Wish Upon a Cowboy

by Maureen Child

  Jonas Mackenzie shifted in his saddle and glanced at the man beside him. Years of weather and hard work had drawn deep lines into the older man's face. Pale gray eyes narrowed into a familiar squint as he watched the goings-on. His battered hat covered a head that was mostly bald, but for a dusting of steel-gray hair. His hands were like old leather, stringy and brown, and just as strong.

  It was only in the last couple of years that Elias had begun to slow down a bit. At sixty-five, he'd more than earned the right, Jonas knew. But it was a hard thing to watch. It only reminded him that years were passing and that one day, when Elias was gone, Jonas would be alone.

  Irritated with that train of thought, he brushed it aside and said, "Maybe he likes to pick and choose his own females."

  "Hell, Mac," Elias countered, "he's too old to be roamin' the range now. If a young bull didn't kill him, the next winter would. 'sides, as mean as he is, he ought to be grateful we ain't shot him yet."

  Chuckling, Jonas yanked off his hat and wiped his forehead on the sleeve of his shirt. "He's sired too many good calves for me to shoot him and he knows it."

  Mean to the bone he might be, but that bull had helped build the beginnings of a hell of a herd. Jonas glanced around him briefly, letting his gaze take in the log structures they'd worked so hard to build. A bunkhouse, a barn, and two pole corrals, and off to one side, the smallest of the three buildings, the main house. Of course, a stranger might ask why the boss's place was the least impressive of the bunch. But Jonas figured that at this point, all he really needed was a roof to keep the rain and snow off. Later on, when the ranch was as big as his dreams—he figured another ten years or so—he'd build a fine house, with a wide porch and maybe some fancy scrollwork trim. And of an evening, he'd sit on that porch and stare out at the ranch he'd built from the ground up.

  If a part of him realized that he'd be alone in that fine house, he silenced it.

  He'd had his chance at a wife and family—and he'd lost it. After ten long years, the sting of that failure had become a dull ache that came alive only when an echo of the past rose up to taunt him. He'd buried Marie and their stillborn daughter in the cold, hard soil of Montana, then he'd tucked his heart into that dark hole with them.

  He inhaled sharply, reached up, and tugged his hat brim down low over his eyes. He'd build his ranch. Make his mark… but he'd do it alone.

  Nope. Family life wasn't for everybody and certainly not for him. Tilting his head back, Jonas studied the clear blue sky. Good weather lately, and after a hard winter, they'd earned it. Lazily, he shifted his gaze back to study the range.

  A handful of mounted men rode slowly through the milling cattle dotting the meadow that stretched out as far as he could see. Roundup didn't officially start for a few weeks yet, but he'd started his gather early, anxious to see how his herd had withstood the winter.

  By western standards, his herd was relatively small. Yet every year there were more calves born. A mixture of Hereford and longhorn, his cattle were hardy stock, and in a few years beeves would fill this meadow and beyond. Cattle he'd worked for, sweated over, and worried about. Cattle that would one day make him one of the biggest, wealthiest ranchers in Wyoming. As long as the roundup went well the weather held, and they were able to get the herd to the trains and a good price for them at railhead.

  Any rancher who said he wasn't a gambler was lying. Hell, life was a gamble. One throw of the dice could set you up like a king or take everything you ever worked for. Or loved. It all came down to luck, he figured. And his luck had generally been better than most.

  He sucked in a lungful of fresh mountain air and told himself his luck would hold. Everything would go as it should. Didn't everybody for miles around call him the luckiest son of a bitch in the territory?

  Mac had come a long way in the twenty-five years since he'd been left an orphan by a stray band of Indians. He had no real memories of the parents he'd lost on the trail west, just the occasional shadowy images that raced through his mind and were gone again.

  And that was just as well he reasoned. A man can't go forward if he's forever looking behind him. Besides, some memories were better left buried.

  "What's that?" Elias asked quietly. Mac blinked and turned his head to look at the older man. Elias was as close to a father as Mac had ever known. Hired by the Mackenzies to guide them west, he had buried them where they fell then taken on the responsibility of raising their boy. They'd been together ever since. Through good times… and bad. To Mac's mind, he'd done a good job of it, too. Everything he knew about anything, he'd learned from Elias Holt.

  "What are you talking about?" Mac asked, his gaze straying now.

  "That out there," he lifted one hand and pointed.

  "Old man," Mac said softly, squinting into the afternoon sun, "you've got eyes like a hawk."

  He snorted. "It ain't hard to see what don't belong."

  An instant later, Mac saw it too. "What in the hell?" He rubbed his eyes with his fingertips, then stared again, expecting the strange apparition to be gone. But it wasn't. "What's a woman doing out there?"

  Elias squinted. "Looks like she's dancin'."

  It did indeed, though why some strange woman would be dancing in the middle of a herd of cattle was beyond him.

  A yelp of surprise sounded out from close by. Mac swung his head around in time to see the longhorn bull charge the cowhand trying to rope it, then sidestep and take off at a dead run, its hooves tearing at the meadow grass. Other cattle moved aside as the ornery old beast thundered in the direction of the damn fool dancing woman.

  "Son of a bitch," Jonas muttered. So much for luck. He dug his heels into his horse's sides and the big black took off like a shot. The air rushed past him. All he heard was the startled lowing of the cattle around him and the thunder of his horse's hooves against the earth. Guiding the animal with his knees, Jonas reached for the rope coiled around his saddle horn and, loosening it, swung the wide loop high over his head.

  He didn't know who she was or what in the hell she was doing on his land, but he couldn't very well sit still and watch her get trampled into the meadow.

  The old bull was still charging, snorting and roaring like it was remembering years past when it had been the most powerful animal on the range.

  Jonas would only get one toss at it. Moving as fast as it was, the animal would be atop the woman before she even knew what hit her. She'd never outrun it, even if she tried. He glanced at her. She wasn't trying.

  Still hopping and skipping around, the stupid woman obviously didn't even realize what danger she was in. Absently, he noted long blond hair flying in the chill wind and a full red skirt swirling high above her knees.

  Then he focused on the bull and stopping the animal's wild flight. Snaking the loop out farther, he widened his swing, letting his instincts take over the familiar motions. The weight of the rope, the rocking of the horse, the high arc of his hand as he let the rope fly, sailing through the air toward a moving target. He watched, unsurprised as the heavy hemp circled the bull's back legs neatly.

  Instantly, the big animal dropped. Snorting and roaring its rage, the bull kicked at the loosely knotted rope, giving Mac just a few extra seconds. The big animal would be free in no time and mad as spit on a hot griddle, to boot. Hardly breaking stride, Mac's horse continued on past the fallen bull until its rider was within arm's reach of the woman, who had finally stopped dancing to look up in surprise.

  Mac had a brief moment to notice the deep green of her eyes before he leaned to one side, caught her with one arm, and swung her up onto the saddle in front of him. Small and light, she nonetheless landed with a jolt and a grunt, then curled her fingers into his shirtfront for balance.

  Expecting to hear tearful words of gratitude, Mac was unprepared when she shoved ineffectually at his chest and demanded. "Let me down!"

  Not even a thanks, he thought, more disgusted than ever.

  "There's a bull over there, just wanting to get anot
her chance at your hide," he muttered, keeping his arm tight around her waist as she squirmed against him.

  She threw her head back, tossing her hair out of her eyes. Mac stared into the deep forest-green depths and for one tantalizing moment felt something hard and tight clutch at his chest. Something he hadn't felt in years and didn't want to feel now. Then she shattered the spell by frowning up at him and ordering, "Put me down. I have to get Hepzibah."

  He sent a frantic look around the small clearing. Who the hell is Hepzibah? Another dancer? One unlucky enough to be knocked to the ground by the restive herd? He didn't see anything. Next Mac shot a glance over his shoulder at the bull already kicking free of his loop. The fact that he also saw two of his riders headed for the surly animal didn't give him much ease. One slash from those wicked horns could bring down a horse with no problem, and once the bull was afoot, he and this crazy woman would both be in big trouble.

  She went limp in his grasp and attempted to slide free.

  "Lady," he grumbled irritably, "don't push me."

  "I can't leave Hepzibah," she said, glaring up at him.

  If looks could kill, Mac figured he'd be about six feet under right now. He glared right back at her and absently noted the distant rumble of thunder. Perfect. Just what he needed right now. A storm coming.

  "Who the hell is Hepzibah?"

  "My cat," she snapped and pointed.

  He looked. Sure enough, a small white cat was mincing its way toward them, delicately lifting each tiny paw from the damp meadow grass as if afraid to get dirty.

  "Cats and crazy women," he muttered darkly and nudged his horse closer to the little animal. Swinging down from the saddle, he ordered, "Stay put, I'll get the damn thing."

  He figured he'd have to chase the cat, but once again, he was wrong. When he reached for it, the animal leaped at him, digging its claws into his shirt and scaling him like it would a handy tree. In seconds, he had a cat perched on his shoulder. Mac turned his head to stare at it and met the little beast eyeball to eyeball. It meowed once, then dug its talons into Mac's flesh as if digging a bed. Wincing slightly at the needle-sharp stings, Mac considered yanking it off and tossing it at its owner. Then he heard the muffled roar and snort of that blasted bull and remembered where he was.

  Shoving a steer out of his way, he stepped into the stirrup, climbed aboard his horse, wrapped his arm around the woman again, grabbed the reins in his free hand, and turned the black for safe ground.

  From the corner of his eyes, he watched the bull, free now, stand up and amble off in the opposite direction.

  Immediate danger past, he gave his attention to the woman on his lap. He looked down into the biggest, greenest eyes he'd ever seen and once again felt that odd constriction in his chest. He ignored it. Her hair fell across her shoulders in waves of a blond so rich it looked shot with gold. The top button of her simple white shirt was opened and her full red skirt was hiked up to the knees of shapely legs covered by pale white stockings. Even as he looked, though, she squirmed on his lap and tugged the hem of her skirt down.

  Just as well.

  Meeting her gaze again, he told himself that, pretty or not, she was clearly addle-brained or she wouldn't have been dancing in the middle of a herd of cattle.

  Blond eyebrows arched high on her forehead and her full lips curved into a delighted smile as she stared back at him. "You're the Mackenzie, aren't you? I can tell by the way Hepzibah has taken to you. She doesn't care for just anyone, you know."

  "Lucky me," he said tightly, with a quick glance at the cat, still sitting like a sentry atop his shoulder. Shifting his gaze back to the woman, he continued, "Yeah. I'm Jonas Mackenzie. What were you thinking, lady? You always go dancing in the middle of a herd?"

  "No," she admitted, giving a quick glance around her at the cattle wandering aimlessly across the grass. "But sometimes you just feel so good, you have to dance. No matter where you are. Don't you think?"

  "I don't dance." Stupid conversation.

  "That's a shame," she said and actually looked sorry for him.

  Scowling slightly, he ignored her sympathetic expression and asked, "Who are you, lady? And what are you doing on my land? Besides dancing, I mean."

  She gave him a smile so dazzling, his breath caught in his chest. An instant later, though, it left him in a rush as she said, "My name is Hannah Lowell. And I'm here to marry you."

  Chapter Two

  "I don't know who put you up to this, lady," he said, "but I can tell you I don't think it's funny."

  "It's not a joke," she told him, clearly surprised that he would think so.

  "Lady, I don't even know you."

  "In good time," she said and settled herself more comfortably in front of him.

  Everything inside him went cold and still. Jaw tight, he stared down into those eyes of hers and tried to guess what was behind all this. But there were no clues to be found in those deep green depths.

  Mac inhaled deeply, drawing the cool mountain air into his lungs, and told himself that if no one had sent her on a lark, she had to be crazy as a bedbug. And wouldn't you know she'd find her way to his ranch?

  He steered the horse through the meandering crowd of cattle, mostly giving it its head. A fine cutting horse he'd trained himself, the black was as at home in a herd as it was in its stall. After a long, calming moment, Mac said. "Lady, are you lost or something?"

  "Oh, I never get lost," she assured him.

  So, the crazy woman had a good sense of direction. It still didn't explain why she'd come to him.

  "I came as quickly as I could," she said.

  "To marry me."

  "Well, that, too," she continued. "But first to meet you. You could hardly marry me if you didn't even know I existed."

  Irritation swept through him. He didn't have time to deal with a feebleminded female. He had a ranch to run. Roundup to prepare for. His temper began a slow boil.

  Thunder rolled again in the distance and he looked over his shoulder to see dark clouds gathering over the peaks of the mountains. Rain or snow—you never knew in Wyoming—by nightfall, he figured.

  Mac shot a glance ahead to where Elias still sat on his horse at the edge of the herd. The old coot hadn't moved an inch. Sure, Jonas thought. When I need him, he's just sitting there like some kind of statue.

  A chill damp wind swept down on them from the mountains, heralding the coming change in weather, but it sent a ripple of uneasiness down Mac's spine.

  "So here I am," she was saying, and he looked down into that dazzling smile of hers. "And if it's all right with you, I think we should be married fairly quickly, all things considered."

  All things considered, he thought he should just turn this horse around, drop her back in the middle of the herd, and forget he'd ever talked to her. But since he couldn't do that, he tried to reason with her.

  "Lady—"

  "Hannah."

  "Fine. Hannah."

  "Normally, we wouldn't use our Christian names so early in our acquaintance, of course," she gave him a smile that staggered him. "But then, these are not ordinary circumstances, are they?"

  "You could say that…" Keep her calm, he told himself. No sense getting her all worked up. He wasn't sure how to deal with light-minded people, but he figured prodding her temper could only make things worse. How, he had no idea.

  "It's a lovely place you have here," she said. Turning her head to admire the scenery, a soft smile curved her mouth. He watched as she lifted her gaze to the nearby mountains.

  Mac saw the same awed wonder he always experienced at that magnificent view shimmer on her features, and felt an odd sort of fleeting kinship with the woman. At the very least, she knew good land when she saw it.

  "I like it."

  "What a wonderful thing to wake up to every morning," she stared at the Rockies, her voice hushed as though she were in church.

  It was indeed, he thought, briefly staring at the snowcapped mountains. This valley, this ranch, was
everything he'd ever wanted.

  "A man with a home as nice as this needs a wife to care for it."

  Old memories rose up, threatened to choke him, then receded again, back into the dark corner of his heart where he'd managed to corral them.

  "I could be very helpful," she said, watching him.

  "I don't need help."

  "Oh, everyone needs help sometimes," she said and let her gaze drift from his to stare into the distance. "Actually—"

  "Look," he interrupted sharply. "Hannah, isn't it?"

  "Yes."

  He looked down at her and silently reminded himself that she was, no doubt, a loon. When he spoke again, his voice was kinder than before. "You don't want to marry me. Hannah."

  She laughed gently and Mac found himself enjoying the sound. Oh, no question about it, he'd been too long without a woman. Time to head on over to Jefferson and spend an hour or two with one of Sal's girls.

  Shaking her head, the blond finally said, "It's true. I was against the marriage, at first. But Aunt Eudora convinced me this was the only way."

  So there was a crazy aunt in on this, too.

  "And why would she do that?" he asked, though he had a feeling he'd regret it. "Well, you are the Mackenzie, after all."

  Like that explained anything. And why did she insist on saying his name like she was speaking in capital letters?

  "What's my name got to do with this?" Even as the words left his mouth, though, the answer came to him. "It's my ranch, isn't it?" he asked. "Somehow this aunt of yours, if you really have one, has decided that marrying me will get you a piece of my ranch."

  For the first time since rescuing her, something made sense to him. The ranch might not be much to look at now, but in a few years it would be a showplace. Why wouldn't a far-thinking gold digger think to stake a claim early?

  She inhaled sharply and turned horrified eyes on him. "That's dreadful! What a horrible thing to say about me. And Aunt Eudora, who certainly does exist, I assure you."

  "Oh, well," he snapped, "Sure. I'll take your word on that, too."