Maverick Heart

by Joan Johnston

  “Go back to the house, Freddy,” Rand said.

  “But, Rand—”

  “Do what I say!”

  “You can’t order me around,” she answered sharply, frightened and alarmed by the deadly menace in Rand’s gray eyes and the killing light in Tom’s. “I’ll go where I like, when I like. And I plan to stay right here.”

  Tom laughed. “If that was my filly, she’d go where she was reined.”

  “I don’t belong to anyone,” Freddy retorted. “Nobody has the right to tell me what I can and can’t do.” That right was inviolable. Fighting for it was what had gotten her into this mess in the first place.

  “Hear that, green pea?” Tom said. “The little lady gave you your marching orders. Now skedaddle back to the ram pasture like a good little boy.”

  “I have no intention of going anywhere before I teach you a lesson in manners.” Rand lifted his fists in a boxing stance.

  Tom bent over and hooted with laughter. “If that isn’t the damnedest thing I’ve ever seen. A flat-heeled gunsel all puffed up like a banty rooster.”

  Tom pulled his gun from the holster so fast Freddy didn’t see him do it. The lethal revolver was suddenly in his hand, pointed at Rand.

  “I’m telling you to butt out,” Tom said in a brittle voice.

  Rand paled, but he didn’t move a step in any direction. “If you’re going to shoot, shoot. Otherwise, put that thing away and defend yourself.”

  “Why, you—”

  The sound of another gun being cocked froze Tom in place.

  “Put the gun down, Tom,” Miles said.

  All three of them turned to the door of the barn where Miles stood with his Colt Peacemaker aimed at Tom’s heart. Verity’s frightened face showed beyond his shoulder.

  “I said put the gun down.”

  Tom slowly lowered his gun to the barn’s dirt floor.

  “Kick it toward me.”

  Tom did as he was ordered.

  Miles leaned down to pick up the gun without taking his eyes off Tom and tucked it in his belt. Then he returned his gun to his holster. “If you two have some business to settle, you can do it now.”

  “Miles—”

  “Shut up, Verity,” Miles said.

  “Rand—”

  “Be still, Freddy,” Rand said.

  “Step back and give them room to fight, Freddy,” Miles said.

  Freddy backed her way across the straw-strewn floor to join Verity, who put an arm around her shoulder. It was questionable which of the two women was supporting whom. Freddy had a heightened awareness of her surroundings. The stench of manure, the incessant buzz of the flies, sunlight streaming in mottled golden shafts through cracks in the slatted wall, the stomp of a horse in one of the stalls.

  “All right, Tom. You wanted to fight,” Miles said. “Here’s your chance.”

  Something malevolent flickered in Tom’s dark eyes. Then he charged, butting his head into Rand’s stomach and knocking him backward into the dirt, sending his hat flying.

  Nothing could have made Freddy leave, and yet it was difficult to watch the pounding Rand took in the first minutes of the fight. He was no match for the wily older man, who had apparently won his share of barnyard brawls.

  Freddy wasn’t sure how the other cowhands found out about the fight, but they filtered in through the door and stood watching as the two men locked in mortal combat. No one lifted a finger to help. No one—not even Miles—attempted to stop the fight.

  Rand’s lip was cut and bleeding. One eye was swollen nearly shut. He seemed to be favoring his wounded shoulder.

  Freddy felt her heart racing, felt the blood pounding in her temples. She felt sick inside that she might have been even the least bit responsible for provoking the fight. She was afraid for Rand. And for herself.

  What if Tom won the fight and claimed her as his prize? What if Rand won and refused to have anything more to do with her?

  Of the two alternatives, she found the latter more terrifying, because she had realized as she watched blood drip from Rand’s bruised and battered—and much beloved—face that she would die if he walked out of her life. The next time Rand asked her to marry him—and surely he would ask again—she was going to say yes.

  15

  Rand was losing the fight. His head ached, and his eyesight was blurred. He could barely keep his fists up to protect his face from the beating Tom was giving him. He had considered himself a good boxer at the club in London where he practiced, but he hadn’t counted on having dirt thrown in his eyes to blind him or on being kicked in the groin. This wasn’t two gentlemen enjoying a bout of fisticuffs. It was a war for survival.

  Rand was too battered to feel humiliated, too tired to feel defeated. His body kept saying Give up! His mind kept answering Never!

  Then he saw an opening. Tom had gotten too confident, had lowered his guard. Rand swung for Tom’s chin with his right fist and connected with a loud crack. Tom reeled and shook his head. Rand followed with a left and felt his knuckles split as he caught Tom squarely in the nose.

  Blood gushed. Tom howled and grabbed his broken nose.

  Rand punched him twice—right, left—in the belly, and Tom fell to his knees. Rand lifted his right one more time for a roundhouse to the temple that knocked Tom unconscious.

  Rand stood there, his knuckles bruised and bleeding, his left eye swollen nearly shut, his body aching from a dozen blows, and wondered why he did not feel triumphant. He looked around the barn, searching for Freddy, his glance passing each of the cowboys gathered there. He saw neither condemnation nor admiration in their eyes, merely acceptance. It made him feel good in a way that applause or cheers in Gentleman John’s Boxing Saloon in London never had or could.

  When he finally found Freddy in the crowd, he saw she was in tears.

  “Don’t cry, sweetheart,” he said, opening his arms to her. She ran to him, and he grunted painfully as she collided with his battered body.

  “Oh, Rand, I’m so sorry. I never thought—I didn’t know—” She lifted her hand to his face, but never touched the bleeding skin. “Look at your poor face. And your eye! Does it hurt?”

  The question was so ridiculous it made him want to smile. Which was a mistake, because that did hurt. He carefully dabbed at the blood on his split lip. “Are you all right?” he asked.

  “He only—” Freddy looked around at the circle of grim faces, remembered how Miles had described the fate of any man in the West who touched an unwilling woman, and revised what she was going to say. Rand had beaten Tom senseless. She didn’t want to see any more blood shed. “He didn’t hurt me. I’m fine.”

  Cookie had filled a pail with water from the horse trough outside the barn and dumped it on Tom to wake him up.

  Tom sat up sputtering, groaned, and crossed his arms over his belly.

  “Because you saved Rand and Freddy’s lives, I’m willing to forego hanging you,” Miles said. “But I want you off Muleshoe range before sundown. Cookie will have your wages ready when you ask for them.”

  Cookie extended a hand to help Tom to his feet. “Come on, Tom. Time to hit the trail.”

  Rand set Freddy behind him as Tom shot her a look of utter hatred.

  “What about my gun?” Tom said.

  Miles took it from his belt, emptied the cartridges into his palm, and handed the gun to Tom. “Good-bye, Tom.”

  “She wanted it,” Tom said angrily.

  Rand didn’t think he had the energy to lift his arm, but his fist connected with Tom’s mouth before the man knew what had hit him, and he landed on the ground again. Rand stood over the bleeding carcass and said through tight jaws, “Apologize to the lady.”

  “Go to hell!”

  Rand grabbed Tom by his shirt, yanked him to his feet, and drew back his fist.

  “I’m sorry!” Tom yelped. “Damn it to hell! Let me go!” He jerked himself free.

  Rand let him go, because it was all he could do to stay on his feet. He watched as Tom�
��s glance skipped from one to another of the men for any sign that they supported him, but they all had faces of stone. He had stepped over the boundary of accepted behavior and made himself an outlaw in their eyes.

  In silence Tom crossed to the tack room, collected his saddle, bridle, and blanket, then headed out to the corral to retrieve his horse.

  “Rand?”

  Rand looked down. The hand Freddy had around his waist also held his hat. She was lifting his arm over her shoulder to help support him.

  “Let’s get him into the house,” Verity said, coming to support Rand’s other side.

  “You men have work to do,” Miles said. “Get to it.”

  The cowboys disappeared.

  Miles followed the two women as they bear-led Rand into the house. If he hadn’t been constrained by the eyes of the cowboys he knew were on them, he would have picked Rand up and carried him. He thought he might have to, after all, the way Rand was weaving as he walked.

  The women settled Rand in a chair at the kitchen table and hurried to collect the things they would need to clean up his face and hands.

  “That cut on your cheek may need stitches,” Verity said.

  “Put a plaster on it, Mother. It’ll be fine.”

  “Do you have anything I could use, Miles?” Verity asked.

  Miles opened the top drawer of the sideboard, where he kept medicines and bandages in the niche beside the spoons and held up a sticking plaster. “Will this do?”

  “I suppose it will have to, if Rand won’t agree to stitches.” Verity manipulated the cut on Rand’s cheek to close the gap and applied the bandage.

  “Ow, Mother.”

  “Don’t be a baby, Rand. If you insist on fighting, you have to suffer the consequences.”

  Miles chuckled. “If I knew two pretty ladies were going to fuss over me, I think I might be able to rustle up some fisticuffs.”

  “Don’t you dare!” Verity warned.

  Rand hissed as Freddy dipped his entire right hand into a bowl of water. “That hurts!”

  “What do you expect?” Freddy said with asperity. “I don’t see a single knuckle that isn’t torn and bleeding.”

  Miles recommended a slab of raw meat for Rand’s black eye, but Rand said he would rather put up with the swelling than go to so much fuss.

  “If it’s all the same to everybody, I’d like to lie down somewhere for a while. I feel a little woozy.”

  Miles tipped Rand’s chin up to look into his eyes. “You seeing double?”

  “No. I’m just a little dizzy.”

  “Is there something wrong with him?” Verity asked Miles.

  “Aside from all the cuts and bruises, not a thing,” Miles replied. “He’ll be fine.”

  Rand rose and headed for the door.

  “Where do you think you’re going?” Verity asked, hands on hips.

  “To the bunkhouse to lie down.”

  Verity pointed to the bedroom door. “You’ll lie down right here where I can keep an eye on you.”

  “Mother—”

  “Miles, tell him not to argue with me,” Verity said.

  “Don’t argue with your mother, Rand. Besides, you’d lose face with the hands if they caught you lying down in the middle of the day—even after a licking like the one you just took.”

  “You’re kidding,” Rand said.

  Miles shook his head. “Afraid not. There’s no mollycoddling here.”

  “Mollycoddling?” Verity said. “He’s just been beaten within an inch of his life!”

  Miles turned to her, his face somber, his piercing gray eyes hooded. “If you two women weren’t here, I’d have cleaned him up and sent him back out to work the rest of the day.”

  “What kind of place is this?” Verity asked, shaking her head in disbelief.

  “Unforgiving. Unrelenting. A man here doesn’t get second chances.”

  “All the more reason Rand should take time to recover from this awful brawl.”

  Miles shrugged. “I won’t argue the matter.”

  Rand picked up his new Western hat with its snakeskin band—it had simply appeared on his bunk one morning—and gingerly set it on his head. “Guess I’ll be getting back to work.”

  “Suit yourself,” Miles said. But he was thinking his son had sand. He wondered whether Rand had inherited any of his grit and gumption from his father, or whether it was the way Verity had raised Rand that had given him such strong character. Likely the latter, for which, he supposed, he ought to thank her sometime.

  “Rand, you can’t do this,” Verity protested.

  “Please don’t worry, Mother. I’ll be fine.”

  Freddy bit her lip but said nothing.

  “What? No complaints? No criticism?” Rand chided her, slipping a torn knuckle under her chin and forcing her to look him in the eye.

  “You heard what Miles said. The other men expect you back at work.”

  He caressed her chin between his finger and thumb. “Thanks, Freddy,” he murmured.

  “For what?”

  “For having confidence in me.”

  “I’d feel better if you’d let me come along, Rand. I promise I won’t get in the way.”

  “What about it, sir? Can Freddy come along and help mend fence?”

  “I don’t see why not,” Miles said. “It might be useful to have someone around if you keel over.”

  “Let’s go,” Rand said, ushering Freddy out ahead of him. “I’ll bring her back for supper,” he promised.

  The instant the front door closed behind them, Verity whirled on Miles. “I can’t believe what I just saw. He has no business walking around injured like that!”

  “You’ve raised him to be a fine, strong young man, Verity. Now let him act like one.”

  “He should be in bed.”

  “If he wants to be boss of the Muleshoe someday, he’s doing exactly what he should be doing.”

  “What’s so important about impressing a bunch of misfits in strange hats and cowboy boots?” Verity ranted.

  Miles eyes turned flinty. “He isn’t doing it to prove anything to them. He’s doing it to prove something to himself.”

  “Exactly what is he proving?”

  “That he can keep going when he doesn’t think he can. That nothing can beat him down. That his body is only a vessel, and his mind can make it work far beyond what it should be able to endure.”

  “You sound like you’re speaking from experience.”

  “I am.”

  “It seems your lessons were harder than mine.”

  His lip curled. “I doubt that. Different, perhaps.”

  “I don’t want to lose him, Miles.”

  “Neither do I, Verity.” Not now. Not yet. Not ever in my lifetime.

  He watched her deep-blue eyes turn liquid, then brim with tears. He opened his arms, and she stepped into them. He had missed having her there. She had only come to him for comfort, but she had come to him.

  And then she whispered, “Make love to me, Miles.”

  His heart thudded. He didn’t say a word, afraid he would say the wrong thing. He simply picked her up in his arms and carried her into the bedroom, closing the door behind them with his foot.

  He sat her on the bed and stood before her to undress. He unknotted his bandanna and let it drop, then started unbuttoning his shirt. He yanked it down off his shoulders, then pulled his long john shirt up over his head.

  She stood and took the two steps that brought her close enough to touch. Her fingertips roamed through the dark hair on his chest, then slid around him to caress the awful scars on his back. “Turn around, Miles.”

  “Verity—”

  “I want to see. Turn around.”

  Miles felt as though someone were tightening a band around his chest, making it impossible to breathe, but he did as she bid him. He had seen the scars himself only once, nineteen years ago, by holding his shaving mirror up before an oval dressing mirror in a room in the Menger Hotel in San Antonio. The
sight had made him gag.

  He flinched as her fingers traced several of the dozens of lash marks left by the cat-o’-nine-tails. Then he felt her lips against his flesh.

  When he allowed himself to breathe again, his exhale become a groan.

  “Miles.”

  She touched his arm, urging him to turn around again to face her and when he didn’t, moved around to stand in front of him. She braced her hands on his forearms and stood on tiptoe to kiss the scar at the edge of his mouth.

  That bit of tenderness broke the bounds of restraint that had held him still for her examination. His arms circled her and pulled her tight against him. His palms cupped her buttocks in the worn denim, rubbing her belly against his hardened shaft. His mouth captured hers and, with a groan of yearning and satisfaction, he thrust his tongue into her mouth in an imitation of their bodies being joined.

  “I want you,” he said urgently against her lips. “I need you.” It isn’t safe to love her.

  “Yes, Miles. Yes.” To anything. To everything.

  He lifted her into his arms and laid her on the bed.

  Verity never took her eyes off Miles as he unbuttoned her buttons, one at a time. She would have been just as happy if he had ripped the shirt off her, but he removed it slowly and carefully, briefly caressing her stomach, her shoulders, her back, until she was trembling when he was done.

  He untied her chemise and drew it over her head, dipping his mouth to capture one of her nipples while her hands were caught overhead in the garment. Once she was free, her fingers tunneled into his hair, and she lay back on the bed, holding his mouth against her breast, where he suckled until her body arched upward. His hand cupped her through her jeans, his thumb seeking out the bud of her desire.

  She groaned, a guttural sound of unbearable pleasure. “Miles, please,” she begged. For release. For satisfaction. For the chance to give back to him the joy he brought to her.

  Her hands roamed his chest and shoulders and slid down his back, until the belt around his jeans stopped her journey. She quickly found the buckle and removed it, then resumed her journey of exploration.

  Miles stripped Verity bare, the patience somehow dissipating the more of her flesh he touched, the more of it he saw, and then he stripped himself. He found the marks on her belly where the skin had stretched to accommodate his son and kissed them reverently, wishing he had possessed the right to hold her when their child was growing inside her.