Give Me A Texas Outlaw Bundle with Give Me A Cowboy

by Jodi Thomas, Linda Broday, Phyliss Miranda

  “Nope.” Teg plopped his Stetson back on his head, and sat back down. “What you see is a shirttail herd too fat to be grazing off this little tad of ranch land. Pasture ain’t even overgrazed. They’ve been feedin’ somewhere else and I’m bettin’ if you get close enough to ’um you’ll find the Lazy S has been changed to a Rocking J.”

  “Easy brand to alter. Just add a J below the Lazy S. Who’s runnin’ this outfit?”

  “Don’t know for sure. Homesteaded to a fella named Bandy Jameson, I’ve been told. Has a couple of hands and a few head. Nothing more.”

  “The hell you say.” It was Morgan’s turn to sit back in the saddle and enjoy the rolling plains dusted with white and yellow prairie flowers he didn’t recognize. “Ever met Jameson?”

  “Nope. Another of those absentee owners. Don’t really even know any of their hands. They stay to themselves.”

  “I’m bettin’ he’s the same man you know as Gimpy.”

  “From the Slippery Elm?”

  “That’s how I figure it.” Morgan almost cackled out loud, but it would have given Tegeler too much pleasure to know he might’ve just solved Morgan’s case for him and he didn’t even know it.

  A flash of light shot through the sky.

  “Whatcha think, Teg?”

  “Got a visitor. One too dumb to know that the sun reflects off anything shiny. He’s over to the right, probably a thousand yards.”

  “Yep. Think I’ll mosey back outta here. How about you?”

  “Plan on staying in the saddle and staying out of trouble.”

  Gingerly the duo turned their horses and trotted off, as though they apologized for happening into the wrong pasture.

  “Payne, you might have reason to be on their land, but I sure as hell don’t.” Teg spurred his stallion. “Not with wire cutters in my pocket.”

  Chapter 8

  Alaine sat on a bale of hay and watched the sky. To the west of the rodeo grounds dark angry clouds groaned and cursed vengeance, promising a summer thunderstorm.

  Adjacent to the railroad tracks, holding pens and chutes created a wooden maze around corrals. Steers, cows, calves and horses impatiently stirred waiting for their turn to outrun, outbuck and outwit cowboys just as intent on beatin’ them.

  Alaine had traded her leather skirt for a pair of britches, red calico blouse and black vest, along with broken-in work boots. Her mane of curly black hair was snugly held in place by her ever present felt hat.

  Suddenly she seemed more interested in one tough Philadelphia lawyer who looked larruping good in tight fittin’ pants that showed off a nice butt. His front side wasn’t all that bad either. Didn’t know where he got ’um but they fit him as if they’d been tailor-made just for the man.

  The banter between two chute roosters, rodeo-wise youngsters who perched on the top of the rails and knew how everything should be done and didn’t mind giving out advice, put a smile on her face.

  “Storm’s a brewin’, sure as shootin’. Gonna cause havoc if this dirt turns to mud,” one said.

  The second railbird concurred. “Good thing about these here parts, one minute it’ll be sunny and the next stormy. Nobody knows what to expect except the good Lord and he ain’t talking.”

  An ache in her heart quickly replaced her smile. Morgan hadn’t gotten there yet, and she knew all hell was about to break loose.

  She had been surprised to learn that the wild-cow milking and team roping had been switched because of the inclement weather. She guessed the committee, headed by her own mama, figured the roping deserved better conditions than the lowly milking competition.

  Morgan surely would think she had rickydoodled him again. And he’d made it abundantly clear he would not participate in that event come hell or high water.

  From the looks of the clouds boiling in the west, Armageddon was headed their way and was sure to bring high water.

  To please her mama, Alaine had to win an event—any one of them. Tempest had been disappointed when her daughter missed her shot in the first round of the sharpshooting contest, and it wounded Alaine’s heart to think about letting her down.

  Not to mention the hunk of manhood Alaine couldn’t get off her mind, who had instilled much needed confidence in her and at the same time made her think twice.

  After all, Alaine had barely made the cut to the finals, and she suspected that being the lone female entered had cinched the spot. She wouldn’t put it past her mama or Teg to make sure she qualified. This was her one chance. Although she’d been shooting really good of late, she couldn’t be guaranteed a win.

  But she’d make damn sure she didn’t embarrass her mama and the Jacks Bluff. Even if it meant only winning one regular event—the wild cow milking, which could be as dangerous as bronc busting.

  She glanced into the crowd to see how many of her mama’s hands were around. Plenty. Apparently Teg had done his usual and made sure she had plenty of chaperones.

  Once, just once, she’d like to be able to go somewhere and do something without being followed. But as long as she lived under the shadow of Tempest LeDoux, and ultimately the foreman, that wasn’t about to happen.

  Folks were gathering for the evening’s festivities, but men were noticeably missing. She knew where they were and what event they were waiting to watch. And it dern sure wasn’t cow milking.

  No doubt in her mind, they were exactly where she’d like to be; the outlaw event—bucking bulls. Where brutally strong, rough, tough, and maybe some of the most foolish cowboys around competed for bragging rights. Most of the ranch owners didn’t like their hands getting involved with it—the sport could maim or kill. Injuries were a given and the possibility of death loomed overhead, but she also knew many of those same owners had bets on the winner.

  Soundless lightning flickered against the threatened sky and served to increase Alaine’s concern that something ghastly had happened to Morgan.

  Between Teg’s stubbornness and Morgan’s impatience, they might be laid out on the range dead from butting their heads together. Morgan had to learn in one day what most cowboys took years to accomplish.

  Now she had the unpleasant task of informing him that all of his efforts meant nil, because they had missed the roping event. And she wasn’t confident that Teg and her mama hadn’t gotten into cahoots just to keep Morgan and her apart.

  While having lunch at the Springs Hotel, she had overheard gossip about McKenna Smith, the infamous gunslinger her mama had taken a shine to, getting injured in one of the events. The tight group of gossipmongers led by Edwinna Dewey hushed the second they saw Alaine at a nearby table, so she figured he was over at Doc Mitchell’s being put back together.

  The days since the bank robbery had been filled with talk about McKenna Smith this, McKenna Smith that. Everywhere she went they yammered about how the Guardian of Justice saved the day. The mayor gave him the key to the town in gratitude for chasing down Cherokee Bill Bartlett, the bank robber who held her captive, and returning the town’s money. Since he’d been injured, they’d probably rename Main Street for him.

  But nobody seemed to acknowledge that the real hero was Morgan Payne—the man who took a bullet for her. Well, it wasn’t a mortal injury, but still, it was a bullet. And he hadn’t even complained. Nary a mention of his bravery had been made.

  For the umpteenth time, Alaine moved from the bale of hay to the fence. Hugging a post, she prayed for his safe return. A good and proper thank-you was in order.

  Alaine watched the second round of the team roping, and although she spent most of her time lost in thought she couldn’t help but laugh at her clown friend Augusta, as Rusty the Tramp, went about entertaining the crowd with her funny antics. With her bulbous fake nose, bright red hair, exaggerated freckles and white-painted mouth turned down into an exaggerated frown, Alaine knew that Augusta smiled on the inside.

  Not caring about other’s opinions, she was one of the few females who bothered to speak to the LeDoux women.

  When t
he steer roping ended, the corral emptied and her clown friend disappeared. Alaine kept her faith that Morgan wouldn’t let her down.

  The early evening wore on and raindrops patted tentatively on her hat, and she continued to fret over Morgan’s absence.

  Just one more event and the dance would begin. No doubt Teg had kept his pledge to keep them apart, even if it meant that his student wouldn’t show for the rodeo.

  The crowd began to thin. Ladies trailed off to prepare for the evening dance. The one Alaine had hoped to attend, thinking all day about what it’d feel like to be held in Morgan’s arms through a whole waltz. She had been in the circle of his embrace but each time it seemed much too short.

  The announcer gave the thirty-minute warning before the wild cow milking contest would commence. She needed Morgan more than ever. They had already missed the team roping, and she was sure he wasn’t going to be happy one iota.

  Augusta reappeared wearing an ice blue tea gown with layers of ruffles, looking a bit frazzled. Well, she didn’t blame her. Scrubbing off that face paint and making such quick changes of clothes during her routines would frazzle anyone.

  Sometimes Alaine swore that she had more Indian in her than Cajun. This was one of those times. She smelled and felt Morgan before she heard him.

  “Lookin’ for a partner, Little Lady,” he said from behind.

  “Nope.” Relief made her smile. “Got one.”

  She turned and looked at the handsome man all decked out in pants and a shirt that would do justice to any cowboy. His suntanned face reflected the whiteness of his shirt. He looked nothing like the dandy who arrived in town less than a week before. Where had the Eastern lawyer gone?

  The shadows lifted from her heart. “I thought—”

  “That I’d bailed on you?” Drops of rain shimmered on his Stetson.

  “Did cross my mind, but knew you’d be true to your word. We have less than ten minutes.”

  “I helped Pony Boy bring around Diablo and I rode Sniff in,” Morgan said with cool authority. “Who’s header and who’s heeler?”

  Knowing that the thunder rumbling was nothing compared to the roar she’d get from Morgan when he found out they weren’t in team roping, she took a deep breath.

  Oh, he’d rope okay—a wild nursing cow.

  “Guess I’ll repeat myself.” His smile was brighter than his shirt. “Who’s header and who’s heeler?”

  She scrounged up courage and stammered, “You mean who’ll mug and who’ll milk.”

  The look on his face hid none of his displeasure. He clenched his jaw and frowned. “No, ma’am. I didn’t stutter.”

  Regardless of her explanation, none would satisfy the big man.

  “No,” she lowered her voice as if it’d soften the blow. “Mugger and milker.”

  He stared ahead like an Indian lookin’ at the moon, as sprinkles turned into raindrops. “We missed the event, didn’t we?” He pursed his mouth, obviously trying to corral his frustration. “Damn Tegeler’s hide.”

  “It’s not his fault, Morgan.” She wasn’t sure, but thought this might be the first time she’d ever defended the foreman, but for once he was innocent, although she was certain he would have made it happen if he’d thought of it.

  She continued, “They had to switch the team roping semifinals with wild cow milking.”

  “Why?”

  “To be honest with you, they claim it was because of the storm coming in, but I suspect it had more to do with the men wanting to watch bull riding to see if Dally Angelo rides Bone Buster without getting killed. A lot of bets are floating around on both.”

  “Hell of a reason.” He pulled gloves from his pocket. “I’ll be the roper and mugger.”

  Thunder boomed, then faded as though waiting for an encore.

  Damnation and tarnation, he’d been hornswoggled again by the Little Lady. One thing for sure, this would be the last game he’d play with her.

  By morning, he’d have confirmation from his home office that his job was finished and he’d be on his way back to Philadelphia leaving behind Miss Prissy Pants and her tomfoolery before the closing ceremonies commenced.

  But then there was the issue of helping Tegeler protect the LeDouxes from rustlers. A man of integrity, Morgan took his reputation seriously. He shook his head. There wasn’t anything else to do except keep his promise.

  “I take mugger,” he said. “Besides, have you seen the size of those cows? I’ve seen bulls who would give them a run for their money.” Morgan tried to disguise his annoyance, but was sure she saw right through him. “Plus, can’t let all of Teg’s hard work go to waste. I’ll rope and mug, you’ll do the milkin’.” He pulled a coin from his pocket. “Or we could flip for jobs.”

  “And, have Teg on our butts? No way!”

  They both enjoyed a good-hearted laugh, and headed for the chutes.

  Soft rain peppered in earnest and was quickly absorbed by the thirsty soil.

  “So you’re not mad at me?” Alaine asked.

  “Mad? Can’t say I’d call it mad.”

  The smaller of the chute roosters hollered, “Better hurry, looks like a gully washer’s on its way.”

  A second one ordered, “Chute’s loaded. Got two minutes.”

  Clouds churned overhead and a heavy caisson of thunder bellowed a warning.

  Only a handful of folks remained. Mostly those intrigued with the couple and who wanted to be the first to spread the latest gossip about another of the LeDoux women’s fiascos.

  Swinging into the saddle, Morgan brought Sniff up to the start line in the northwest corner of the corral. “Sure as hell hope we got a good, wet cow,” he mumbled to himself. The gelding pranced sideways, eager to be pressed into action.

  Pony Boy climbed up beside the other chute roosters and hollered, “Use small loops, Mister.”

  Lightning arced from cloud to cloud, followed by claps of thunder that made a calm and obedient horse like Sniff fret.

  Morgan centered his butt in the saddle and watched the southeast corner chute, where a nervous nellie jumped and kicked, banging the sides. She swished her tail, and searched for a target.

  He knew her kind. A free-roaming, fresh off the range cow with painfully swollen utters who had never had any human contact. Frantic because she was lookin’ for her lost calf, she reminded him of Alaine’s mother when she thought her daughter was being kidnapped. He saw the same wild panic in the mama cow’s eyes. Hell, it kinda reminded him of Alaine.

  Intermittent gusts of wind turned to unrelenting fury and threw bucketfuls of rain hammering down.

  The flag dropped and a gunshot rang out.

  Time started.

  Morgan spurred Sniff.

  Ready for a fight, the wild cow lunged out of the chute like a rattler had hold of her tail…and that was just the beginning.

  The ol’ gal ducked right and hung Morgan out to dry.

  Cussing for dropping one, Morgan tried his damnedest to keep her running in a straight line, but she crow hopped around in no particular pattern.

  By that time, maybe some of her sour disposition had sweetened or she was distracted by Sniff running after her and decided he wasn’t about to catch her. She zigzagged across the corral, faking Morgan out. She jumped forward and turned right, twisting her short horns, taunting the roper.

  Maybe the kid was right. Morgan adjusted the lariat and this time he made a good catch. Her head passed through the loop and he tightened the rope.

  Being slowed down didn’t set well with the cow, and in one leap that would make any bull proud, she belly-rolled, jerking Morgan out of the saddle. Uprooted, he held onto the rope for dear life, letting the damn fool pull him through the mud.

  The rain slacked up, only to regroup and assault even harder, turning the grounds into a small playa lake.

  Morgan spit water but swore the battle ax wouldn’t best him. He used every cuss word he knew and some he made up along the way.

  He wasn’t sure if the old
mama got tired of hauling him around or she decided she was just flat-assed tired, but she stopped dead in her tracks. In the slick mud, he hammered against the cow’s hide, taking an uppercut to the chin.

  Getting a good hold on her horns, he thanked his lucky star that she was a muley cow without the usual dangerous, long and twisted ones.

  After catching a second wind, the cow took off again, which he managed to bring to a halt, hoping she’d stay on her feet long enough to be milked. How in the hell they ended up even in the vicinity of where Alaine was he had no idea, but they did.

  From roper to mugger, Morgan held the bovine, while his partner milked her…very slowly.

  The cow never got what Morgan would call still, but Alaine managed to get in a squirt or two. He wanted to yell at her to hurry up, but didn’t want to scare the damn critter again and prayed they’d get their dern milk to the judge before another clap of thunder scared the ol’ gal dry.

  Alaine was covered with mud as much, if not more than Morgan. Bits of wet earth hung from her hair and the rain made her blouse cling to her like a mold.

  “Let me milk awhile,” Morgan said. “Before she remembers she’s mad at us.”

  “She isn’t mad, she’s just grouchy,” Alaine retorted.

  From the looks of the white river flowing downhill, he was sure a jug of milk had hit the ground. Only a trickle in the bottle, but he wasn’t about to complain.

  “You got enough,” he yelled.

  Lightning lit up the sky and the damnedest roar of thunder he believed he’d ever heard reverberated the air.

  That was about all the ol’ cow planned to take. She lunged forward, almost knocking the bottle out of Alaine’s hands and ran off at breakneck speed.

  He watched Alaine and the cow race across the rain-soaked grounds—one for the chute and one for the judge.

  Alaine lost her footing and slipped in the slosh, coming up unharmed with the bottle but drenched with mud and slop.

  Morgan took off toward her. He glanced around, not that he expected applause for being humiliated, but there was not a sole present. Even the chute roosters had left their perch.