The Wrangler

by Jillian Hart

  "Let me do that." Dakota's silhouette, masculine and mighty, cast a shadow against the jeweled stars twinkling behind him in the black sky.

  "You?" Why wasn't she surprised? "You were shot six hours ago. What are you doing up?"

  "I didn't get shot in the foot, so I can stand." Western tough, he knelt beside her. He set his shirt and something else he carried on the ground—with his injury he probably couldn't put his shirt on by himself—and reached for the well's rope. "What are you doing outside alone this time of night?"

  "Isn't it obvious?" She gestured to the well in front of her. Her lurching heart hadn't settled down. It galloped like a runaway horse because of his nearness. "The real question is, what are you doing up? And how are you up? You lost a lot of blood."

  "I've lost more and lived to tell about it."

  "As an outlaw?" She gulped, watching as he drew the bucket up awkwardly, using his injured arm to hold the rope, his good one to draw up the bucket. He looked the part of an outlaw, even with a bandage white against the bronzed skin of his upper arm. There was something untamed about him, as if he were beyond the law, beyond what a civilized man should be.

  "As a soldier." He handed over the water bucket and tried to hide the beads of sweat rolling down his face from the effort.

  Stubborn man. An unexpected warmth flickered to life in her heart, like a flame newly lit. A slip of affection the like of which she'd never felt before.

  "You were in the army?" Her hand trembled from his nearness as she emptied the bucket into the pitcher. "The War Between the States?"

  He nodded. That was all. He offered no more information as he rocked back on his heels to sit in the soft grass beside her. She didn't know what to say. A soldier? He'd fought to hold their country together? And here she'd feared the worst about him, letting her imagination run wild because he looked as if he belonged on a wanted poster. How could she have been that wrong?

  "Would you like a drink?" She left a bit of water in the bucket for him.

  He shook his head. "I borrowed your whiskey. Found it on the floor beside the bed."

  "It's Pa's. Hard to believe he left it behind, but he did. You're welcome to it." Gambling and drink had been her father's weaknesses and his masters. She hoped Dakota wasn't a drinking man the way Pa had been. She let her gaze rove over his rock-hard shoulders and muscled bare chest. She couldn’t imagine Dakota Black being weak.

  "Thanks. It helps with the pain." He raked his good hand through his thick, dark hair. "This is an isolated piece of land."

  "It's prime ranching land."

  "But it's just you and those two kids sleeping in the tent." A tent he wasn't going to sleep in again, not after what happened to him eight years ago. The vestiges of the past, wisps of memory he'd tried to bury forever surged upward and he fought them down. "How are the three of you going to turn this into a ranch?"

  "You wait and see. Things will be different by this time next year. First off, we're building a house."

  "You can't be much more than what, twenty-one, twenty-two?"

  "I'm almost twenty."

  "Which means you're nineteen." He stayed away from young women as a rule. A cold sweat broke out over his bare flesh, and it wasn't from the bullet wound. She was way too young, and he shouldn't be alone with her.

  "I'm old enough to do what needs to be done. I've got plans. See that sod barn? I'll have a big new structure right there next to it, so the soddy can take the brunt of the north winter winds. You can see Fred and I have already started the corral. Imagine it finished with the horses grazing in it."

  "That's a lot of change in one year." He tried standing up, but his head was a little woozy. He had to go slow. "You'll need supplies. You'll have to hire help. That's costly."

  "And that's why I was gambling tonight." She tilted her head back to look up at him. The starlight found her, made her glow, emphasized her beauty.

  She was a beauty. His ribs constricted until he couldn’t breathe and he lurched forward. A little shaky, and his vision went black for a moment, but the dizziness passed after a few seconds. Then he'd be able to do the right thing. He'd vowed never to be alone with a young woman again. "Good luck. Thanks for patching me up."

  "You're leaving?" She dropped the bucket back in the well and secured the wooden lid. "Just like that?"

  Chapter Five

  "Yep, just like that." He might not feel up to walking back to the field where he'd stashed his bedroll, rucksack and rifle, but he had to do it. He was alone with her. Without his shirt on. He'd slept a stone's throw away from her and another young girl. With his past, he couldn’t risk it. He had no choice but to go. It was self preservation.

  "It's miles back to town. Not even you are that tough, Mr. Black. Look at your knees. They're wobbling."

  "They'll steady up soon enough." He tucked the whiskey bottle beneath his injured arm and tried to stab his good hand through the shirt sleeve. Missed.

  "I'm not sure if I should help you or let you keep trying. Maybe then you'll admit you need to stay here and rest." She swept toward him like the breeze, mild and sweet. Sparkled like the stars overhead, rare and captivating. "You're bleeding through your bandage. You've been moving around too much."

  "I'll live." The back of his neck tingled. At her nearness? Or because of something else?

  "Sure, you'll live until a bear scents that blood. Or how about a mountain lion? I saw tracks at the creek the other morning." She caught his shirt by the shoulder and held the sleeve for him. "This is the wild west. Emphasis on wild."

  "I'm not afraid of a predator or two. Wouldn't be my first brush with 'em, as you witnessed this morning." He tried again and his arm slid into the sleeve. Finally. His skin prickled from her nearness, and that was another problem right there.

  She waltzed around him in a white muslin nightshirt skimming the hidden curves of her feminine body and falling to her bare knees. Not that it was her knees he noticed. Her face was soft curves and flawless bone structure. Sculpted high cheekbones, a cute sloping nose, and lips shaped like a Cupid's bow. Her almond-shaped eyes shined with the light of a whole and caring heart.

  He wanted to believe in her innocence, in her goodness.

  That didn't mean he did. Or that he could stay.

  He winced when she wrestled the whiskey bottle away, because it disturbed his bullet wound. He gritted his teeth against the groan of pain when he slid his injured arm into the shirt sleeve she held. His vision went black for a second. His head spun. Found it hard to breathe.

  It passed.

  Except for the tingle at the back of his neck, the tingle that always served as a warning. That had kept him alive in a rough prison and during the part of his sentence spent as a front line soldier.

  As if she felt it too, she tensed. Her gaze followed his, searching through the dark meadow that stretched across the starlit rises and shadowed draws of the prairie. Miles of grass stirred beneath the breeze like a great, shimmering ocean. The owl had silenced, the coyotes had vanished. Not even a grasshopper made a sound, the sure sign of a predator on the plains. Maybe even the two-legged variety.

  "Get inside the tent." He'd sure like his Winchester about now, but his Colt would do. "No arguing, go."

  "But I'm a good shot." She set down the whiskey bottle. "Do you think it's a wolf or something?"

  "Wolves are shy. They won't come around humans unless they are rabid or starving something fierce." Best not to scare her more. She was young—hardly more than a girl, stranded out here on her own in a territory that was more lawless than lawful.

  Not your business, Black. He winced, wrestling with a decision. Well, maybe it wasn't really a decision. A man had to do the right thing, regardless of the consequences. Besides, it could be a wolf. Wouldn't hurt to go look.

  "You can't go out there like this," she said with concern. "You can barely stand up."

  "I'm standing fine." The Peacemaker felt right in his hand, protection against whatever was out there. "
Now go, so I know you're safe."

  He didn't wait for her answer. He strode into the night, heading for the darkest shadows along the creek. Whoever was out there wouldn't see him coming.

  * * *

  Inside the dark tent, Kit buttoned her trousers, dressing as fast and as quietly as she could. She froze when Fred rolled over in his sleep, but since he didn't waken, she grabbed a length of ribbon, tied her hair back in a ponytail and stuffed her Stetson on her head. Grabbing her Winchester on her way through the tent flap, she hustled across the moonlit yard.

  A whistle rent the stillness, a shrill, long call she knew instinctively came from Dakota. She followed the trail of the newly rising slice of moon, rustled through the knee-high grasses shining ghostly silver and spotted a man's silhouette on the rise ahead.

  She rested the Winchester's barrel against her shoulder, trying to calm the trickle of fear still left in her veins. Not that she was a coward, but the creepy grip of Tannen's hand on her ankle stuck with her. In town, when he'd jumped out of the shadows and grabbed her by the ankle, she'd been helpless to fight him. Not strong enough to stop him.

  Maybe following her plan wasn't going to be as easy as she'd first thought.

  "Didn't I tell you to stay in the tent?" A touch of humor, not annoyance, rang low.

  "Kit is in the tent," she quipped. "Howie thought to come out and see if you needed a man's help."

  "Funny." He hitched up the brim of his hat, studying the rolling prairie for any sign of trouble. "Found some fresh tracks. Careful to walk around them, that's right. Looks like two men came from the north, circled around to this spot and watched your camp. Both kneeled down, looks like they were here for a while. Likely have been here before."

  "Darn. I was sure wishing it might be another wild animal or something, but not this." Her knees knocked a little. "This means they've been watching us for awhile now."

  "I'll be able to tell you come daylight. I'll come back and study the tracks." He holstered his Peacemaker and braced his feet. The moonlight burnished the span of his shoulders, emphasized the strength in his arms. He could have been carved from granite, as grand as the distant mountains.

  "Does this mean you're staying?" she asked.

  "Until tomorrow." He rubbed the back of his neck, still studying the wide open prairie. A distant blur of movement grabbed his attention and he motioned toward it. Stayed silent as they both turned to squint at the eastern section of her property.

  "The mustangs," she breathed. Wonder filled her as it always did, driving out everything else—the worries, fears, suspicions—leaving only awe.

  A small band of the magnificent animals raced toward them across the platinum landscape, heads up, flying like the wind. They drew closer and the moonlight revealed glossy colors of black, white, red and bay, silver and spotted. Such beauty, such wildness. They took her breath away.

  "Look at them go." Dakota's tone rumbled low and reverent, as if he were moved, too.

  She couldn't answer, couldn’t find the words, as her dreams galloped closer. She could see their faces, now, eyes bright, nostrils flared and ears pricked. Manes rippled against sleek necks. Sweat gleamed on their smooth backs and flanks. Dainty hooves and legs churned.

  The stallion led the way, glorious in black, whinnying in alarm when he spotted the two humans on the rise. He swung away toward Tannen's land, leading his mares and foals from this new possible danger.

  Kit couldn’t draw air as the herd charged by, too captivated by the horses to breathe. Adorable little colts and new fillies struggled to keep at their mama's sides. The horses had been running for awhile, poor things.

  "Look at that straggler." Dakota gave a single nod at the horse trailing the herd, falling farther behind.

  "What's wrong?" Kit asked. The mare's sides were heaving, her gait much slower than the others. If she fell too far behind, she'd be alone, vulnerable to predators and men who might do her harm.

  "She's safe with her stallion. He'll protect her. If she falls behind, he'll likely come looking for her." The herd stampeded away, and the mare fell to a walk. Too winded to continue, she hung her head, drew in great gasps of air, watching them warily.

  He stepped forward anyway, hands out the way he'd done with Blue, and waited. When the palomino raised her head, her gaze latched onto Dakota's. For one brief second she hesitated, despite the fear rimming her eyes with white and prickling her coat. She turned tail and cantered off, following after her herd racing toward the stars.

  "What will become of her?" Kit hated how thin her voice sounded, how vulnerable. Survival of the fittest was a law of nature, and the weak always failed. She thought of her sister and brother and the man-made tracks, and wished she were stronger. Wished she'd been able to shoot the bear herself, stand up to Tannen in the saloon and fight him off in the street. But she was more like the mare than she wanted to admit, at a disadvantage, defenseless against those who were stronger.

  She couldn't fail. She had to see her plans through. She had to prevail.

  "Maybe she'll come back." Dakota's hand settled on her shoulder, big and blazing hot and tender.

  He had in him a capacity for tenderness, and that moved her heart in a whole new way. She'd never had anyone stand up for her the way he had or stand beside her with understanding in his eyes and a shared love of horses.

  She didn't trust men, but there was something about him, something good. Tonight, for this moment as he turned her toward camp and stayed with her step by step, she didn't feel alone.

  * * *

  In the pitch dark, Dakota stared up at the sod barn's thatch ceiling, the first roof he'd had over his head since winter. He missed the distant starlight wheeling across the sky; he could tell time by their positions. He had no notion what time it was, although he suspected that the twilight of pre-dawn was not far away.

  In the stall beside him, Blue whooshed out a breath in his sleep, his hooves slightly moving. Running in his dreams. The older horse in the front stall snored worse than most of the soldiers he'd served with. Still, it was nice to have company. He let his eyelids fall shut and hoped sleep would come, but the bullet wound in his upper arm throbbed hard enough to keep him from drifting off.

  It was gonna be hard to find work until his arm healed. Trying not to think what that would mean to him, he rolled onto his side, thought about the mustangs running free across Kit's property and the young woman's dreams.

  The human tracks troubled him. Kept him from drifting off, too.

  It wasn't long before bars of gray light eked around the wood doorframe. He threw off the blanket and before he could stand he heard footsteps padding outside. Quick and light. Kit's, he thought, recognizing her gait.

  The latch lifted and the leather hinges whispered as the door opened. She stood framed by the last stars in the night's dying sky, her calico skirts swirling around her slender ankles.

  "You're awake," she whispered, perhaps not wanting to disturb the sleeping horses. "I came to check on you. How are you feeling?"

  "Better." A lie, but he couldn't admit to the truth. He wished he felt free to leave, but those tracks bothered him. More than he cared to think about. He climbed to his feet, fighting the weakness from blood loss and his body's shock, but he felt sturdier this morning. Not the worst wound he'd ever suffered. "I sure hope you've got coffee."

  "It's boiling. Should be ready before long." She waltzed ahead of him in the dawn. "You look like you're wobbling again."

  "You'd be wrong."

  That made her laugh softly as she gestured for him to sit. She'd spread a blanket on the grass, and a little medicinal tin sat at the ready.

  "Stay in denial all you want," she said. "You're sitting down here and I'm cleaning that wound. If you're strong enough, you can stop me."

  Oh, he could stop her single-handedly, but he wasn't that kind of man. He slid down the barn wall, landed on the blanket and didn't say a word as she unbuttoned his shirt and peeled the fabric off his left should
er.

  She smelled of strawberries, ripe and sweet. Wisps of her unbound hair caught on his whiskered jaw as she bent close, and goose bumps broke out on his skin. Sharp desire charged through his bloodstream and he stared out at the shadowed field trying to master his physical reaction.

  "Oh, this looks better than I'd hoped." She tugged away the last of the bloody bandage and uncapped a small tin of alcohol. It stung as she washed his stitches, taking care not to snag them. "Dewayne did a fine job. He said he'd never stitched up a man before, but he did work on leather and it wasn't all that different."

  The woman could make him grin, he'd give her that. "You could have left me in the street. You should have. For that matter, you should have taken off when I had a gun on Tannen and escaped while you could."

  "Well, I've taken a liking to you. I'm not sure why." She carefully dabbed his wound with honey. "Maybe it's because you're the first man who ever bought me supper."

  Hard to miss the wry tone and quirky smile. She was teasing him.

  Fine, he could tease, too. "I can't remember the last time I beaued a woman who gambled, got me shot and wore a mustache."

  "I'm thinking of giving it a trim," she said. "It might be a little too long."

  "Looks fine to me."

  "Sure, but it was tickling my lip." Her fingertips brushed heat across his arm as she strapped a new strip of muslin into place, winding it gently. "I don't know a lot about men's facial hair. Maybe tickling is normal."

  "I can't believe we're having this conversation."

  "Neither can I."

  He gave a low bark of laughter, ignoring the wince of pain as she tied the bandage tight. No one had made him laugh this much in years. He'd almost forgotten what it felt like.

  "Here's some tea." She produced a steaming cup, hidden out of sight on the other side of the tin. "This might be a tad bitter, but I dumped honey into it hoping it would help."

  "I remember choking down some last night at Dewayne's." Before he'd passed out. He took the cup in his good hand, was thankful it had cooled some in the crisp morning air and drank it in two big swallows. Bitterness puckered his mouth and assaulted his taste buds. "Willow bark tea. You know your remedies."