by Jillian Hart
When the horse relaxed, Dakota wrapped his hand around a fallen rein. He stood on a ridge, looking down a goodly distance to the woman watching him from beneath the brim of her hat. She was a slip of a thing. From here, in those trousers and that loose muslin shirt, she could pass for a young man, eighteen or maybe nineteen. But when it came to her stance, the way she positioned her body, she was entirely female. That wouldn't be so easy for her to hide.
"C'mon, Blue. Your lady there is worried about you."
The stallion answered with a low-throated nicker. Dakota led him lightly by the bridle strap. They moved together side by side, in spirit.
"I can't believe he came to you." She met them in the field, surrounded by nodding daisies as sweet as she was. "No one has ever been able to do that but me."
"Told you. I have a way with horses." He presented her with the reins. His hand bumped hers and even through the thickness of the leather glove, he felt a lightning bolt jerk into him, traveling head to toe. Never had a reaction to a female like that before. A clear sign to move on. "Well, the bear's no longer a threat, your horse is safe, and I'll be on my way."
"Thank you." The cadence of her voice was entirely feminine, soft as the dandelion fluff floating on the gusting winds. "I'd be dead if it wasn't for you."
"Glad to help." His chest was doing strange things as a direct result of looking at her, so he rubbed the horse's nose instead. "You did a good job, boy. You be good for your lady, now."
"You figured it out?" She swallowed once, more of a gulp, really. Her slender shoulders sagged. "I was hoping the disguise would work."
"It did. You fooled me for a little while." He patted Blue one last time, before striding away. "You've got to keep your voice low, or it's a dead giveaway."
"I forgot myself after I spotted the bear."
"Anyone would."
"You didn't. You kept steady even when he was charging you. What if that last bullet hadn't killed him?"
"Then I'd be dead, I guess. But panicking never helps." Something he'd learned in the army. "The way you move and walk is another giveaway. But you can change that. The real problem is your throat. No man has a neck like yours."
He knelt over his pack, reached into a side pocket and pulled out a clean red bandanna. "Wear this above your collar like a cowboy. That should help. You're bleeding again."
"My temple?" Her fingers searched along her forehead.
"Here, sit back down for a minute."
With a sigh, she plopped down on the rock.
He traded the red bandana for the white handkerchief. Small trickles of blood dotted it. He eased up her hat brim, ignored the dizzying scent of strawberries and pressed the cloth against her hairline. "Don't move for a few minutes. Let it clot up and you'll be fine."
"Thanks for the help." She was young. No lines on her face, no crinkles around her eyes. Young and on her own, he guessed. Otherwise a husband or father, even a brother would be with her. These roads weren't safe for a woman alone.
She's not your business, Black. He had no business being around a young, innocent woman. He holstered his Winchester, strapped on his pack and bedroll and tucked his canteen into place.
"Good luck to you." He tipped his hat, heading on his way, unable to fight the feeling she was going to need more than luck. Something stuck in the pit of his stomach like a burr refusing to let go, and it haunted him with every step he took. He didn't know why he cared about her. Maybe because she'd been spunky enough to plan on punching an attacking bear. Maybe it was because of her horse, obviously loved and well-treated.
It was for the best that he kept going, keep putting one foot in front of the other and leave her behind. He didn't even know her name.
Chapter Two
"Kit!" Fred ran into sight, frantic blue eyes searching the road for her. "Oh, whew. You ain't dead."
"I'm fine. The bear isn't, though." The man—Dakota Black—had disappeared over a rise in the road, but his effect stayed with her. She tightened her grip on Blue's reins, still incredulous. That man.
"Good golly!" Fred skidded to a stop, winded. "You killed it. You got him three times, right? I heard the shots and I started running."
"I didn't do it. A—" What did she call him? Her gaze shot down the dusty road, where the only signs of the stranger were his boot prints. "I guess he was a drifter. He was walking along and pulled his gun when the bear charged me."
"He was walking? He didn't have a horse?"
"No. I guess not." Montana was a large and dangerous territory to be crossing on foot. He'd been carrying his few possessions on his back. She remembered how his shadowed eyes had been guarded, not used to letting anyone in. She swallowed hard, recalling how calm he'd been when the bear charged him. "He saved my life and he walked off."
"And left us a whole bear?"
"No idea what we're going to do with it." Her stomach clenched thinking of butchering the carcass. She was tough—but not tough enough to dissect an animal. "Maybe we can ask the Mason's for help. I know they are struggling to make ends meet, same as we are. Mr. Mason will know how to take care of this. And where's Mindy?"
"Uh, guess she's back at the camp. I thought you might be shot up by robbers or outlaws or Indians."
She didn't point out that the boy in his haste had no gun, unlike Dakota Black.
Why couldn’t she stop thinking about him? Likely because he'd made quite an impression.
"I'll ride over to the Mason's." Apparently plans were made to be changed. "You go back and stay with Mindy. It's not smart leaving her alone out here."
"Okay, I'll go protect her. Do you think there's another bear around?"
"Are you kidding? Around here there's always another bear." She rolled her eyes, tugged his hat brim and shared a grin with him. "Go on, run back home. I'll go fetch Mr. Mason."
"Don't get ate by another bear!" Fred clearly was amusing himself. "I coulda shot him. Three bullets. Bam, bam, bam."
And that's how the male brain worked, she thought with another eye roll, spotting her Winchester and retrieving it.
"I'm glad you're not like that," she told Blue, who stood with ears pricked and attentive, watching over Fred as the boy disappeared in the grasses. "You, my friend, are a true blue gentleman."
Blue nickered in agreement, so she mounted up, spun him in the opposite direction and sent him trotting. She couldn't help glancing over her shoulder to the rise of the meadow. She could still see the image of the drifter on the crest of the prairie, hands held out as he approached the stallion. The sun had haloed him, worshipping his fine male form. He'd held the horse spellbound as surely as if he'd used magic.
Maybe he'd held her a little spellbound, too.
That was enough of that, she thought with a toss of her head. Men were nothing but trouble.
As were bears, she decided hours later as she rode Blue into the chaos of the small western excuse for a settlement. Kindly old Mr. Mason had danced a highland jig when he'd spotted the animal beside the road. She'd left speedily, eager to be away from the actual butchering. Her stomach still felt a little queasy at the thought.
The settlement of Dusty Creek consisted of a main dusty street, eight blocks long. Awnings, covered with fine brown-red dust this time of year attempted to shade the few storefront windows advertising wares for sale or trade. Small signs swung overhead advertising the gunsmith or the leather shop. Few women roamed the street, it wasn't that kind of town, and the ones who did wore clothes that looked like undergarments made of black lace and red silk.
She nosed Blue up to the hitching post outside Left-Hand Louie's. Rumor had it Louie lost his hand in a fight with a U.S. Marshal and left the lawman in worse shape. His saloon was known for its poker playing activities. Kit dismounted and landed with a thump in the chalky dust. The heat of the sun blazed sweat across the back of her neck. Her heart galloped a tad too hard as she wound Blue's reins tightly around the weather-worn post.
"It'll be a piece of cake," she told
him in a whisper. "It'll be like when Pa and I always played at home."
Blue blinked his long black lashes in what she hoped was encouragement. She patted his nose, the good boy, and clomped up the stairs. A drunk tumbled out through the batwing doors, smelling of whiskey and...what was that odor? Skunk? Kit's eyes watered from the stink.
"It was the th-third bottle that got me," the drunk slurred to his friend who followed him out onto the boardwalk.
"It weren't yer fault, Baldy." His friend clapped him on the back. "That feller insulted ya. What else waz ya gonna do? Ya had ta punch 'im."
"Yer right, Skinny. I hadda do it." Baldy gave an emphatic nod. "C'mon. Let'ssss go next door."
"They got better whiskey anyway."
The pair lumbered off. Thank goodness as her lungs were bursting. She dared to draw in a small breath—still skunk tainted. Did she really want to go in? Did she really want to do this?
Suddenly she wasn't as sure about her plan. Well, she'd come this far. Just do it, Kit.
She tugged the bandana higher up her throat, pushed through the swinging doors and swept into the saloon where clouds of cigar smoke assaulted her and blotted out the dim light from the overhead lanterns. Conversation drifted her way.
"Next time throw him out before he gets like this." A one-handed man with a handlebar mustache hauled broken pieces of a chair off the floor. "As soon as Baldy finishes his second bottle, he's out the door. Got it?"
"It's a lot to remember, Louie." A skinny guy, more boy than man, gave a good-hearted shrug. "The table's busted all to hell. Ain't no way to fix it."
"Might as well pick up those pieces and toss 'em out back. Move those tables over to cover the gap. We'll add it to his bill."
"Got it." The young man leaped to comply as Kit moved further into the saloon.
Several men in various states of drunkenness were recovering from the fight. One fellow swiped blood off his forehead with his sleeve. Another searched the bloody cavity where a front tooth had been. Another straightened his clothes, rose to his feet and scratched his crotch. He glared at Kit, and she made a beeline for the bar.
Head down, she thought. Ignore the tickle from the hair above her lip.
"Who the hell are you, kid?" Left-Hand Louie had returned to the bar and glared at her with a cold black gaze.
Her heart skipped. She cleared her throat and lowered her voice. "Howie Chapman."
"Chapman, huh? Then you'd best be payin' your brother's tab."
"He owed you money?" Why wasn't she surprised?
"He owed everyone money." Louie produced a rather unclean dishcloth and began wiping the scarred bar. "Never saw anyone win so much so fast and spend it even faster."
"Yep, that was P—my brother." She corrected herself in time. Pa's ability to rack up debt was one of the biggest reasons they had always kept on the move.
But no longer. That's why she was here.
"What'll you have, Howie?" Louie's handlebar mustache bobbed when he spoke.
A whiskey? No, not a good idea as she'd never had it before. Tea? No, too ladylike. "Sarsaparilla?"
"That's what I'd expect from a city boy," the barman scoffed. "No self-respecting man in these parts would drink that."
Good to know for next time. Louie slapped a bottle on the bar with one hand, accepted payment and an extra payment toward Pa's account, and left her be. She took a swig of sarsaparilla straight from the bottle and surveyed her surroundings.
Up front, a woman in a shocking pink petticoat sat down in front of an upright piano, her ample cleavage spilling out of a laced-up black corset. There were maybe a dozen or more tables, all filled with games in progress.
In the far corner, men argued over a pot. One man stood up, shook his fist at another player across the table. His face glowed beet red. His familiar face. It was Tannen Sinclair, her neighbor.
It would be good to stay away from him if she could. Kit took another sip of her drink. Her fake mustache tickled.
"Howdy, there." A young man about her age plopped onto the neighboring stool. "I hear you're Hubert's brother."
"News travels fast." She eyed the newcomer. Medium height, lean, very tidy. His blue muslin shirt was perfectly pressed down to the creases in his sleeves. "I'm Howie."
"Dewayne." He took off his hat to reveal more curls. "Bet you came out to take care of the kids. Poor things, being left like that. And that fire—I hear they barely made it out of the house alive."
"It was tough for them," she choked out. That hellish night still haunted her dreams. They'd worked feverishly trying to get their things out of the house before the flames drove them out.
"It's good of you to come help. Were you and Hubert close?"
"Sometimes." Her voice quivered. She remembered to lower it. So far, her disguise was holding up. That was good, but she hadn't come here to chat.
"Nice meeting you." She hopped off her stool, bottle in hand as a fight broke out in the corner. A chair sailed over a table and crashed on the floor. Men surged to their feet, punches flew and blood spattered. A gunshot echoed and a bullet zinged into the ceiling.
"Next time I won't miss," Tannen growled, his Peacemaker smoking. "You slipped a queen of hearts out of your sleeve. I saw it."
"Hey, I'm innocent." The accused party, an unshaven cowboy in chaps and spurs, swiped blood from his nose. "It was a mistake."
"Check up his sleeves and see," Tannen demanded of his fellow players.
Best to avoid that table. Join it only as a last resort. Not all the poker games looked rough. Take the table of old men, for instance. Really old men, she noticed, once she took a careful look. Withered, wrinkled, jowls sagging. Talking slow and careful, whistling any S's through gaps of missing teeth.
"I'll raise you a penny," one old guy said with a wink.
Nope, those stakes were too low. Best to move onto the next table. She spied younger men seated at the next one over, maybe in their twenties. Now, that was more like it. Piles of coins glinted on the center of their table like a little mountain of silver...mostly nickels and dimes.
No, she shook her head, still too small. Well, that was disappointing. Her winnings there might help with the groceries for the week, but wouldn't fund the longer range portions of her grand plan.
There had to be a game in here that would work. She took another sip, resisted the urge to itch her scratching fake mustache and squared her shoulders. She eyed a table near the front window where middle-aged men played a friendly game and headed their way, using her best manly swagger.
The batwing doors chose that moment to swing open. A tall man with mile-wide shoulders and a masculine presence strode in, dark against the background of sky and setting sun. The tilt of his black Stetson was commanding, the strike of his boots ominous. The blood drained from her veins. She didn't need to see his face to recognize the man.
Dakota Black ambled into the dim lantern light, his iron-jaw set, his rugged face as hard as carved granite. A trickle of fear winged into her chest, fluttering behind her heart even though she knew he wasn't dangerous.
Well, not dangerous to her.
He surveyed the room with one long, cold scan, stopped when he spotted her. A trace of a grin hooked one corner of his chiseled mouth. He said nothing as he passed her by on his way to the bar.
Of all the men in the territory who could walk into this saloon, why did it have to be him?
* * *
Dakota couldn't believe his eyes. So that's what the gal was up to. She was a gambler? Or at least it looked like she was trying to be. He shook his head, bellied up to the end of the bar and tossed his hat on the stool beside him. He signaled the barkeep. "Whiskey."
"Comin' right up, Mister." The bartender swallowed, looking a little pale. Probably thought he was an outlaw.
He got that reaction a lot. It wasn't entirely untrue. He tossed a coin on the bar, watched it roll. It made bartenders less leery when he paid up front. A shot glass landed in front of him. He snatched it
up, turned on the stool and kept one eye on the little miss.
"Sorry, no room at our table." A middle-aged store clerk tossed his arm in front of the empty chair beside him. "This is a regular game between friends."
"In other words, you're not welcome." A jackass with salt and pepper hair combed sleekly off his forehead gave a smirk. "Try sitting with your own kind. Over there."
Dakota followed the gesture toward the loser game, where down and out cowpokes in thread-worn clothes and mended chaps gambled for pennies.
Might not be a bad idea for the gal to start off there in case she didn't know what she was doing. Thinking you were a good card player and actually being one were two different things. He took a swig of whiskey to wet his parched tongue and nearly choked when the sheriff strolled in.
Didn't take long for the law to show up. He'd been in town, what, less than three hours.
"Hey, Beauregard." The barkeep slapped a shot glass on the bar and slid it the lawman's way.
"Heard you had a problem in here. Shots fired. Could hear them all the way down the street." Sheriff Beauregard sidled up to the bar and tossed back his free drink.
"It was Tannen, hot-headed as usual." The barkeep rolled his eyes, as if this wasn't out of the ordinary. "He put a hole in the ceiling, but the cost to repair it has gone on his tab."
"All right, then. As long as there are no dead bodies." The sheriff's gaze traveled down the bar, landed on him and narrowed. He frowned. "I haven't seen you before. You look familiar, like you remind me of somebody."
"I get told that a lot." His guts tensed up. They always did whenever the past threatened to rise up and grab him. It was a matter of time, but the past always found a man. He set his jaw and willed his heart rate to calm down, his stomach to unclench. He shot off the stool and stood, looking the lawman in the eyes. "I'm in town looking for work."
"There isn't much hereabouts, sorry to say." Beauregard didn't look sorry.
"I'll be moving on if there isn't." Dakota met his gaze. There were a lot of things the lawman might not like about him. He'd run across it before more times than he bothered to count. Maybe it was the attitude, or two years of hard labor he'd done while in prison. "I don't intend to cause any trouble."