory who could walk into this saloon, why did it have to be this one?
"It is good to meet you, Brennan Mosley." She glanced up at him from beneath soft honey-blond bangs. She had flyaway tendrils curing down from her artful chignon. "Why didn't you introduce yourself earlier?"
"I got my reasons. Mostly I wanted to take a good look and see what I was getting myself into before I committed myself."
"You have commitment problems. Why, of course you do." Her soft hazel eyes, swirled with colors of gold, copper and green, twinkled. "I'm not surprised at all."
"Interesting." Brennan signaled the barkeep. "I'm paying my tab."
"I appreciate it, sir." The barkeep turned a little pale.
Too bad he likely figures I'm an outlaw, Brennan thought. There was nothing new or surprising about that. Happened all the time.
He arched a brow, studying the woman from beneath the brim of his hat. She took a final sip of her non-alcoholic drink and set the bottle on the table.
So, she owned property, did she? She was a horsewoman? She did not look the part.
He shook his head, pulled a silver dollar out of his trouser pocket and tossed it onto the table. What was the world coming to with such women in it?
She looked like a vision of sweetness and virtue, out of place in this rough and ready bar where most folks were just wasting time between jobs, or come in on a break from their work on nearby mills, mines and ranches. The building up of this area of the Wyoming plains and foothills took hard work and resulted in endless loneliness.
He knew how it was to live so alone, that even a full, smokey saloon felt like paradise. Conversations rose and fell, the sound of happiness like music to his ears, and it always eased the lonesome feelings. Just like the melody of the piano playing a little modern piece he didn't know.
He didn't keep up with popular music. Didn't frequent saloons all that much, but it was a pleasant song.
Most of the time, he preferred to be alone.
He nearly choked when a lawman, tin star glinting in the sunlight, strolled in. The men arguing near the door fell silent.
Huh. It didn't take very long for the law to show up. Maybe that spoke well for the town.
He'd been in places where law did not rule, where lawlessness was the norm. So maybe this town of Dog Wood would be an improvement for him. The real chance to settle into a small town way of life that he was looking for, maybe even dream of.
"Hey, Napoleon." The barkeep slapped a shot glass on the scarred, wooden bar and slid it in the sheriff's direction.
Brennan couldn't help listening in as he circled the table.
The sheriff sidled up to the bar. "Just here to keep the peace. At least no gunshots were fired. Yet."
"It's still early. It was Judson, hot-headed as usual." The barkeep gave a shrug as if he was used to it. "Want a refill?"
"No. Hey you, stranger." The lawman's eyes studied him and narrowed.
Brennan's heart missed a beat. He drew himself up straight and dared to meet the sheriff's gaze.
"I haven't seen you before." The lawman didn't blink. "You look like I would see on a wanted poster."
"No, I promise you I'm not, but I do get told that a lot." He fisted his hands. Nerves tensed him up.
He wished he could leave the past where it belonged. But, he knew, a man's past could found him. It was just a matter of good fortune or bad.
Well, he wanted this job to work out and that old pain to finally come to an end. It would feel good to leave the pain behind.
"It was good to meet you, Sheriff." He plopped his hat on his head, set his jaw and willed his heart to start beating again. "Come on, Miss Weatherby."
He wrapped his fingers around the top rung of the wooden chair she sat on and gave it a pull. "Let's get you out of here, gorgeous lady, before chaos ensues."
3
Brennan felt the lawman's gaze as he escorted Miss Weatherby through the crowded saloon.
"I have two dozen questions to ask you." The beautiful woman glanced at him over her slim shoulder as she wove around a table midway through the room. "Are you looking for long-term ranch work?"
"Not ranch work. I'm a wrangler. I'm not going to set fence posts for you and clear fields of trees for pastureland, am I?"
"I was hoping the man I hired would help me with those jobs. It's too much work for me. You might not be right for the job."
"I don't doubt it, but I'll interview you for it anyway."
"You interview me? But I'm the employer here."
"It's a two-way street, a lot of give and take, and I'm not taking orders from a lady, no matter how nice she is."
His gaze focused on her. Looked like she was not taking that information well.
He followed her around a table full of gambling men with a high stakes pot going. He could feel the tension in the air, breathe it in like the cigar smoke.
His hand drifted to the walnut handle of his Colt, just in case of trouble. How long would it take before Judson was back to go after the young woman again?
"Did I hear you correctly?" Skye drew his attention back to her. Her porcelain forehead had furrowed up with disapproval. "If you work for me, then I'm in charge, cowboy. I don't know about you, but this is not going to work out. Why don't we just agree on that right now?"
He opened his mouth to tell her that it was a bad idea, but a shout sailed over from the next table over.
"Hey, sweet little piece of calico." Judson stood up, poker cards in hand, ignoring the rumble of bets and comments from the players seated around him. "Are you doin' anything later? I'd be pleased and privileged to escort you home."
"Are you mocking me?" The woman's voice pitched up a little too high. "No. I'm sorry, but I have no need of that. Excuse me, I will be leaving now."
"She already has someone to chaperone her home." Brennan rocked back on his heels, watching Miss Weatherby.
She tugged her hat brim down to shield her eyes from the ruffian, squared her slender shoulders and spun away.
A little frightened, was she? Well, he didn't blame her.
Judson's Cheshire grin widened. "If you want a real man, you know where to find me."
"More like a phony." Brennan knew better than to answer, but the words popped out anyway, muttered, but enough that Judson heard. And others had.
There is no possible way this is going to go well. He took a step to catch the door for the lady. For good measure he kept his free hand on
his revolver strapped to his thigh.
He might need it.
"Thank you for standing up for me. Again. Now I owe you twice." She waltzed onto the wind-swept boardwalk.
"Twice?" He didn't know why he was getting involved. "Sounds to me like our interview is over."
"I should be thanking you for answering the advertisement and for being so prompt and courteous with your correspondence. Not many men would spring for the cost of a telegram every time."
"I'm not penniless and I'm not desperate. I was looking for the right situation. I still am."
"It seems like we agree on that."
That was settled, then. He couldn't explain his disappointment. Better safe than sorry, that was his motto. Even if, looking back, he might one day regret the decision.
But she made a protective and powerful instinct kick through him. Hard. And he couldn't even say why. Was it her gentle smile?
He watched her, as he planted boots on the boardwalk. She swished up to a gorgeous palomino stallion tethered to the hitching rail. Little plumes of dust kicked up as her fancy shoes padded through the dirt.
Anyone could see what a sweet soul she was. All he had to do was to take one look at that horse and know everything he needed to do about the kind of trouble the brother had told him about.
Brennan shook his head, not quite believing his own eyes. What he saw was a goofy, besotted, in-love-with-his-girl horse.
The big fellow was obviously well-loved in return.
And didn't that say everything he needed to know about Skye Weatherby?
"That's a real quality horse." He moseyed a bit closer, mesmerized by the golden stallion.
The majestic creature stood serenely, nibbling the lady's hat brim affectionately. The setting sun glinted on his golden coat, gleaming like the finest of silk, and the ever-present Wyoming breeze tousled both platinum tail and silken mane.
The entire world melted away, fading into the background, leaving the stallion in the center. What a fine stallion, and just like that, it was easy to fall in love with him at fight sight. Brennan noticed nothing but the horse and the steady beat of his own heart and the breadth of it.