The Cattleman's Unsuitable Wife

by Pam Crooks

  It shouldn’t matter he’d likely not see Zurina again. He had no choice but to shift his attention to matters far more dire. He’d done all he could for her and Gabirel. Besides, she didn’t care whether he stayed or went. She’d made that as plain as the horn on his saddle.

  Knowing it, he shot the secretary a terse glance. “Send me the bill for Doc’s services.”

  Then, before she could agree, he left.

  Chapter Seven

  Two Days Later

  T rey had all but given up hope.

  He squatted along the banks of the Missouri River and splashed his face with cold water. The crispness of the sensation helped ease his fatigue, drained away the dust and grime from the trail, cooled his sun-beaten skin—but did little to salve his worry.

  They’d found no sign of Allethaire or the cowboys who had taken her. Not a single clue, though Trey and the posse had been relentless. Nothing to give them some direction, a hint of which piece of Montana they should target in their search.

  At least, he hoped Allethaire was still in Montana—and she was still alive.

  Regret settled over his shoulders like a heavy iron yoke. If he hadn’t argued with her yet again over leaving Montana, if he hadn’t wanted to end their engagement, if she hadn’t slipped away upset and wanting to return to her parents’ home in Minnesota, then she’d be safe now.

  She’d vanished into thin air, and that scared the hell out of him.

  He said that you would bargain for her.

  Zurina’s words replayed in Trey’s mind for the hundredth time, her recantation of the events leading up to Allethaire’s kidnapping.

  Trey would do everything he could to get her back. She had to know he would, but damned if he knew how when he had no idea where to go next. How could the kidnapper wrangle a deal when he kept himself hidden, like a snake under a rock?

  George Huys squatted along the bank next to Trey. As police chief for the Great Falls Police Department, he headed up the posse of men who’d banded together to hunt her down. There wasn’t a man Trey trusted more, and George’s two decades as a lawman proved him a formidable ally.

  He’d assigned his only two officers in the department to scour the city itself and to keep close watch on Allethaire’s hotel. But so far, not a word from either of them.

  Not a word from anyone.

  “There has to be a reason why they took her,” George said. “Something besides the obvious.”

  River water sluicing down his chin, Trey glanced over at him. “The obvious being money, you mean.” Grimly, he resettled his Stetson on his head and rose. “That’s a good reason right there.”

  The lawman rose, too, and brushed at the dust on his black suit sleeve, the garb he always wore while on duty. Nearby, three men, including Nubby, remained in their saddles, savoring a well-deserved smoke.

  “Ransom.” George shook his head in disgust. “It seems to be the fashionable thing for criminals these days.”

  Trey was inclined to agree. Now that his father was gone, the Wells Cattle Company was all his. Every dime. Which made him a rich man.

  For whatever reason, money or otherwise, the kidnapper was using Allethaire to get back at him. Maybe Paris, too, a wealthy man in his own right.

  Might be, too, the scheme was meant as a backlash to the hydro-electric plant. Someone who wanted to thwart its development and impede progress in this part of the country.

  Who was that someone? A couple of cowboys who ruthlessly took matters into their own hands? Or were they working for someone else? Someone Trey knew? Someone Paris or Allethaire knew?

  “She’s still out there,” George said, squinting into the horizon. “Somewhere close. The way I figure it, she’s no good to them dead. If it’s money they want, they’ll have to keep her alive to get it.”

  The harsh truth gave Trey a degree of comfort. Of hope.

  “You sure that Basque woman didn’t say anything else?” the police chief asked. “Give you some other clue we could go on?”

  Zurina. She’d been on Trey’s mind, too. Sometimes, he couldn’t shake the image of her. She’d just be there. In his thoughts. In his worries.

  That fever again, in his blood.

  Wasn’t right that he’d be thinking of her as much as he was. Could be that she was just so different from Allethaire. From other women he knew. Those black eyes of hers. Smooth olive skin. That fiery spirit and damnable pride.

  But she was vulnerable, too. Zurina and her father had been wronged, more than they deserved. They’d taken a big hit from losing their flock. Far as he knew, they were innocent of anything that could’ve provoked the attack.

  Maybe that’s why she was on his mind so much. He felt sorry for her, that’s all.

  Just sorry.

  “I told you everything she told me, George,” he said, squinting at the horizon, too. “It all happened pretty fast for her.”

  “Understandable.”

  They both knew Zurina was their only link to the cowboys. Injured as he’d been, Gabirel couldn’t offer much in the way of details. Trey kept hoping Zurina might recall something she’d forgotten, anything that could help in the search.

  His hope was persistent. Unshakable. An itch that had to be scratched—only by seeing her again. He’d have to take George and the posse with him and pay her a call. Ask her more questions.

  Except Trey had no idea where she lived, and how would he find out? How long would it take until he did?

  “Trey, look.”

  His musings vanished at the urgency in Nubby’s voice; his glance darted in the direction his friend indicated. At the small herd of cattle running over the distant range, toward tree-covered highlands.

  In split-second speed, realization hit Trey that for the past two days, the posse had been riding on Wells land.

  And these were Wells’s cattle.

  What the hell?

  Whoever herded them out here had no right to do so. Trey knew it for a fact—he was boss for his own outfit. And by the way the herd ran, the way the cowboys yelled—

  “Rustlers!” he shouted, spinning toward his mount and catapulting into the saddle.

  “Hee-yah! Hee-yah!” Nubby spurred his horse into a run and took off after them.

  Trey wasn’t far behind, and his mood turned foul in a hurry. Whoever got the damned fool idea to steal his cattle would soon wish they hadn’t, and wasn’t it just plain handy that he had the Great Falls police chief with him?

  But shortly into the pursuit, Trey could see the thieves had too much of an advantage. The cattle were too spread out to round up anytime soon.

  Cursing the air blue, surrounded by the thunder of the posse’s pounding hooves, Trey kept riding, closer to the hilly highlands. He’d pretty much lost hope of gathering his stock into a tidy herd, but by God, he intended to get a good look at the men responsible.

  Through the roiling dust, he kept his eye on one in particular. The leader, evidenced by the command in his yells, the terse way he kept waving his arm.

  Blond hair. Riding an Appaloosa. Levi’s and bandanna. Just like thousands of other cowboys.

  Nothing about him felt familiar.

  Suddenly the rustler’s horse veered into a sharp right turn and disappeared into the woodlands. His accomplice escaped with the herd to the left, into the thick-growing pines. In moments, the entire bunch was gone.

  Trey pulled on the reins to slow his mount. Fury sparked inside him, lighting a powder keg of frustration. Now he’d have to send Nubby back to the ranch, gather up the outfit and scour the hills to round the strays up again—while Trey continued searching for Allethaire.

  Damn it, Dad. I wish you were here to help me.

  It felt more surreal than ever knowing his father would never be able to. That he was forever gone, and Trey would never again lay eyes on his face, hear his deep laugh or his notorious string of hearty cussing when it was warranted. Or when it wasn’t. Trey hadn’t had a chance to tell him goodbye, or how much he loved h
im. They’d both been denied the luxury of making the most of the time they had left together.

  I need you.

  The loss tumbled through Trey in a sudden surge of tightly held grief. The burden of his responsibilities hung heavy on his shoulders, in his mind. These troubles he faced, the questions which demanded answers—finding Allethaire, his father’s killer, avenging Zurina for the loss of her sheep, and now, the gang who rustled his cattle—Trey wasn’t sure he could do it all.

  The fear, the frustration, rolled through him. He could likely fail, and what then?

  Why did you have to die? I need you, and it’s not fair.

  Sutton Wells possessed a strength and sense of righteousness that propelled him into the powerful man he was—before his life had been unfairly taken from him.

  He’d know what to do.

  He’d find answers—and a way to even the score.

  It’s not fair. Not fair, not fair.

  He’d expect Trey to do the same, in his place. The Wells Cattle Company and all the ideals his father once stood for, demanded it.

  The knowledge infused Trey with renewed resolve, helped push back the wave of sorrow and hold it in submission. He couldn’t allow himself to wallow in the anguish and unfairness of Sutton Wells’s death.

  The words to order Nubby back to the ranch hovered on his tongue.

  Movement in the trees kept them there.

  On either side of him, Nubby and George stiffened, telling Trey they’d seen the movement, too. All three of them reached for the revolvers strapped to their hips.

  Trey stared hard at the small figure headed right toward them—at a full run.

  “I’ll be damned,” George breathed.

  “He’s just a kid.” Nubby sounded stunned.

  Trey sheathed his weapon. Dismounted. He stepped around his chestnut sorrel and waited for the young boy to draw closer.

  “Might be a trap,” George warned under his breath.

  Trey didn’t see how a kid could much hurt them, but he braced himself for the unexpected. He figured the boy was barely ten, maybe older since he looked so small. Skinny and olive-skinned. As he ran closer, an oversize beret flopped on top of his shaggy-haired head.

  Trey squatted on his haunches to meet him. Out of breath, with a grin as amiable as could be, the boy halted in front of him.

  “Howdy,” Trey said, making sure he grinned back. Whatever the child’s purpose was in coming out of the highlands, Trey wanted him to know he had nothing to fear from any of them.

  The boy righted his beret and peered up at the mounted men staring down at him. Wide black eyes revealed his curiosity. He showed no apprehension from being the object of the posse’s sharp attention.

  “My name is Trey Wells,” Trey said and extended his hand for shaking. “What’s yours?”

  “Trey?” the boy repeated, his stare swinging back.

  “That’s right.”

  The youngster wore threadbare britches and a faded cotton shirt that had seen cleaner days. Only a few buttons held the thing on his scrawny shoulders. Trey held little doubt the kid lived in the hills, and most folks who lived up there were sheepherders.

  Basque sheepherders.

  “What’s your name, son?” Trey asked again, firmer this time.

  The youngster glanced down at the hand Trey kept extended toward him, but instead of returning the gesture, he planted a small piece of folded paper in Trey’s palm.

  Trey glanced down at the paper, up at the boy, then down again at the paper.

  “This for me?” he asked in surprise.

  But even as he voiced the question, he read his name on the outside in crude, bold lettering.

  The youngster made some response in a language Trey didn’t recognize. He appeared as genial as ever, in no hurry to leave.

  So Trey unfolded the note and read its message:

  $5,000 or your woman dies.

  Wolf Creek. Dusk. Tomorrow.

  Allethaire was still alive. He thanked God for it, but his blood ran cold at the message’s sinister tone, and it was the two names at the bottom that had Trey staring the hardest.

  Mikolas Vasco and Woodrow Baldwin.

  “What’s it say, Trey?” George demanded.

  Troubled, Trey straightened and handed it to the lawman, who read the message, then handed it to Nubby. Who did the same and handed the paper back to Trey. Who read it all over again.

  “Any of these names familiar?” he demanded.

  “Woodrow Baldwin is.” George shook his head in disgust. “Has a small place down in Broadwater County. Runs a few cows, a few horses. Mostly rustled stock, from what I hear. Been charged with harassing sheepherders, too. That boy has been a burr under the saddle for the Broadwater sheriff for a while now.”

  “Sounds like he’s moved on to bigger things,” Trey said grimly.

  “He’s got to be stopped,” Nubby said with a rare vehemence that caught Trey’s attention.

  “That’s why we’re out here, Nub,” he said.

  “Reckon this Mikolas Vasco is any relation to Zurina?” Nubby asked. “Same last name.”

  “She had nothing to do with the kidnapping.” Instinct told Trey she hadn’t. She’d been too distraught during the telling of the story. Too worried.

  “You don’t know her.” The lawman spoke up. “She could be capable of most anything, and you wouldn’t know it.”

  “Call it a gut feeling, George. Zurina had nothing to do with this.”

  “Zurina?”

  Trey’s head swiveled to the young boy, whose black eyes had lit up.

  Trey squatted again. “Yes. Zurina. You know her?”

  “Zurina.” The boy grinned.

  Seemed the boy didn’t know English, but Zurina was one word he knew, and Trey had no intention of letting him go without wrangling a little help from him first.

  Reaching into his hip pocket, Trey withdrew a pair of shiny silver dollars. He held them in his palm, and the black eyes fastened over them. Like a winter-starved wolf over a bone.

  Trey had his attention all right. The nice thing about money? Everyone wanted some. Didn’t matter how old they were. Or how young.

  “Zurina.” Trey took one of the coins and lazily turned it this way and that, letting him get a good look at it.

  The kid nodded. Miraculously he turned and pointed toward the hills. “Zurina.”

  Relief poured through Trey from his victory. She lived up there, and the boy knew where. Trey dropped the coin into the grimy palm, and the boy’s grin widened. His fingers closed, fast as a bear trap.

  But Trey had one more coin left, and this time, the boy would have to work a little harder to earn it.

  “Zurina,” he said. “Take me to her.”

  The boy reached for the money, but swifter, Trey pulled his arm back.

  “Take me to her,” he said again and slowly, making sure the boy watched, he returned the coin to his pocket as an unspoken promise the money would wait until the job was done.

  He rose, tucking the ransom note into another pocket for safekeeping.

  The boy turned toward the highlands and began to walk, pausing once to glance over his shoulder, as if to make sure Trey followed.

  “I’m going with him, George.” Trey took the reins to his horse, but he didn’t mount up. “Nub, head on back to the ranch. You know what to do to get our stock back.”

  The cowboy frowned. “But—”

  “Go on. George, find a place where you can stay out of sight with the others. If you don’t see me before, we’ll meet up at Wolf Creek. Like the note said.”

  “You’re not paying the five grand, are you?” the police chief demanded.

  “Not one red cent, if I can help it,” Nubby said, again vehement.

  “If I can beat them at their own game, I won’t have to pay them a thing,” Trey said, grim.

  “I’m telling you, you can’t go up there alone,” George commanded. “No telling what those folks will do to you.”
<
br />   If Zurina’s people, led by her brother, banded together to bilk Trey out of thousands of dollars to ransom Allethaire, then Trey had no qualms.

  “They’ve got what I need, and I’ve got what they want,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

  Riding into the highlands with the posse in tow would scare the Basques, for sure. Better that they see the lawmen ride off. They wouldn’t know the posse’s intent to lie in wait. The ransom note gave Trey some time, enough to get Zurina to trust him. To do so, he had to let her know he meant her—and her people—no harm by entering her village alone.

  Hoping his logic was sound, he grasped the reins firmly in his hand and followed the young Basque boy higher into the hills.

  Chapter Eight

  “W here the hell is he going?” Woodrow muttered to himself.

  From his place deep amongst the pines, he watched them pass by. Why Trey was heading up the hill with that kid instead of riding away with the posse, Woodrow couldn’t fathom.

  But he didn’t like it.

  He strained to see the pair better through the latticework of needles and branches and pondered why the ransom note hadn’t fazed Trey. Why didn’t he act more worried about that whiny bitch he intended to marry?

  Trey should’ve been hightailing it back to his banker and withdrawing that pile of money from fat WCC accounts instead of moseying up the hill, like he didn’t have a care in the world.

  Woodrow couldn’t figure it, but he needed that money—and fast. He was going to hire a smooth-talking lawyer, and he was going to hire the best. One smart enough to knock Trey off his high horse and split that WCC empire into three equal parts.

  Woodrow wasn’t kin to having to take a smaller share than he’d first planned for, but with Mikolas added into the mix, it couldn’t be helped. Now that Sutton was dead, the flow of bribe money had come to a screeching halt, and Woodrow’s pockets were as dry as a tobacco box.

  He wasn’t proud he’d gotten so dependent on that bribe money, but he had. Sutton had paid top dollar to keep Woodrow out of his life and Trey’s.

  Up to now, Woodrow hadn’t minded much. He’d bought his own spread down south a spell and tried to make it as a cattleman, just like dear ol’ Sutton. But a few scrapes with the law had set Woodrow behind. Besides, why should he work hard when Trey had it so easy?