The Wayward Heart

by Jill Gregory

  Shorty had a gravelly voice, and he was wiry, tough, and cantankerous. At first he’d been openly skeptical of his new boss’s ability to run the ranch, but after a few moments alone with Bryony in the study, he surprisingly became convinced that she was no ordinary city girl, and that she meant what she said when she told him that she was going to devote herself to maintaining the Circle H as one of the finest ranches in the territory.

  In a very short time she had won him over completely. They parted in mutual satisfaction—the wrangler pleased with his new mistress’s firm determination, and Bryony relieved that she had an experienced foreman to guide her. She was also glad that Shorty had agreed to teach her to shoot, and they scheduled her first lesson for the next afternoon.

  Later that same day, she drove to Tucson with Judge Hamilton, withdrawing the payroll funds from the bank without incident, and staying in Tucson—a wild, noisy town filled with drunken cowboys and stern-faced gamblers—only long enough to purchase several bolts of cloth from the general store so that she might sew some of the pretty Mexican skirts and blouses that had taken her fancy.

  That particular style of clothing seemed lightweight and ideal for the hot, dry climate, and she was eager to feel more a part of this Spanish-influenced region. With her errands accomplished and the noon sun glaring mercilessly overhead, Judge Hamilton turned his buggy back toward Winchester, while Bryony straightened the skirt of her peach-colored muslin gown and tucked a few stray ebony curls inside her ribbon-trimmed bonnet, wincing every time the buggy hit a particularly deep rut in the road and sent her bouncing up in her seat.

  It was just outside of Winchester that she asked Judge Hamilton the question that had disturbed her for so long, but his answer, instead of relieving her mind, only puzzled her more. He seemed very evasive about the reason Jim Logan had shot her father, and when Bryony pressed him for an explanation, the Judge pursed his lips and looked uncomfortable.

  “Don’t fret yourself about the past, Miss Hill,” he admonished her at last, his eyes fixed rigidly on the sweating team of horses. “What’s done is done. Unfortunately, nothing can bring your father back to this earth. So you should just try to forget about what happened and concentrate on the future.”

  “Call me, Bryony, Judge—please,” she replied quickly, her gaze scanning his craggy face. “And please tell me the truth. I want to know why Jim Logan quarreled with my father.”

  “I don’t rightly know why!” the Judge answered, rather too loudly. “I wasn’t there when it happened, and all I heard was a lot of gossip—I reckon you know how unreliable gossip is!”

  “Tell me anyway,” Bryony persisted. “What did people say?”

  The Judge hesitated. When he spoke again, he seemed to be picking his words with great care. “Well, supposedly... there was a woman involved. There were plenty of rumors—none of them proved, mind you.”

  “What kind of rumors?”

  “Um, well, about a woman named Daisy being the cause of the fight.”

  “A woman named Daisy? Well, where is she?” Her voice quickened with eagerness. “Perhaps if I can speak with her myself, she might be able to explain to me—”

  “She can’t explain anything. I’m afraid Daisy Winston is dead.”

  Bryony absorbed the shock of this news, feeling more confused than ever. “When did she die? H... how?”

  “She was murdered. Beaten to death. The night before your father shot it out with Logan. Now that’s all I know, Bryony, and that’s all I’m going to say. If you follow my advice, you’ll forget all about this nasty business of digging up the past and put it completely out of your mind.”

  Bryony never had a chance to respond. The peaceful silence of the sloping trail was broken abruptly by the rumbling of horses’ hooves as a wagon rolled suddenly into view from around a bend. The Judge pulled his team quickly aside to avoid a collision. Both vehicles drew to a stop, and Judge Hamilton doffed his hat to the man and the young woman sitting in the wagon.

  “Afternoon, Sam. Miss Annie. Let me introduce you to Bryony Hill—Wes’s daughter.”

  Still digesting the information she’d just learned, Bryony managed a smile as the Judge presented Sam Blake and his daughter Annie, owners of a small cattle ranch just east of Circle H land.

  To her astonishment, the pair in the wagon returned her polite greeting with blatantly hostile expressions. Samuel Blake, tall and gaunt, with graying hair and mustache, and worn, old work clothing on his spare frame, stared right through her with frosty gray eyes, while his daughter, a girl of about seventeen, seemed openly antagonistic, her features set in an angry, contemptuous expression.

  Annie Blake might have been a very pretty girl, Bryony thought, with her thick chestnut hair and large hazel eyes, but her appearance was rough and untidy. Her hair was knotted carelessly at the nape of her neck, with long tangled strands escaping haphazardly to swirl about her face. Her eyes were almost hidden by the huge, floppy old sombrero on her head. Whatever feminine figure she might have possessed was disguised by the loose Levis and flannel shirt she wore, giving her body a bulky, shapeless appearance. But Bryony felt certain that an attractive young woman lurked somewhere inside the angry tomboy opposite her.

  She couldn’t understand why the Blakes were treating her so coldly, responding in an almost surly tone when she spoke to them, and ignoring her the rest of the time as they immersed themselves in conversation with the Judge. Puzzled, she made a further attempt at cordiality as the two groups prepared to part.

  “Please, Mr. Blake,” she said, giving him her nicest smile. “I’d be very pleased if you and Annie would come to call sometime soon. We’re neighbors, after all. Can I look forward to it?”

  Her invitation was met with stony silence, but Annie Blake shot her a withering look. “Hah!” the girl snorted. “Don’t hold your breath none!”

  “Well, now, we’d best be getting on our way,” Judge Hamilton put in quickly, gathering up the horses’ reins. “Nice seeing you folks. Adios.”

  Bryony turned to him in bewilderment as the buggy rolled on toward home.

  “I don’t understand. They behaved as if I was their worst enemy—and I’ve never even met them before.”

  “Don’t judge the Blakes too harshly,” he answered, sending the horses into a fast trot as the trail suddenly opened onto smooth, level ground. Miles of golden poppies fluttered in the afternoon breeze as they rode across the open prairie. Overhead, the sun was slowly shifting into the western sky.

  “They’re decent enough folk, when you get to know them. Sam’s a widower, like me, and he’s raising his daughter as best he can. He lost his son not long ago. They’ve been having a pretty rough time of it lately. Rustlers have been stealing their cattle, and they don’t look too kindly on strangers. Also,” he added, glancing at her hesitatingly, “they’re some of the few people in these parts who weren’t on the best of terms with your pa, so you can’t expect them to welcome you with open arms.”

  “Oh. I see,” Bryony murmured, but in truth, she did not. Her father’s life in Arizona was becoming more of an enigma to her every day. She had no idea who Daisy Winston was, or how she was involved in her father’s gunfight with Jim Logan. Nor did she understand why Sam and Annie Blake had disliked her father. She sighed in exasperation. Instead of answers, she kept coming up with more and more questions, but she sensed that she’d put Judge Hamilton in an awkward position, and decided to refrain from questioning him further.

  Perhaps Matt Richards could enlighten her. She’d ask him about these matters when the right moment arose.

  The days began to pass quickly. Bryony became immersed in payroll and bookkeeping activities, in supply lists and household chores. She had her first shooting lesson with Shorty Buchanan, who instructed her in the mechanics of loading and firing her derringer, advising her to keep it on her person at all times. By the evening of her third day on the ranch, Bryony felt exhausted. Never had she been so busy, so pressed for time in which to
complete her responsibilities. She hadn’t even had an opportunity to write to any of her friends yet, informing them that she was safely installed as mistress of the Circle H. She decided that the very next day she would take care of all her correspondence.

  It was mid-afternoon of her fourth day in Winchester when she finally finished her letter-writing, having written to Dr. Brady and the Scotts, and Mr. Parker and Miss Marsh, assuring them all that she was well and happy. She considered writing to Roger Davenport, then decided against it. She’d severed all ties with Roger when she refused to marry him, and it seemed best not to renew their relationship in any way.

  Besides, she reflected wryly, no doubt Roger had already found himself another fiancée, one more suitable to his oh-so-proper taste. The thought didn’t trouble her in the least—life in Arizona was too rich to waste time regretting lost opportunities. If she had it all to do again, she’d reject Roger’s proposal just as firmly as she had the first time.

  Having completed her letters, she rose and peered out the study window, wondering if Buck Monroe was nearby. She knew he was planning to ride into town for supplies later that day, and she wanted to give him her letters for the mail.

  But Buck was nowhere in sight.

  In fact, the ranch was rather deserted, with Shorty and most of the other wranglers having ridden out to the northern range to check on the herd, while Rosita was busy in the kitchen, baking a tortilla pie.

  The day was peaceful, still and clear, with the scent of pine in the air, and Bryony decided to look for Buck in the stable, where he’d been spending a lot of time with that wild mustang he’d been trying to break. Holding the skirt of her pale yellow cotton gown in her hand to keep it from dragging in the dust, she stepped off the porch and headed toward the stable, but when she heard the dull pounding of a horse’s hooves in the distance—and saw a rider approaching swiftly— she paused, one hand shading her eyes as she watched the horse and rider draw near.

  She wondered who the visitor could be and waited curiously at first as he drew near, but she couldn’t make out his identity for the horse made no effort to slow down, kicking up a cloud of dust as he and the rider drew closer and closer.

  Alarm filled her as the horse and rider swept toward her in a thunderous roar. She scrambled onto the porch as the beast bore down straight toward her and a gasp escaped her lips as the rider finally pulled his horse to a screeching halt.

  As the dust settled around them, the lean, bronzed man in the saddle calmly regarded her.

  “You!” She gasped in disbelief as Texas Jim Logan swept off his sombrero in a mocking salute. She stared wide-eyed at his tall, muscular frame outlined against the diamond-blue sky, hardly able to believe the man’s audacity in coming here. Her breath came in short, ragged gasps as fury mounted inside her.

  “What are you doing here? And just what are you trying to do—run me into the ground? Wasn’t it enough that you killed my father, Mister Logan, without adding me to your list of victims?”

  A cool smile touched his lips. “No need to be melodramatic, ma’am. I knew damn well Pecos wouldn’t stampede you. I wouldn’t let him. There was nothing for you to be concerned about.”

  “Get off my land!” Bryony felt blood rushing furiously to her face as he baited her. “I want you off of my property this instant—and don’t you ever dare show your face here again, you... you murderer!”

  His only response to her command was to swing unconcernedly from the saddle. He led Pecos to a corral post and tethered him there.

  Bryony watched, infuriated almost to speechlessness by his cool contempt of her demands. She glanced all about, scouring the horizon for some sign of Buck or one of the other range hands who could bodily remove Texas Jim Logan from her land, but there was no one about. They were alone except for the horses whinnying in the corral.

  Suddenly, she remembered the derringer in the pocket of her cotton dress, and she yanked out the weapon. But even as she raised it, a hand clamped over her wrist, and Logan’s steel-blue eyes glinted into her frightened green ones.

  Wrenching the gun from her easily, he held it securely in one hand at his side.

  “You and me are going to have a little talk, Miss Hill. Right now.”

  He caught her arm with his free hand and tugged her toward the barn. Once inside, he bolted the door, making certain no one could enter from outside.

  The only light filtering in came from a high window against the far wall. The atmosphere was close and dark, pungently scented with hay.

  “What do you want?” she demanded. “I suggest you let me out of here before I scream and bring a dozen range hands running to my aid. They’ll probably shoot you down without asking any questions.” But her voice quavered, belying the confidence of her words.

  Texas shrugged. “Scream away. I doubt any of your wranglers will hear you down on the north range.”

  “How... how did you know...”

  “I checked, of course. Been waiting for the right moment to talk to you alone.”

  She stared at him. “What do you want?”

  Tossing the derringer into the hayloft above, he hooked his thumbs in his gun belt, studying her. “Well, ma’am, I reckon the first thing I want is my saddle blanket. I lent it to you a few nights back, if you remember. Where is it?”

  “I burned it.” She swallowed. “Actually, I ordered Rosita to do it. It’s gone.”

  His eyes narrowed. “You destroyed my property, Miss Hill. And I don’t take kindly to having my belongings stolen or destroyed.”

  She didn’t like the cold gleam in his eyes. Not at all. But she pressed her lips together, refusing to apologize.

  “You’ll have to settle with me, little tenderfoot. I figure you owe me something to compensate me for my loss.’’

  And he moved toward her. One step. Then another.

  But Bryony reacted swiftly, whirling to run from him across the darkened barn. A gasp escaped her as she heard his quick pursuit, and snatching up her skirts, she clambered onto the rickety ladder leading up to the loft.

  Logan was right behind her, but her fear gave her unexpected speed and she reached the top alone, breathing hard and looking frantically this way and that.

  Where was that gun? It was her only hope against him. She hunted desperately for the derringer in the soft mounds of hay, but just as she spotted it, she was grabbed from behind and pushed roughly down into the hay, her struggles to free herself useless as Texas Jim Logan pinned her to the ground.

  Bryony let out a scream, fighting him with all of her strength, but he held her helpless beneath him, his hard, muscled body pressing her into the hay as his strong hands gripped her wrists.

  “I’m not going to hurt you. Stop shouting—and lie still, damn it.”

  But it was several more moments before she gave up. And only because she was breathless.

  “Let me go—now!” she gasped.

  “Sure thing,” he muttered. “If you’re ready to talk sense.” Releasing her wrists, he eased off of her, a somber expression on his face as he peered at her through the gloom of the barn.

  “Damn it, Bryony, I’d never hurt you. You don’t believe it, but it’s true.”

  She shot to a sitting position and stared into his eyes. Something quivered in her heart. His gaze was level and firm. Honest. There was no anger in his dark blue eyes. Instead, they were searching her face, a rueful smile twisting his mouth.

  “You’re right, I don’t believe it.” She swallowed. “I don’t believe a word coming from a man like you.”

  “You reckon you know what kind of man I am.” His blue eyes held hers, gleaming steadily in the darkness. “But you don’t. You only think you do.”

  Suddenly, Bryony grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. Without thinking, she kissed him, a quick, mad kiss that seemed to come out of nowhere—or perhaps it came from the yearning of her heart.

  “What kind of man are you?” she whispered, her fingers tightening on his shirt. “Tel
l me, Texas. Show me.”

  His arms went around her, holding her gently, firmly. Even as Bryony felt herself melting against him, he kissed her with a tenderness she’d never expected. Heat beat through her as his mouth and tongue teased her lips, and his strong hands pressed her to the hardness of his chest.

  He kissed her with such heat that Bryony whimpered with pleasure. She’d never felt such pleasure—or even dreamed of it. Eagerly, she kissed him back as if it was the most sweet and natural thing in the whole world to do.

  When his hands moved hungrily to her breasts, she moaned. Her nipples hardened and grew erect beneath his strong massaging fingers and Bryony gave herself up to the sensations of pleasure that rushed over her. The feel of his hard body against hers, and his now rough, devouring kisses left her breathless, robbed of all power to think or speak, capable only of reacting with the same deeply animal passion that drove him. She entwined her arms about his neck, pulling his head down close... closer, her lips parting to welcome his warm mouth as she eagerly returned his kisses.

  She was lost in a magical world of fire and pleasure, aching with a desire she’d never experienced before and which she didn’t understand. Moaning softly as he nibbled at her earlobe, she pressed against him, clutching him and gasping when his mouth began to wander downward across her throat until his lips brushed the throbbing pulse at the base of her throat.

  Closing her eyes, she buried her fingers in the thickness of his hair.

  “Bryony, you’re so damn beautiful,” he whispered hoarsely, his fingers brushing at her gown and accidentally ripping her chemise, as he sought to bare her breasts to his caressing hands and lips. Then, driven by a need that had been building torturously inside him, he began pulling at her skirt, hiking it up above her hips. His hand reached up toward her thighs, wanting to touch her more intimately, but at the first touch of this virgin spot, Bryony gasped in instinctive terror.