by Patty Devlin
She had wanted to go—to escape the scene in the house, but he probably did not trust her to return without a weapon or go for help.
“I had better show you,” she said, realizing she did not want to be stuck alone with the outlaws, either.
She slipped on her own boots and put her brother-in-law’s Stetson hat on her head, dashing out into the rain to the coop.
“I am sorry about all this,” he said when they were inside, taking her aback.
She knew to enter the coop quietly, and Buddy, the crazy rooster was used to her, but at the sound of the deep voice, the cock flew up protectively, charging them with wings flapping and sharp claws flying.
She gave a little scream, as she had always been afraid of the stupid cock, and the tall stranger thrust her behind him and snatched up the rooster by his neck, snapping it in one quick motion.
She stared, her jaw hanging open.
“Looks like we are having chicken for breakfast tomorrow.”
“You killed him!” she said indignantly, her hands on her hips.
“Yes, ma’am, I did. And I did you a favor. That cock was too aggressive.”
Since she didn’t know the first thing about roosters, she merely stomped over to the hens and began to search their nests. She found two more eggs. Turning to leave the coop she stopped in her tracks.
Pride leaned against the door, swinging the rooster by its feet, blocking her exit.
“My name is Sam, Sam Pride.”
She met his eyes, then looked away. She truly did not want to make friends with this man but it would take effort to resist his charisma. He had a way about him that turned her knees weak—charming, confident and take-charge. Not to mention handsome, with sapphire blue eyes contrasting with brown hair, and a dimple in his chin.
“Mabelle Lawson,” she gritted.
“Mabelle, listen. I am sorry about that spanking, and I regret barging in on you like this. I can’t control those men, but I promise I will do my best to keep you from getting hurt.”
She rolled the eggs around each other in her palm. “Thank you,” she said grudgingly.
Still, he did not move to unblock the doorway.
“You have a lot of pluck. I don’t know what you’re doing here all by yourself, but I admire you for it.”
“My husband’s coming back—”
He stopped her with a little shake of his head. “You and I both know no one is coming.”
A shiver ran up her spine. How did he know that? The momentary trust growing between them ebbed away. Just because he said he meant to protect her, did not mean he would. She had no reason to believe he was any different from the men inside.
#
Something about the feisty little spitfire made him want to defend her to the death. Her cheeks had flushed pink, and her lips were parted as if she meant to say something, but had forgotten. They were berry colored, and full. He wanted to drag his own mouth over hers and taste them. And he had a feeling a woman like her would be a wildcat in bed.
She tossed a braid over her shoulder and considered him. “Are you going to move or are we going to stand here like this all day?”
He grinned. “Am I going to have to spank you again, or can you mind your temper in there and not get yourself killed?”
She looked sullen. “I’ll mind it,” she grumbled.
He stepped aside and swung the door open, allowing her to slip past him. She gathered her calico skirts up in one hand to run across the mud pools to the porch, the fabric pulled taut across her backside, reminding him of the sight of that delectable anatomy bared to his view. Of course, he did not want her to endanger herself, but he would not mind if she sassed him a bit more in private. Bringing her to heel would be a privilege, rather than a chore.
He walked to the water pump and filled the bucket there, carrying it and the unfortunate rooster back to the ranch house.
He tossed the rooster on the table where the men sat and handed Scotty a tin cup. “Slit its throat and let the blood run into this,” he instructed.
Scotty gave him a dubious look, but as a follower by nature, he did as instructed.
He started to order Mabelle to heat the water in a pot for him, but then thought twice and did it himself, not wanting to tempt her into an altercation in front of the boys. As they stood side by side at the stove, her sleeve brushed his. She snapped her head to look at him, a mixture of surprise and something else on her face.
His skin tingled with pleasure at the nearness of her, so close he could smell the rain in her hair. He started to reach for a braid, wanting to feel it between his fingers, but she stepped back, looking away.
He knew only a fool would torture himself with thoughts about Mabelle Lawson at a time like this. He was a dead man, with a five hundred dollar bounty on his head, running with a band of outlaws who would get him killed in less than a week. He had no business sniffing at Mabelle’s door.
“All right boys,” Mabelle said, flipping the last flap jack onto a plate and slinging it in the middle of the table. “Plates are up there,” she said, pointing at the shelf behind them.
The men attacked the food, hungry after eating nothing but squirrel for the past two days.
She had set fresh butter on the table and they slathered it on, the milk fat melting into rivers of golden goodness as they shoveled the fluffy cakes into their mouths. Sam ate half his stack before he realized Mabelle had none. She stood off to the side, her arms folded across her chest, looking uncomfortable. There were only four chairs for the table, and even if she had a chair, no flap jacks remained on the serving plate.
He stood up, his gentlemanly instincts returning. “Mabelle, please,” he said, swallowing the food in his mouth and indicating the chair and his half-eaten meal.
“No,” she said with a little shake of her head, but she eyed the pancakes hungrily.
“I'll eat 'em,” Scotty offered, reaching for them.
He yanked them out of the outlaw's reach. “Not you,” he said, giving Scotty a withering look. He put an arm around Mabelle's waist and guided her to his chair, pulling it out and plunking her down. “Eat.”
She glared up at him, but when she saw his grin, the tension in her face eased. “I would say ‘thank you’, but there is no cause to thank you for my own food,” she muttered.
“You’re welcome,” he chirped with exaggerated cheeriness.
“I woulda said 'thank you',” Scotty grumbled.
A dimple appeared on Mabelle’s cheek, the suppressed mirth transforming her face. The sight of it made him hungry to tease out a real smile, to see her beautiful countenance free of strain and sorrow.
The water on the stove began to boil and he dropped the rooster into the pot.
Mabelle looked at him dubiously. “Weren’t you supposed to pluck it first?”
He laughed. “Is that why you have nothing but pancakes to offer us? You don’t know how to prepare a chicken?”
She flushed and stood up, picking up the empty plates without answering him.
“The flapjacks were good,” Curly observed, “but next time make more.”
She rolled her eyes as she walked to the washtub and dropped the dishes in, then stood beside him, peering into the pot. Her arms crossed her chest, but he sensed a softening in her, as if she wanted to learn, but just could not admit herself lacking.
“You boil it first, then dunk it in a pot of cold water. Makes it easier to pluck. This full-grown cock will be a little tough, so I’m thinking once the feathers are removed, we should boil it overnight to soften it up. It will make a tasty breakfast.”
She lifted her long-lashed eyes to his face, studying him.
“How long have you been alone here?” he asked softly, so the other men wouldn't hear
She drew back, her lips tightening.
When she opened her mouth, he cut her off. “Come on, Mabelle, the truth this time.”
Sorrow flitted across her face and he instantly regretted pushing her.
“Never mind,” he said.
Picking up the bucket, he headed back out in the rain to fill it for the cold water dunking. Darkness had fallen, the stars blackened by the clouds. The rain had settled to a steady drizzle, the wind no longer forcing it to fly at an angle.
Mabelle needed him. Not just to protect her from the Curly Jones gang, but she needed a man to run her little ranch. He pretended for a moment he could stay, filling those shoes for her. But the thought of running a ranch brought back the pain of his own bitter loss and he gave his head a shake to clear it.
Chapter Two
The smell of chicken permeated the ranch house, and for a moment, she thought she was back in Virginia in her mother’s home. Blinking, she rubbed her eyes and looked around. The sound of a loud snore in the living room brought reality back with a shock.
The outlaws.
She jumped out of bed and pulled on her shoes. She had slept in her clothes, not willing to even partially undress with the men in the other room. Ignoring the mouth-watering aroma, she ducked outside without glancing at the sleeping men and walked through the steady rain to the barn.
She stopped short in the doorway, shocked to find Sam seated on the stool under Sally, milking her with efficient pulls, his experience obvious. The muscles of his arms bulged as he worked and she found herself wondering how it would feel to have his big hands on her body. But then she had already experienced that, had she not? And it had been quite painful. Except now she found the sting of the memory gone, replaced by a girlish excitement, as if she could not wait to find herself over his knee again.
She shook her head. She must be mad.
“Good morning,” he said, looking up at her from under the brim of his hat. He had blue eyes, with smile lines crinkling the outer corners. She ignored the flutters of excitement in her belly.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“What does it look like?”
She walked over and leaned her hip against the stall, watching him work. The water trough appeared to be full of clean water, and the cow munched fresh hay. He looked at ease in the stall, like a rugged, handsome rancher, except for the twin pistols at his waist. A cowboy, then. The kind who rode the herds across the territories. Sally chewed her fresh hay as if the newcomer was no stranger to her.
“I am surprised she let you. It took weeks to get her used to me.”
He smiled. “It is all about confidence with animals. You gotta let them know who is in charge. I gave her no choice to refuse.”
His words reminded her again of her spanking and her cheeks grew warm. He glanced over his shoulder at her and his mouth turned up, as if he guessed her thoughts.
“When are you leaving?” she demanded.
His smile faded. “It will be up to Curly. I doubt we’ll depart in this rain, though.”
“Why is Curly in charge of you?” she asked, sensing the wrongness of the dynamic. Sam dominated the entire group, his leadership, clear-thinking and skill obviously exceeding the rest of them. Yet the men all deferred to Curly.
“He’s not in charge of me,” Sam hissed. “And I am not a member of his gang,” he declared, as if it mattered to him what she believed. “I am Wanted, though,” he said. “And so are the three of them. They are dangerous men, Mabelle. I intend to separate myself from them as soon as I can. But first I need to separate them from you.”
Gratitude rushed in, unbidden. Gratitude and something more: need.
Oh, Christ, she had been away from civilization too long. Perhaps any act of kindness now would cause her to fancy herself in love. Loneliness caused her to fall for the first man who appeared on her doorstep—an outlaw who spanked.
Sam finished milking Sally and stood, setting the pail outside the stall where she watched. He leaned against the wood, one hand on either side of her, trapping her.
“So what happened to your husband?”
She swallowed, looking into his blue eyes. “I never had one,” she admitted, her voice cracking.
Already invading her space, he leaned closer. “I didn’t think so.”
She tried not to show her fluster. “Why not?”
He brushed her cheek with the backs of his fingers. “Your innocence shows in the way you blush.”
At the word blush, her face flamed, as if under his command. “My innocence?” she managed to croak. “Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
He grinned and cocked an eyebrow. “What do you think I’m saying?”
She rolled her eyes and huffed. “Never mind!” she said, giving his chest a shove which did not budge him.
He chuckled, and just when she began to panic about the outlaw’s intentions, he released her, picking up a pitchfork and returning to Sally’s stall. She watched as he mucked it with the same easy efficiency with which he had milked the cow.
She ought to go on with the rest of the chores—collecting eggs from the henhouse and feeding the chickens, but she did not want to leave his steady presence. She walked over to the horse stalls and stroked the neck of one of the mares.
“That’s Jim’s horse. He’s more fond of her than he is of any human being,” he said. “The pinto is mine.”
She picked up the curry brush and walked to the pinto horse, trying to act confident, as Sam had advised. She did not excel in the care of animals, though she had learned more in the last six months than she would have believed possible when she left Richmond.
“What’s his name?”
“Bean.”
“As in pinto bean?”
“Yep.”
“It does not have much of a ring to it, does it?”
“Stomp on her foot, Bean!” he called out and his horse nickered and stamped in response.
She laughed. “Never mind,” she said, scooting out of the stall. “I’m leaving. I don’t know what I’m doing anyway.”
Sam leaned on his pitchfork. “Sure you do. You were doing just fine.”
“No, now you made me nervous. I need all ten of these toes.”
“Why don’t you have any horses here, Mabelle? Who left you here all by yourself?”
Caught off guard, she tugged on one of her braids, examining the thread that tied it with intense scrutiny.
“Natives stole the horses and my sister and brother-in-law died,” she admitted. A lump in her throat made her turn away. She had not cried since the day she dragged her sister’s body to bury out back beside her husband. The graves were two deep holes she had not known she could dig. She had learned just how capable she could be, surviving all by herself.
“Hey.” His voice came at her ear just before his hands grasped her shoulders.
She stiffened.
“I’m sorry for your loss.”
She did not answer.
“How long have you been alone?”
“Three months.”
“Well, you’ve done a fine job keeping the ranch up by yourself.”
She snorted, looking over her shoulder at him. “What do you know? All you have seen is the inside of the barn and the house. You don’t know the state of the cattle, or the garden, or—”
He turned her to face him and gave her a gentle shake. “You are managing it. You could use some help, but you are doing fine on your own.”
She could not fathom why his words would make her cry, but her vision turned blurry and she jerked out of his grasp. “I need to go feed the chickens,” she muttered as she stumbled out the door.
#
After a hearty breakfast of stewed chicken, Sam returned to the barn to fix the door. He could see why Mabelle had been unable to repair it herself. Even if the hinges had not pulled off, the four foot wide structure weighed too much for a woman to pick up and stabilize enough to fit them. He found a screwdriver with the other tools and removed the door entirely, laying it on its side to re-attach the hinges.
Mabelle came out again, looking adorable in the wide-brimmed Stetson hat she wore. She watched him without comment.
She did not answer, but circled around the door to stand closer to him. “I guess I believe you were trying to help,” she conceded.
He grinned up at her, a shock of excitement running through him when their gazes met and held. She blinked her long lashes, the coffee-colored depths of her eyes warm and inviting.
“No lasting harm, right?” he teased. “I probably have more of a mark from where you bit me,” he said, twisting to pull up his shirt.
“Whoa, whoa! Leave your shirt on, mister,” she exclaimed, waving her hands as if to ward off the sight.
He chuckled. “What? Afraid you might like what you see?”
She made a scoffing sound. “In your dreams!”
He refrained from telling her just exactly how she might appear in his dreams and worked on pushing a few twigs into the stripped hole in the door before screwing the hinge back on. Looking up again, he saw her staring at his chest, as if she were imagining him with his shirt off.
She blinked and stepped back when she realized he had caught her looking. “Are you finished?” she said, obviously hoping to head off any teasing.
“Won’t know until I get it hung back up there,” he said.
“Thank you for doing this.” She plucked at her skirt.
He gave her a wink. “My pleasure, Mabelle. It is the least I can do, considering.”
“Considering what?” she asked, her hands on her hips. “You spanked me like a child?”
He laughed. “No, I would say you earned that by the time we were through. I meant for allowing us to impose on your hospitality.”
“I didn’t think I had a choice.”
“You were right,” he said, his humor fading as concern over keeping her safe yet another night rushed in.
After lunch he walked out in the rain to look over the cattle herd. The calves looked healthy, and he marveled how she had handled the calving season all on her own.
When he returned, Mabelle stood churning butter on the porch looking furious. It took him a moment to realize why: Curly slouched on the other side of her, peeing off the edge of the steps.