The Cattleman's Unsuitable Wife (Wells Cattle Company Book 1)

by Pam Crooks

  Wasn’t fair one man should have so much.

  Trey Wells would learn he had to share with his two brand-new brothers. He’d soon see that Woodrow’s rustling of the small herd of cattle was only the first step.

  Allethaire Gibson was the second.

  Thinking of her, a sudden urgency gripped him, and he mounted the Appaloosa, a gift he’d given to himself, compliments of the Wells Cattle Company. He was plumb out of patience with her sniveling and complaining, and he’d come close to backhanding her more times than he could count. But he’d always managed to restrain himself. It wouldn’t do to hand his illustrious brother damaged goods, would it?

  He’d left her behind under Mikolas’s guard. Woodrow trusted the man well enough, but he was just so damned sullen, Woodrow couldn’t figure what he was thinking most times.

  Woodrow didn’t like not knowing.

  He shot a cautious glance downward, into the valley, and recalled how the posse’s chase had been a call too close to repeat. He couldn’t see any sign of them, though. Again, the lawmen’s parting ways with Trey struck him as strange.

  “Hoo hoodoo hooo hoo.”

  Woodrow’s ears pricked at the sound. The call of an owl. Reggie had taught Woodrow all he knew about rustling stock, and he had a way with imitating birds, too. The great horned owl was his best.

  Owls didn’t call during the day, which meant this one signaled all was clear. Woodrow was only too glad to leave. He didn’t yet know what Trey Wells was capable of, how far he would go to get back the woman he planned to make his wife, or what he was doing up there in those damn hills.

  Whatever he intended, Woodrow had to be ready.

  Cautious, he slipped out of the woodlands, into the open range and rode hard back to his hideout.

  “What they do to you, Gabirel, we cannot stand for.” Benat Ibarran slammed the tabletop with his meaty fist, his fury fairly spewing from his ears, like steam from a teakettle’s spout. “The sheep are not like cockroaches, to be killed because Trey Wells does not want them on his land.”

  “If we do not stop the cattleman from destroying our flocks, we cannot live. We cannot survive.” Deunoro Ugarti, Zurina’s oldest cousin, fumed. “We will help you fight back, Gabirel.”

  She avoided looking at both men and filled her father’s glass with wine. In spite of all that had happened to the Vasco sheep, this talk of reprisal frightened her. How could the Basques retaliate against the cattleman when they were like little cubs against the mighty lion?

  She blamed her dour mood on the downward turn her life had taken, all because of the terrible violence they’d suffered at the hands of the masked cowboys.

  The reality of what they’d lost had set in hard. She would never get the house Papa promised her. It’d take years to build up the flocks again. Her life would be the same as it’s always been—poor and struggling and boring. She would forever live in this tiny village as a sheepherder’s daughter, without her mother to keep her company, without a husband to fill her nights, or children to fill her days….

  The future had never seemed so bleak.

  She blamed her mood on Trey Wells.

  She couldn’t shake him from her mind. He brewed in her a mass of confusion that twisted and snarled its way into every conviction she’d ever had about him.

  “I don’t believe Trey Wells is responsible for the killings, Uncle Benat,” she admitted. “Not like I did at first.”

  “What?” Barrel-chested and double-chinned, he swung his black eyes toward her, and his voice boomed with demand.

  Zurina reached across the table and refilled his glass, too. “He denies knowing of what happened.”

  She recalled how the grim set to Trey’s mouth and the troubled shadows in his features seemed to prove it. He’d been clearly stunned from the destruction he discovered on his range.

  If you’re saying I was responsible for what happened out here, you’re wrong.

  “Pah! Of course, he denies it.” Uncle Benat’s fleshy jowls quivered with outrage. “Is it not like a cattleman to lie and deceive whenever he can?”

  You’re wrong, you’re wrong, you’re wrong.

  Trey’s denial rippled through Zurina’s brain, like a river slapping against its banks.

  “His intended was kidnapped, Benat.” With his good arm, Papa reached for his wine. “I saw it for myself. How do you explain that?”

  Her uncle grunted and threw back a good-size swallow of his drink, as if he needed the time to think of a response.

  Zurina poured the last of the wine into Deunoro’s glass.

  “It is merely a ruse,” he said.

  “How so?” Papa asked.

  “He uses her and his men to cover the crime he commits, that is all.”

  Uncle Benat nodded and wiped his lips. “Clever, eh?”

  Zurina refrained from rolling her eyes and stepped away from the table. She discarded the empty bottle, then took a plate heaped with slices of sourdough bread with one hand, a bowl of sheep’s milk cheese with the other, and set both on the table.

  “You are wrong about him,” she said firmly, turning away to retrieve a new bottle of wine. “The accusations you make are ridiculous, even for a cattleman.”

  A moment of silence passed. She could feel three sets of dark-eyed stares on her back while she worked at tugging the cork free.

  “You defend him, yet it is his brand you see on the horses they ride,” Uncle Benat accused. “You tell us this yourself.”

  “Yes.”

  Zurina knew what she saw, but she didn’t understand it. There had to be a reason why the WCC cowboys acted the way they did, without Trey’s knowledge. A foolish risk, at best, and why would they bring such shame against him? The man who paid their wages?

  Unless they weren’t WCC cowboys at all.

  Her glance met her father’s, and she read the same questions, the same assumptions, in his gaze.

  Though his skin remained pale, his lids droopy, he appeared a little stronger today, finding the stamina to slip from his bed to sit at the table for Uncle Benat and Deunoro’s visit.

  She had Trey Wells to thank for it.

  Papa’s life.

  The care he received from Dr. Shehan, too.

  Trey wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to help Gabirel Vasco if he was behind the scheme to massacre the flock. But despite the help he’d given, there was nothing Trey could do to bring back the scores of sheep Papa had lost or to revive Zurina’s shattered dreams.

  No one could.

  Zurina knew Trey would be troubled about the identities of the men who had ridden WCC horses. And why. Of course, he would.

  Falling pensive, feeling hopeless again, she set the open wine bottle in the center of the table and left Uncle Benat and Deunoro to their bluster.

  She meandered over to the window, leaned a shoulder against the rough-hewn wall and peered through the dusty glass. Cabins as small and lackluster as her own dotted the hills. Basques who could no more afford a real house than she could. Friends and family who were destined to eke out a living under conditions rarely easy.

  She knew everyone who lived in those ramshackle structures. And they knew her. They’d grieved over her mother’s passing, expressed shock and dismay over Mikolas’s absence and had been horrified at the news about what happened to Papa.

  Those that raised sheep knew the massacre could’ve happened to their own flock, if fate had stepped in and deemed it so, and they’d been quick to show their worry, their concern, their compassion.

  She would’ve done the same, and everyone meant well. But Uncle Benat and Deunoro could no more avenge the flock than they could fly to the moon.

  They couldn’t because they were sheepherders, unaccustomed to fighting. Her people knew only peace, hard work and survival.

  Besides, who would they fight? Who were the masked cowboys? Where were they now?

  Zurina couldn’t consider Trey guilty of wrongdoing. Not anymore, and neither could her father.r />
  She must cast Trey from her mind. With Mama and Mikolas gone, she must put aside her silly dreams of a real house. She must forget about revenge and concentrate on taking care of Papa. Together, somehow, they would find a way to make a new life.

  Getting even with the masked cowboys would have to wait, but she would find a way, if it was the last thing she ever did.

  The avowal trailed at the sight of a young boy traipsing up the narrow road. Her distracted glance fastened over him, and she recognized him as Ander Ibarran, her seven-year-old godson. Uncle Benat’s youngest boy.

  But who was that with him?

  She stared harder. They drew closer. The man led a horse, a rich-coated chestnut, vaguely familiar. He wore his Stetson low over his forehead, shading his face, but that chiseled jawline, the broad build to his shoulders, the confident way he walked, almost a swagger—

  A startled squeak escaped her lips, and she pressed her fingers to her mouth in a belated attempt to hold her surprise in.

  It couldn’t be him.

  He couldn’t be here!

  Her glance flew over her shoulder to the table, but neither Papa nor her uncle and cousin paid her any mind. Their wine and conversation absorbed them, their foolish talk of fighting the powerful cattleman, of taking on a man like Trey Wells—

  And now he was here.

  Just outside.

  Getting closer with every pounding beat of her heart.

  She feared what would happen if they saw him and what damage their old rifles would do. They wouldn’t believe they’d be no match for him, that his power, his influence, would always outmatch theirs. Lowly sheepherders.

  She inched backward to the door and hoped they wouldn’t notice, then carefully pulled it open and slipped through to the outside. Latching the door again as quietly as she could, she pivoted, lifted her skirt and sprinted toward the man and boy coming up the dirt road.

  Oblivious to just who it was he had in tow, her godson heartily sang his favorite song, “Pintxo is our Dog.”

  “…It’s black and white, and it doesn’t bite—”

  “Ander!”

  Seeing her, both his stride and his song stopped. Zurina grabbed his hand and spoke in Euskara, the language of her people.

  “Shh, sweetheart,” she said, turning him. She would’ve felt guilty for hushing his boyish voice if she didn’t have a dire need to keep his father and the other relatives from hearing. “Come this way.”

  “What’s the matter, Zurina?” he asked.

  She stepped toward Trey and grasped his hand, too, a part of her being jolted by the contrast of the two she held—one childish, the other very much male.

  “Is there a problem?” Trey asked in his low voice.

  Strong fingers closed around hers, a pleasant sensation if she would’ve allowed herself to dwell on it.

  “There will be if anyone sees you,” she said in a firm whisper.

  She pulled them at a half-run toward a tangled thicket of cottonwoods growing not far off the road. No one would glimpse them here—at least not without trying hard to—and once safely ensconced in the shadows, she released both their hands and turned toward Trey.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  About what, she couldn’t imagine, but she hid her alarm. Did he intend to harass her now about how they’d moved onto his range from Sun River Valley? Or did this have something else to do with her sheep?

  Whatever his need for her, she sensed its seriousness. She could see it etched in the darkened planes of his face.

  Trey reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

  “Read this,” he said.

  She took the note and scanned the scrawled contents. Her apprehension burst into full-blown horror, and she forced herself to read the awful message again. Just to make sure she understood.

  She understood everything. Including her brother’s name at the bottom.

  It couldn’t be possible. Mikolas had nothing to do with Allethaire’s kidnapping. He would never do anything so cruel, not to her, to Zurina, or to their papa’s sheep the night Allethaire was kidnapped.

  But the ransom scheme—had he fallen so low with this—she read the name again and committed it to memory—this Woodrow Baldwin?

  Evidently so. She recognized her brother’s signature—he’d made that little curl at the end of the letter “M” for as long as she could remember.

  “Where did you get this?” she asked hoarsely.

  “From him.” Trey gestured to Ander, watching them with wide eyes. “He was their messenger.”

  “What?” Little Ander? An innocent little boy? “How could that be?”

  Trey’s mouth twisted. “I have no idea. I was hoping you’d help me find out. We had a hard time understanding each other.”

  Zurina clucked her tongue. She’d forgotten the differences in their languages. “Of course. Uncle Benat speaks little English in his home.”

  “Who?”

  “Ander’s father. Benat believes it’s important for his children to learn Euskara first. Then, when they are ready, they learn the English. I will do what I can to get the information we need from him.”

  Whatever part Mikolas played in the scheme, he had to be stopped. He was wrong in committing this crime, and so was Woodrow Baldwin.

  Her brother’s actions had to do with Sutton Wells and the terrible act he’d committed against their mother all those years ago. Zurina was all but sure of it. To Mikolas, everything was too fresh, too raw, as if their mother’s rape happened only yesterday.

  Clearly, he was striking back at Trey, with Woodrow Baldwin’s help.

  She knelt in front of Ander, took his slender hand and kissed his knuckles affectionately. She wanted him to know he’d done nothing wrong, but the information she needed was very, very important.

  Trey squatted next to her. “Start with asking him how he got the message. Who gave it to him?”

  Zurina smiled at the young boy. She switched to speaking Euskara.

  “Ander, sweetheart. We’re going to ask you some questions. It’s very important that you remember everything you can and tell me the truth. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.” His black eyes bounced between her and Trey in curiosity. He nodded his head vigorously. His beret slipped, and he righted it again.

  Zurina held the note in front of him. “Where did you get this?”

  “A man on a horse gave it to me.”

  “Hmm.” A broad answer, certainly. “Can you tell me what he looked like?”

  “He had yellow hair.” Ander’s hand lifted to his neck. “Long to here. And he rode an Appaloosa.”

  She repeated the information to Trey. He nodded.

  “I saw him. Have the boy tell his story from the beginning,” Trey said.

  At Zurina’s urging, Ander launched into his tale.

  “I was fishing in the stream behind our cabin, and the man with the yellow hair rode up to me. He was in a hurry and said there were some men in the valley. He said if I’d run real fast and gave Trey Wells his note, he’d give me these.” Ander dug in his pocket and withdrew two pennies. He grinned. “See?” He peeped at Trey beneath his dark lashes. “And he gave me this.” He added a silver dollar to the coins in his small palm. “I’m rich, Zurina!”

  “Hmm. It seems you are.”

  She wasn’t sure she approved of the bribery the two men used, but there was no help for it, she supposed. She relayed his explanation to Trey.

  “He has this coming, too.” Shifting, Trey fished in his hip pocket and added a second dollar to the pile Ander held. “I promised him the money if he’d take me to you. Let him know my thanks.”

  Zurina obeyed, and Ander beamed.

  “Is there anything else you can tell us, Ander?” she asked. “Something you might’ve forgotten? Think real hard.”

  He shook his head and the beret dipped again. “I didn’t forget anything.”
r />   Zurina fought disappointment. She hoped the man with the yellow hair, Woodrow Baldwin, would have mentioned Mikolas, where he was, and if he was safe. More important, if they were together, and where they both were hiding out.

  But of course, that would be too easy. And Woodrow was too smart, too ruthless, to be so careless.

  “Thank you, sweetheart.” She enveloped Ander in a quick hug and rose. “You’ve been a good boy. A very big help to everyone.”

  “I have?”

  “You have.”

  “Zurina? Know what?”

  “What?”

  Ander took her hand and pulled her back down to his level. Leaning close to her ear, he cupped his hand around his mouth.

  “I think he likes you.”

  “What?” Startled, she drew back. “Who?”

  Ander pulled her back again. “Trey Wells. He keeps looking at you. I think you should marry him.”

  “Ander Ibarran, that’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.” Flustered, she straightened again and thanked the saints Trey didn’t speak Euskara. “He’s already intended for another.”

  The boy’s expression turned intense, as if it suddenly became very important to coax her around to his way of thinking. “But he’s rich and would make a good husband for you.”

  “I don’t need a husband.” His observation nipped her pride. Did she appear so pathetic, so unwanted, to everyone in her family? Even the children? “Besides, he’s a cattleman. He would never marry me.”

  “But—”

  “Even if I wanted him to. Which I don’t,” she added quickly. Firmly. “Now go. Do you still have some fishing left to do?”

  He shrugged. “I guess.”

  “Then off with you.” She swatted him on the backside and sent him scurrying out of the thicket, his coins clutched tightly in his hand.

  “What secrets was he sharing with you?” Trey asked, eyeing her.

  “He’s merely worried about me, that’s all.” Zurina fastened her gaze on her godson, running up the road toward her cabin.

  “Because of Woodrow? Or Mikolas?”

  “Because of you.”

  It wasn’t entirely the truth, she knew, and she turned back toward Trey, who had risen, too. Within the shadowed thicket, he stood tall, unexpectedly close. Crowding her. Making her aware of him in ways she shouldn’t.