The rest of the trip went smoothly. Dent remained silent and somber, occasionally cursing when his horse stumbled over the rough sod or cracked, dry earth. They stopped to eat and sleep that night, but they ate only hardtack and canned meat.
By the time they reached Carter Springs, it was late in the day. Colt jumped off his horse in front of the jailhouse and pulled Dent’s Appaloosa up to the hitching rail. He called out to Pope, “Les!”
Sheriff Les Pope stepped out onto the narrow boardwalk, fingering his suspenders as he glanced from Colt to Dent. “You ain’t looking too good,” he said to the young man as he stepped down and circled the exhausted horse.
“This ain’t gonna set well,” grumbled Dent, as he tried to wrench free of the saddle horn. “The boys’ll be around to nail both of you.”
Colt cut the ropes around Dent’s wrists with his knife. He shrugged. “I think those cowards you call friends will think twice before coming to your aid. The word is out that you assault women and old men.”
“Old men? That Old Pod has lived past his time,” Dent snapped. “He wouldn’t be a loss to nobody.”
Colt pulled Dent off his horse, letting him land in the dirt near his feet.
Dent cried out. “Dammit, my leg!”
Les wrangled him up to his feet and Colt, with his gun now drawn, followed the pair into the jailhouse.
A small crowd was gathering outside the door, eager to see what would happen next.
Les turned briefly. “This ain’t a show,” he said. “So you can put the word out that anybody thinks this son-of-a-bitch is worth the effort to try and wrestle free will have to face me—and Colt here. He’s been deputized, and acts with my authority.”
Not waiting for a response from the crowd, Les pushed Dent forward, while Colt turned and walked in backward, his gun now on the throng outside the door. A strange foreboding had taken hold of him, and he suddenly wondered if a few of Dent’s blunderbluss companions might just take it into their heads to rush the sheriff and his prisoner.
A gunshot confirmed Colt’s premonition.
Shrieking and running in all directions, the crowd dispersed, leaving two men huddled together behind a wagon on the far side of the street.
Colt slammed the door, yelling to Les. “Get him locked up!”
“Done!” returned Les, rushing forward to grab a shotgun from the rack on the far wall.
Two more shots were fired, one fracturing the window over Colt’s left shoulder. He cried out, cursing. “Dammit!” A piece of glass had grazed his cheek.
Les slunk closer. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” Colt snapped, even as he jumped to his feet and leaned forward to shove his pistol through the broken window. He fired at the crouching men then retreated. The cry that followed indicated his bullet had hit its target.
He rose up and emptied his pistol. There was no returned fire.
The silence continued, and finally, Les rose up to peer out the window. “You got one,” he said. “The other one must’ve high-tailed it.”
Colt relaxed and rose to his feet. “Better not get too curious yet,” he said, scanning the street. One man lay in the dirt near the wagon, not moving.
Les agreed. “But we better get you taken care of,” he said, pointing to Colt’s wound.
“It’s nothing.”
Just then a call from the street brought them back to the window. George Harmon and Horace Tucker, the blacksmith, held a bearded man between them. The man seemed dazed.
Tucker raised his hand, which held a sawed off shotgun, triumphantly. “Got him!”
Les pulled the door open and called out, “Nice job, fellows!”
Colt rushed across the empty street. Stepping up to the man held fast by the two townsmen, he snarled, “You just earned your ticket to jail.”
The grizzled young man, not much more than thirty years old, spat, deliberately sending a ribbon of brown spittle across the tip of Colt’s boot. Turning his clownish face on Colt, he smiled.
It was all Colt could do to keep from knocking him to the ground. Instead he grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and half-dragged him back to the jailhouse.
Harmon and Tucker followed, regaling Colt with the details of their capture.
“Poor Orman here thought he was gonna get clean away,” announced Tucker, “but I followed him—”
“We followed him,” interrupted Harmon.
“But I nailed him,” continued Tucker, “with the hammer I always got right here.” He patted his leather belt and the long-handled hammer hanging from a leather loop along the right side.
Les stepped up to Orman. “You just tied your wagon to Dent’s,” he said. He led him to the narrow cell across from Dent’s. “Our jail hasn’t been this busy since Lawrence Morrow and his gang of cattle rustlers was caught and hung—” he added with a smile. “They thought they were pretty wise, too.”
Dent wrapped his hands around the iron bars of his cell. “You fool,” he said, peering at Orman through the bars. “I’d-a thought you and Rance woulda had more sense. Wait ’til a better time.”
Orman shrugged. “You know Rance.”
Les shoved Orman into the cell before slamming the door shut. It clanged loudly. “You just make yourselves to home now. The judge comes around on Tuesday.”
“You can’t keep us locked up ’til then,” Orman whined.
“You fired on two lawmen in addition to threatening the whole damn town. You won’t be going anywhere anytime soon, so might as well settle in. And I’m not gonna listen to you fools all day and night, so shut your traps.” He turned to Colt. “If I was you, I’d get back to Becca. Things haven’t been too good out there since you left, and Naomi can’t get her to take any help at all.”
From his cell, Dent laughed. “That two-bit horse thief? She needs a good whooping—”
Colt spun around. “You say one more word about my wife, and we won’t be waiting for any circuit judge.”
Dent smiled, but said nothing more. Orman spat another long stream of brown spittle before leaning toward Dent’s cell. “She the one we seen down at the stream?”
“Shut up,” hushed Dent.
****
Rebecca plumped the pillows up around Shih-chai. “I’m going to fix up a bowl of mush,” she said. “You haven’t eaten enough to fatten a scarecrow.”
Shih-chai shook his head. “Shih-chai does not need food.”
Rebecca sat down next to the old Indian. She looped her fingers through the frayed tatting lining the edge of the cotton sheet stretched across his body. As she studied his worn face she pushed back her tears. What would she have done if he’d died? He’d become her family in the year she’d been in Arizona, as much or more than her sister.
Thinking of Naomi, Rebecca felt a surge of regret. She hadn’t spoken to her since the day she stomped out of the house. She knew it was up to her to apologize, but she didn’t want to. She didn’t want to admit she was angry. Angry about Colt Ryman and the absurdity of the events that had led her into this sham marriage.
What a fool she’d been!
Shih-chai suddenly reached for her. “You must not be afraid,” he said.
Shih-chai’s hand, weathered and callused, brought her back to the moment. “Afraid?” she whispered. She got up and brushed off her apron impatiently. “I’m not afraid—of anything.”
Shih-chai sighed. “You very much afraid,” he said. “Be happy.”
Rebecca shrugged. “I’m happy. Or, happy enough,” she added. “Life is what it is, Grandfather. I accept that.”
Shih-chai frowned. “Colt éí yá'át'ééh. A good man.”
She grimaced. “You believe that?”
“Yes.”
****
Colt reached the farmhouse just as the descending Arizona sun cast its rose glow across the arid landscape. He swung down and approached the house cautiously. It had been ten days since he’d left Rebecca and Shih-chai, and while he hoped she’d be pleased he’d captured D
ent, he wasn’t so sure. Rebecca was not a woman he understood—at least, not yet.
He tapped on the door, then opened it slowly. The dim interior was lit by the fire in the narrow stone fireplace on the opposite wall as well as by the oil lamp sitting on the table.
He pushed the door open wider and stepped inside.
Rebecca stood at the edge of the fireplace, the warm firelight dancing across her face like ribbons of glittering gold. She frowned. “Hello,” she said.
Colt hesitated. “Hello.” He took another step toward her. “We got him.”
She squinted as she noticed the cut on his face. “You’re hurt.”
“Not bad.”
She ignored him as she crossed the floor to where a squat pitcher and bowl sat on a small table. She picked up the cotton cloth folded there and dipped it into the bowl. “Sit down,” she said, returning with the wet cloth.
“How’s Shih-chai?”
She eyed him critically. “Alive. But not well.” She glanced over at the bed in the alcove.
Colt’s gaze followed hers and he saw that Shih-chai was asleep. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed, helped, but I—”
Rebecca ignored him. “Sit down,” she repeated.
Colt sighed, but moved to the chair nearest him and sat down. He kept his eyes on Rebecca, trying to decipher her strange, bitter mood and her cold, terse words. He raised his face so that she could doctor his wound, all the while, his eyes raking the beautiful contours of her face and neck and shoulders.
She was almost too lovely, he thought. But she was not going to give him a chance. That much was clear. Yet, if he’d hurt her, did that mean she might just care more than she realized?
The thought gave him hope.
If only he could say it out loud—the way he felt. If only he could reach out and draw her close—
“We got him,” he said once more.
She was dabbing at the blood and dirt that had dried on his face. The cut was superficial but long, stretching from the ridge of his cheek down to the line of his jaw. He winced, but said nothing; he didn’t want to give her any reason to think her ministrations were unwelcome.
She kept her eyes averted, and suddenly, her disregard for him triggered something deep inside. “Look at me,” he said, and he reached up and grabbed her by her wrist. “Dammit, look at me!”
She tried to pull away, but he held her fast.
“Why are you so damned set against me?” he hissed.
She pursed her lips. “You should have had a stitch or two,” she said. “It’s going to leave a scar.”
“I don’t care,” he snapped. He pulled her close. “I don’t care about my face. I’d have taken a bullet if that would have made a difference.”
“How would taking a bullet make a difference?”
“If taking a bullet could have kept Shih-chai safe, or you safe—” He hesitated. “I only wish I’d finished off Dent in the beginning. If I’d have done that—”
Rebecca turned her face away. “If you’d have done that, you’d be in jail, instead of Dent.”
“So?”
“So—that’s not what I would ever want,” she whispered.
“No?”
“No.”
****
Without waiting, Colt jumped to his feet and drew her into his arms. His breath came in deep, unrestrained sighs. He felt her trembling through the heavy fabric of his clothes.
She relaxed in his embrace, and his heart thumped wildly. Her body spoke what her lips could not. He lowered his face to hers and kissed her gently, the flesh of her lips warm and sweet and intoxicating.
“Don’t you know what you’ve done?” He whispered into the tendrils of hair that had fallen free of its ribbon. “You may not be a horse thief, Rebecca Williams Ryman, but you stole my heart the minute you entered my life. The moment I lifted you up onto Old Marse and brought you here.”
****
Tears filled Rebecca’s eyes as she struggled to maintain her composure. How had this man managed to step into her life and turn it upside down? Where was that tough determination she’d cultivated over the last year—that resolve that would protect her heart and mind from sorrow and pain—and love?
Her body, with a mind of its own, had already molded itself inside Colt’s overpowering embrace. “You’re the outlaw,” she whispered. “You rode in out of nowhere, roped me into a marriage I—I deplored—and—”
He chuckled. “Deplored?” he teased, his voice vibrating against the flesh of her neck. “Tell me how much you deplore me. Tell me how much you want me to leave and never return. I saw the valise you packed that first night. Do you think I would ever, could ever, let you escape?”
“You had no right to trap me into marriage,” she whispered into his shoulder.
He pulled back. “How else could I have caught you?” he said.
She shook her head. “I don’t know.”
“So be it,” he quipped, suddenly lifting her into his arms. “It’s settled. I am your husband. You are my bride—my wife. And there’s no turning back.”
Rebecca hesitated.
Colt grew serious. “You can trust me, Rebecca.”
Rebecca fought back her tears. “After Frank, I didn’t want to trust another man. I resigned myself to simply moving on. It was enough that I had Shih-chai and what was left of this place.” She took a slow deep breath. “And I thought, what if you rode out of my life as easily as you rode in? I didn’t want to take a chance, not even on you.”
Colt waited before responding. “And now?”
She blushed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “I think I’m ready to take a chance, Mr. Ryman. But only because it’s you.”
“Colt. My name is Colt.”
“Yes,” Rebecca returned, letting her fingers slide along the edge of the wound on his face. “Colt.” His name felt warm in places she’d never imagined until now, and she blushed again.
“That’s right,” Colt said. “Colt, husband, dear…I will answer to any of those—”
Rebecca laughed. “And what will you call me?”
“Hmm. Wife? Rebecca? Becca?” He hesitated. “No. I will call you My Love.”
Rebecca colored. Frank had never called her anything so sweet. She studied this man, her husband, her love. “Yes, dear.”
He kissed her then, gently, but she felt him grow hard with his need for her.
Instinctively, she found herself kissing him in return—willingly but shyly—
He pulled back and smiled. “I don’t think Shih-chai will mind if we borrow his tidy little nest out in the barn, do you, My Love?”
Rebecca giggled. “I don’t think Grandfather would mind at all.” And with that, she found his mouth, and kissed him without reservation.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR—GAIL L. JENNER
Gail L. Jenner is the wife of a fourth generation cattle rancher. They live on the original family homestead where history is part of everyday life. A former history and English teacher, Gail is the author of five regional nonfiction histories (published by Arcadia Publishing and Old American Publishing), and two novels, including the WILLA Award-winning novel, ACROSS THE SWEET GRASS HILLS. Gail and her husband have three married children and seven grandchildren. A gardener and cook, she enjoys cooking for ranch hands, family, and friends. In addition to all of this, she enjoys time on the ranch—working cows on horseback or working as her husband’s sidekick. In her spare time, she is a partner in Jenner Family Beef and works as a volunteer librarian, museum curator, and appears as a speaker at local and regional educational and writing workshops.
For more about Gail, visit: www.gailjenner.com
https://www.facebook.com/pages/Author-Gail-L-Jenner
http://gailjenner.blogspot.com
http://www.jennerfamilybeef.com/bios-the-jenner-cowgirls.html#gail
UNEXPECTED BLESSINGS
Sarah J. McNeal
A broken dream…a cancelled wedding…and an unexpected blessing.
&
nbsp; Chapter 1
When Harry entered the hotel kitchen, he saw the place was busy with two white-coated cooks and several servers running here and there with trays of food. The pleasant odors of roasted chicken, fresh baked bread, and cherry pie greeted him as he entered. He felt happy—until he saw Juliet’s face as she issued orders and tossed a large summer salad of greens, tomatoes, and other vegetables in a huge glass bowl. Red-rimmed eyes, a thin-lipped frown, and dark splotches beneath her eyes told him all was far from well.
She met his gaze from across the room. The pain in her expression made his gut ache, as if someone had punched him. He hurried to her and took her hand. “Juliet? Are you ill?”
She turned from his gaze. “No. I’m fine. Really.”
Unconvinced, Harry put his fingers beneath her chin and forced her to look at him. The golden flecks that usually shone behind her emerald eyes had faded. “Come with me, Juliet. We need to talk.”
“I can’t. Early supper diners have arrived. We’re swamped.”
“I don’t care. What’s between you and me is much more important than food.” He peered about the kitchen at all the white coats. “I’m sure your staff can handle things for a few minutes without you.”
A moment of hesitation, and then she clasped his hand and led him out of the kitchen and into the courtyard behind the hotel.
Once they sat on the memorial bench for her late grandfather, Benjamin Wilding, Juliet turned to Harry. She swallowed hard and her chin quivered, but after a deep breath, she spoke the dreaded words he never expected to hear. “I love you, Harry. I love you with all my heart, but I can’t marry you.”
Against the gathering pain in his chest he protested. “Juliet, honey, I don’t believe you mean that. I know you, and I know you love me. Please, Juliet. You don’t mean it.”
“Yes, Harry, I do mean it. It’s not that I don’t love you. God knows, I love you heart and soul. In fact, I can’t marry you because—you deserve better.”
Stunned, Harry leaned back. “Stop it, Juliet. This is crazy talk. Maybe you’re just scared. I promise you, I will be the very best husband I know how to be.” He clasped her arm. “If you love me, you’ll be at the church in your wedding gown on June twenty-first ready to say your ‘I do’s’.”
Lassoing a Bride Page 4