by Ana Leigh
“I’m an old-fashioned girl, Mr. Fraser.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I am not promiscuous,” Cassie declared and lifted his hand off her leg.
Weighing her through shuttered lids, he took a sip of coffee. “I’m impressed.”
She gave him a skeptical glance. “I just bet you are.”
“Why would you doubt it?”
“Do you have any idea how many times some passing cowboy has tried to get me to climb into the hayloft with him? Why do you think I prefer to dress in men’s clothing?”
Colt burst into laughter. “Are you saying that beneath that men’s shirt and pants lurks the heart of a frightened female?”
The amusement in his eyes was as compelling as his contagious laughter. “Hardly frightened,” she countered good-naturedly. “Merely bored with men who think I can’t tell what their intentions are. Yours, for instance.”
“Mine are very clear, Miss Braden. I only have a week to get you into that hayloft before I leave town.”
Also by Ana Leigh
THE FRASERS: CLAY
Published by Pocket Books
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
An Original Publication of POCKET BOOKS
A Pocket Star Book published by
POCKET BOOKS, a division of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
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Copyright © 2006 by Anna Baier
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information address Pocket Books, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020
ISBN: 1-4165-3115-7
POCKET STAR BOOKS and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
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I dedicate this book to Micki, Nancy, and Edwina.
It was a long, hard journey, gals, but my love and
gratitude for making the trip with me.
Chapter 1
Colt Fraser had been raised to appreciate God’s gifts, and he was gazing appreciatively at one of them right now—the curvaceous backside of the passenger climbing into the stagecoach ahead of him. The sweet hips and long legs encased in those pants clearly belonged to a woman.
When the couple had arrived at the stagecoach relay station in New Mexico, Colt had assumed they were both men.
Now he realized that this one was definitely a woman, even though she was dressed in a shirt, vest, jeans, boots, and hat.
They were the only passengers who boarded the stage, and he sat down in the seat opposite them and offered his hand to the man.
“How do you do? I’m Colt Fraser. Looks like we’ll be traveling together.”
“Jeff Braden,” the man said and shook his hand. “This is my sister, Cassie.”
Colt tipped his hat. “Miss Braden.” He had already noticed she wasn’t wearing a wedding band.
She nodded and asked, “You a drummer, Mr. Fraser?”
“No. I’m California bound.”
“That accent sounds southern,” Jeff Braden said.
“I’m from Virginia, sir.”
The “sir” was from habit; Braden looked like he wasn’t dry behind the ears yet.
“Most folks heading west stay on the Oregon Trail,” the woman said. “It’s unusual to cut off onto the Santa Fe Trail. You picked a good time for your sight-seeing; right now the Apaches are quiet. Of course, that can change from day to day.”
“I managed to dodge Yankee bullets all through the war. I figure I can do the same with Indian arrows,” Colt said confidently.
“You’d find it more difficult than you think. The Apaches are skilled warriors and you’d be fighting them on their ground. I imagine you were in the Confederate army, Mr. Fraser.”
“Yes, ma’am, the cavalry. I had the privilege of serving under the command of General J.E.B. Stuart until he was killed.”
“Sorry, I never heard of him.”
“No other cavalry officer can compare to his skill and courage in battle. Confederate or Yankee.”
“However, I have heard of that illustrious Confederate officer William Quantrill and the merciless raid he led on Lawrence, Kansas.” Her tone was bitter. “It must have taken a great deal of skill and courage to order the slaughter of innocent women and children, along with the men.”
“That raid was not sanctioned by any officer in the regular Confederate army, Miss Braden. and those were not regular Confederate soldiers in his command, but renegades and drifters. Neither I, nor any of my fellow officers, held any respect for the man. He was a mad killer in the guise of an officer, and a blight on the Confederacy and the brave and honorable men who have served it.”
“My apologies, Mr. Fraser.” She turned her head and stared out of the window.
He couldn’t blame her for what she said. Others had said the same. Seemed like since that incident, every soldier or civilian south of the Mason-Dixon Line had borne the scorn for that son of a bitch’s actions.
Colt studied her. Cassie Braden was intriguing. Despite her masculine clothing, she had an attitude that made him think of finishing schools and liveried servants.
She certainly was as pretty as any woman he’d ever met, even without all the powder and stuff some women put on their faces to beautify them. Her eyes were the blue of a summer sky against the smooth, sun-deepened bronze of a face shaped with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a wide mouth with full, kissable lips.
These features, combined with a curve of determination to her chin, gave her face both delicacy and strength. The same characteristics he had noted in her bearing—a vulnerability when she asked about the war, along with a rebellious boldness.
And the way those pants hugged her hips and long legs didn’t hurt, either.
Back home in Virginia, females didn’t dress in pants that clearly outlined their hips and legs. And those legs of hers were long, all right; she was easily eight inches above five feet.
From the time he’d crossed the Mississippi and headed west, he’d noticed a lot that was different from the rolling green countryside of Virginia. And the sight of her in those pants had certainly improved the view.
The thought of how they’d feel wrapped around his legs in bed invaded his thoughts, and he couldn’t help grinning. His brothers would agree, especially Garth.
Lord, how he missed Garth and Clay. They’d rarely seen one another during the war, and they had no sooner gotten home then Clay and Garth headed west to California.
As if reading his mind, Cassie Braden suddenly asked, “Do you have family in California, Mr. Fraser?”
“Two brothers and a sister.”
“So they were in California during the war?”
“No, they came West right after it ended. Our sister Lissy eloped with a Yankee soldier, and Clay and Garth headed West to find her.”
Her mouth twitched in amusement. “Imagine that! Eloped with a Yankee!”
He didn’t miss the sarcasm; so she was more cat than kitten. “Truth is, Miss Braden, at the time, I couldn’t understand how a born-and-bred Virginian like my sister could run off with a Yankee.”
“Does seem outrageous, doesn’t it?”
“But, since she’s happily married with a baby and all, seems it all ended well, and I’m happy for her.”
“Even though she married a Yankee. You have a tender heart, Mr. Fraser. So, unable to bear the shame of failure, your brothers remained in California, too.”
/> Colt raised his open palms. “Okay, so this is all amusing to you. I’ll shut up.” He nodded toward Jeff Braden, slumped and asleep. “Your brother didn’t find it entertaining, though.”
“You mean you’re going to stop without telling me what happened with Clay and Garth. Why did they remain in California?”
“I really don’t think you want to hear more.”
“Why not? It helps to pass the time.”
“My folks had six sons and one daughter,” Colt continued, “but my youngest brother perished during Pickett’s charge at Gettysburg. Other than our older brother Will, Clay had always been the most level-headed among us. That’s why it was so perplexing when he up and married a Yankee woman the same day he met her. And now they have a baby boy, too.”
“He didn’t!” she exclaimed. “And a Yankee, too! Tell me, Mr. Fraser, is marrying a Yankee a hanging offense in Virginia?”
“Forget it. You’ve had your laugh.”
“What do you expect! You talk as if marrying a Yankee is a disgrace. I happen to be a Yankee, Mr. Fraser, and I resent the implication.”
“I can assure you, Miss Braden, that unlike my siblings, I have no inclination to wed—so your spinsterhood is not at risk with me. And I recommend that instead of sarcasm, you begin using that kissable mouth of yours for just that—or it’s unlikely your spinsterhood will ever be in jeopardy, even with a damn Yankee.”
Colt opened his newspaper with a snap. As always, the news was bad. People dying from cholera in the East, and an Apache Indian chief by the name of Cochise was conducting murderous raids on settlers and the cavalry in Arizona.
He glanced over the top of the paper at the couple. Jeff had awakened and was sitting in a stupor staring into space. The flame in the firecracker had gone out, and she was gazing out the window.
They bore a deep resemblance to one another. The woman appeared to be in her early twenties, a few years older than the man. Besides having auburn hair and blue eyes in common, their facial features were similar—but looked a damn sight better on her than they did on her brother.
As Colt studied him, Braden took a silver flask out of his pocket and took a long draught from it.
“Jeff, please stop drinking,” Cassie Braden said. “You’ve had too much already.”
“Hush up, Cassie. I don’t need you for a mother.” He took another drink and returned the flask to his pocket.
Braden’s speech was slurred, and Colt had to agree: the man had had enough to drink already.
He resumed reading an article about the rise of outlaw gangs. Since the war’s end their number had increased dramatically, and they were as much a menace as the Indians, who were resisting the influx of settlers on their hunting grounds.
Of special note was the James Gang, led by Jesse and Frank James, two brothers from Missouri. Another gang gaining national attention was the Younger Gang, four brothers named Cole, Jim, Bob and John.
According to the newspaper, these two gangs had joined together and were now robbing trains and banks in Missouri, across the Kansas plains, and as far west as Colorado. God help the poor people in their path.
Apparently there was even a female outlaw named Belle, riding with a gang led by an outlaw named Tom Starr.
Female outlaws, bank robbers, wild Indians, and long-legged, slim-hipped women dressed in men’s pants—the West truly was wild.
Colt put the paper aside and stared out the window. The countryside was as wild and startling as the people who rode it. Erosion and extinct lava flows had carved out shallow canyons and craters around the narrow, mountainous trails, with stretches of colorful mesas abundant with forests, white-blossomed yucca, and deep-colored wildflowers. Trout streams, rivers, and cold-water lakes were everywhere.
Restless, he leaned back and reached for the newspaper again. The coach jostled and rocked like a cradle in a windstorm, which soon made reading too much of a challenge. Braden must have had a cast-iron stomach to keep that liquor down, with all the rocking going on.
As the hours wore on, Jeff Braden drank himself into a stupor. His sister had closed her eyes, but Colt could tell she wasn’t sleeping.
Suddenly the blast of a gunshot broke the silence, and the driver pulled up sharply on the reins, sending a cloud of dust into the air. The woman was thrown forward and ended up in Colt’s lap.
“I’m sorry,” she gasped, her blue eyes wide with embarrassment. She quickly shifted over to her seat.
“No problem, Miss Braden. The pleasure was all mine.”
Jostled awake, Jeff slurred, “What’s going on?”
Five men with drawn pistols rode up to the stagecoach.
“Everybody out,” one of the men ordered. “Get those hands up and grab some air.”
Colt wasn’t about to argue with a man holding a drawn pistol. “Just stay calm, Miss Braden,” he advised.
She looked at him with contempt. “Practice what you preach, greenhorn.” She raised her arms and climbed out.
Colt followed, and Jeff Braden staggered after him.
Gus, the driver, was out of the box and stood with raised arms. Buck, who had been riding shotgun, was lying on the ground, wounded.
“Get them gunbelts off.”
The order came from one of the men who was still mounted: he appeared to be the leader.
There were five outlaws, and Colt figured he could only take out two before they took him down. That would probably get the Bradens killed, too. The fact that the outlaws hadn’t shot the driver probably meant they didn’t intend to shoot the passengers, either. He unbuckled his gunbelt and dropped it to the ground.
A couple of the outlaws tossed down a box from the top of the stage. As one of the other bandits shot off the lock, the piercing blare of a bugle sounded nearby. The sound was music to Colt’s ears.
“Dammit!” the leader of the gang snarled. “Hurry up before that damn cavalry gets here.”
One of the men stuffed the box’s contents into a black bag, and the men all mounted.
To Colt’s horror, Jeff Braden snatched up his gun.
“No, don’t try it,” Colt yelled, but Braden shot at the riders as they started to ride away.
Colt shoved the woman out of the line of fire and dove for his own gun as the outlaws fired back. He felt the sting of a bullet on his left shoulder but got off a shot, and the man holding the black bag fell from the saddle just as the cavalry arrived and thundered past in pursuit.
Blood oozed profusely from the wound to Colt’s shoulder. Feeling woozy, he slumped down and leaned back against a tree. He pulled the bandanna from his neck and awkwardly tried to make a compress with his good hand. Cassie hurried over to help him while Gus went to the aid of Buck.
“Here, let me do that.” She folded the bandanna into a thick pad and pressed it against his shoulder. “I’m going to have to take your shirt off.”
“Why, Miss Braden, I’m shocked. You must control yourself; we’ve barely just met.”
“Do you men ever have anything but sex on your mind?” she grumbled in disgust. Quickly but gently, she slipped the shirt off him.
“You did that quite speedily. Have you had a lot of practice removing a man’s shirt?”
“Yes, I have.” His mocking look changed to surprise, and she grinned. “In case you haven’t noticed, I wear men’s shirts.”
“Oh, I’ve noticed,” he said. “And so appealingly that I can barely keep my eyes off…ah…it.”
“So I’ve noticed,” she countered as she studied the wound.
“Will I live, nurse?”
“Not if you don’t hush up,” she said. “Or I’ll finish the job for that guy who tried to kill you.”
Cassie pressed the bandanna against the open wound again “Now, hold the compress tightly against it to stem the bleeding.”
“I’m quite aware of what to do. I’ve been shot before.”
“By a cuckolded husband, or some no-good, low-down Yankee, Fraser?”
“The latt
er, Miss Braden. But for now, can we cease refighting the war and get this over with before I bleed to death?”
Gus approached with the canteen and set it down beside her. “Figure you’d be needing this.”
Cassie looked up fretfully. “How bad is Buck?”
“Still unconscious. He’s hurt bad, Cassie; he’s got a bullet in him that has to come out. How’s Fraser here?”
“ ‘Fraser here’ will be just fine, but I prefer ‘Colt,’” Colt said good-naturedly.
“I think it’s just a surface wound,” Cassie informed him. “I couldn’t see any sign of an entry or exit hole. You’ve lost a lot of blood, though, so I’ll have to get a bandage on it.”
“What about the fellow I shot?” Colt asked.
“That sure was one hell of a shot, Colt. That fella won’t be holdin’ up no more stagecoaches.”
“He’s dead?” Cassie asked.
“Yep. He’ll soon be pushin’ up posies on Boot Hill. Bank’ll be happy to get the money delivery that these hombres tried to get away with. You sure picked the right one to take down, young fella.”
“I didn’t pick him, Gus. He just made the mistake of being last in line.”
Gus nodded, and then frowned. “Cassie, I’ve been thinkin’ that we shouldn’t try movin’ Buck. It’s ’bout ten miles into town, so I’ll unhitch one of them horses to ride in and bring back the doc.”
“I think you’re right.”
“Trouble is, there’s no tellin’ if them outlaws are gonna show up again, so I hate leavin’ you alone with all these wounded men.”
“Why don’t you send Braden?” Colt asked.
“He’s drunker than a hoot owl and passed out cold.”
“That figures,” Colt said. “Well, once I get a bandage on my shoulder, I can handle a weapon if those outlaws come back.”
Cassie returned to the task of bandaging his shoulder. “I don’t suppose you have a nice clean, white handkerchief in your pocket.”
“Never carry one.”
She thought for a moment, then ordered, “Close your eyes.”
“What?”