“I'll lie as cold as ice and not respond.”
“Now you've taken the oath. You have to pledge it by drinking the cider.”
The women all tipped their cups and took a swallow of the pungent brew.
The Sweetwater Ladies Social Club broke up not long afterward, with each woman wondering—and in some cases deliciously anticipating—how her husband would react to the oath she had taken, with more than one thinking that abstinence just might make the heart grow fonder.
Miss Devlin watched with mixed feelings as the rancher and nester women left the meetinghouse united by their cause. She was convinced that if all the women held firmly to their oaths, her plan could bring peace to Sweetwater. She wondered how many of them would actually be able to do what they had promised, and just how long the men could last without the comfort and sexual succor of their wives.
She glanced out the window and discovered the gunslinger leaning indolently against a wooden column on the second-floor balcony of the Townhouse Hotel. He was wearing a black shirt, but it was unbuttoned and pulled out of his Levi's, exposing a chest covered with curly black hair.
Miss Devlin was confused by the feelings that assaulted her as she stared up at him. She couldn't understand why she found him so compelling, or why she found it so pleasing simply to look at him. She quickly put a firm rein on the nebulous something she was feeling. She simply was not going to let herself think about that awful, horrid, rude man. Miss Eden Devlin was above that sort of silliness. She had hope that her courtship with Felton Reeves would prove fruitful. If so, she soon would have a husband, and someday children, without the necessity of ever losing absolute control over her emotions. That way lay disaster, as she had learned from her mother's tragic experience.
Eden turned around and forced herself to look up at the gunslinger. He had been joined on the balcony by one of the ladies from the Dog's Hind Leg. She watched in awe as the half-clad woman brushed up against him, her nearly bared breasts teasing his hairy chest.
Miss Devlin stepped back from the window, frightened by feelings she didn't dare identify. She placed a hand against her belly where a tight, achy sensation had arisen. Suddenly, she was glad she had no husband to resist. Because it appeared the feelings she had so long denied, and had kept so rigidly under control, were more powerful than she had ever suspected.
She straightened her shoulders and stuck her chin up in the air, more determined than ever that she would not feel those feelings again. Surely as a rational, educated woman she could avoid the pitfall of allowing her emotions to control her life. At least, that was what she told herself as she left the meetinghouse for home.
Miss Devlin kept her gaze straight ahead as she marched past the Townhouse Hotel, gritting her teeth against the shiver caused by the sensual male chuckle that drifted down from the balconpassed by.
Chapter 4
A man don't get thirsty till he c
ain't get water.
“THE SWEETWATER STOCK GROWERS ASSOCIATION won't be needing your services after all, Mr. Kerrigan.”
“Just Kerrigan. No mister.”
“Certainly . . . Kerrigan.”
Burke Kerrigan calmly perused the uncomfortable men sitting timidly on the delicate chairs and sofas in the drawing room of the Westbrook mansion. The weather-hewn cattlemen in their leather chaps and spurs seemed out of place in a room lit by a brilliant crystal chandelier and featuring rose-point lace curtains, a fireplace fronted with English tile, polished parquet floors, and handcarved cherry woodwork. He presumed the house had been built for a woman, for while a man might take pride in its appearance, and appreciate its beauty, the cowmen he knew would not readily welcome so domesticated a stomping ground.
The members of the Association would have been surprised to know the agitation he felt at the announcement that he had wasted his time coming to Wyoming. Kerrigan had already made plans for the balance of the money he was supposed to have earned for this job. He had been thinking lately about the future. Most hired guns didn't live to see their hair turn gray. Kerrigan already sported a touch of silver at the temples. He figured to get out of the business before his luck ran dry. Every job moved him one step closer to that goal. So he was more than a little disappointed that this deal was going bust.
Kerrigan's voice revealed none of what he was feeling when he asked, “You got rid of the rustlers on your own?”
Oak Westbrook chewed on the soggy end of his unlit Havana cigar—Regina forbade him lighting it anywhere except his study—before he slid it to a corner of his mouth and said, “Not exactly. Uh, something has come up . . . uh . . . I'm not sure we're going to be able to wait the length of time it would take you to find the rustlers before we have to come to some accommodation with the nesters.”
“I don't understand,” Kerrigan said flatly.
“Uh . . . it's not something I can easily explain,” Oak hedged.
“Just tell him,” Rusty Falkner said in an irritable voice.
“Tell me what?”
“We're being blackmailed,” Cyrus Wyatt blurted.
“By whom?” Kerrigan asked.
“Our wives,” Oak answered through jaws clamped ti on his cigar. Although the gunslinger stared at him in patent disbelief, that was all Oak could bring himself to say. He had no intention of admitting the hoops Regina had put him through last night. First the teasing, the taunting, the kind of anticipation he hadn't experienced in thirty years, and then the ultimatum given in soft, dulcet tones before the bedroom door slammed right in his face. He shook with anger as he remembered pounding on the door in vain. Only Regina's warning that he would disturb Hadley had made him turn tail. He had spent the night in the guest room. On a too short bed. With a scratchy wool blanket. And a pillow with feathers that made him sneeze.
He hadn't felt any better when Rusty and Cyrus and a half-dozen other husbands had arrived at the Association meeting ranting about equally high-handed treatment from their wives.
“I told her she was getting a mite too big for her britches,” Cyrus had related, “and you know what she said? There was no chance she was going to be ‘getting big' anytime soon unless this business with the nesters is settled!”
There were veiled hints to Cyrus that he should have taken his wife anyway, if he wanted her, to which he had replied in heated tones, “I tried that. She just laid there like . . . like . . .”
“Like a bumpy log,” another man volunteered. “That's what my wife did,” he mumbled when he became the object of all eyes.
From what the members of the Association had been able to piece together before Burke Kerrigan had arrived to silence them, all the wives in Sweetwater—including the nesters' wives—had joined in the game. The rough-and-ready cattlemen exchanged guilty glances, wondering how they were going to admit to the gunman from Texas in what particular way they were being bullied by their wives.
“Maybe if I knew what your problem is, I could help solve it,” the gunslinger volunteered.
Several of the men snickered. Another coughed nervously. One blushed.
“It's a . . . hmm . . . a delicate matter,” Rusty said.
The gunslinger rose and glanced around the room of miserable, even surly, faces. “Then I guess if you don't need me, I'll be heading back to Texas.”
Kerrigan hadn't gone two steps toward the door before Oak rose and cried out, “Wait!” He turned to the others in the room and said, “I hate like hell letting those rustling nesters get the best of me. What have we got to lose if we let Kerrigan in on the plot against us?”
“Our pride,” someone muttered.
“In my opinion, that's a small price to pay if we get satisfaction,” Oak opined in a somber voice. “We ought to at least give Kerrigan the chance to help us find a solution that doesn't involve outright surrender.”
Kerrigan stood patiently while
the men in the room their minds.
“Well, are you with me?” Oak demanded of his friends.
“Aw, for chrissake, Oak. Go ahead and blab,” Cyrus said. “I don't think I can get any lower in the lip than I already am.”
The gunslinger crossed to the fireplace and rested an arm on the brass-trimmed walnut mantel as he waited for the head of the Association to spill the beans.
“It isn't a pretty story,” Oak began, “but the gist of it is, our wives have joined forces with the nester wives in the cockeyed notion of keeping us out of our bedrooms until we settle our differences with the nesters.”
Kerrigan was hard pressed to keep from laughing, but he could see from the belligerent faces around him that it would be a mistake. “Why not simply stay out of the bedroom until you catch the rustlers?”
“That could take weeks!” one man said.
“Months!” another exclaimed.
“There are other women besides your wives who could take care of your needs,” Kerrigan suggested.
“I already tried that,” someone interjected.
The gunslinger raised a surprised brow.
“The ladies at the Dog's Hind Leg are in cahoots with our wives,” he explained in a disgruntled voice.
“I see,” Kerrigan said, turning toward the fireplace to hide the grin he couldn't control. “Of course, you can't be expected to last indefinitely without your wives,” he said, “but surely you could last long enough for me to track down the rustlers. At least that would give you a bargaining chit with the nesters.”
“He's right,” Oak said. “I can last a . . . a month. How about the rest of you?”
No man was going to admit he was so tied to his wife's apron strings that he couldn't last so short a time without her—they had all been on cattle drives that long and more.
Rusty couldn't help remarking, “It ain't goin' to be easy.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is,” Kerrigan advised sagely.
In short order all those present had agreed to resist the charms of their wives—which had become infinitely more attractive now that they were forbidden—while Kerrigan searched out the rustlers. The Association would meet again in a month, or when Kerrigan caught the rustlers, whichever came first.
As the gathering rose from their seats to take refreshments Kerrigan asked, “Who came up with the crazy idea for your wives to bcade their bedroom doors?”
The men looked at one another with blank stares.
“I never thought to ask,” one said.
“Neither did I,” another offered.
Oak chomped down hard on his cigar. “I did.”
“Who was it?”
Each man avoided looking at the others, hoping to heaven that his wife wasn't the culprit.
“It was the schoolteacher, Miss Devlin,” Oak announced.
Kerrigan choked on his coffee.
A collective gasp rose from the crowd, followed by angry exclamations.
“Why, she ain't even married!”
“What business is this of hers?”
“She oughtta be tarred and feathered!”
“If that old maid knew what she was missing, she'd never have incited our wives to deny us,” Cyrus said.
“Little chance of that,” Wyatt said, “Plain as she is—”
“—and tall as a pine—” Cyrus interrupted.
“—and sharp-tongued to boot—” another offered.
“—there ain't a man likely even to give it a try,” Wyatt finished.
“I disagree,” Kerrigan said quietly. He couldn't have said why he championed Miss Devlin, because he knew from his own little experience with her that she was plain and tall and sharp-tongued. But she hadn't struck him as quite so awful as the members of the Association had painted her. Unfortunately, what the others heard in his statement was something far different than he had intended.
“You'd be willing to bed her?” Cyrus asked.
“That sure would take the starch out of her collar,” Rusty said with a sly grin.
“Rusty's right,” Oak agreed, his eyes narrowed in contemplation. “Miss Devlin could hardly incite our wives to deny us if she was enjoying the pleasures of the flesh herself.”
There was utter silence in the room as the horde of disgruntled husbands considered Oak's words.
“Are you suggesting what I think you're suggesting, Oak?” Cyrus asked incredulously.
“I'm merely saying that we've hired Kerrigan to handle the trouble in Sweetwater. Maybe we should add another little bit of trouble to the job. After all, a man of Mr. Kerrigan's considerable talents should be able to seduce a plain-faced spinster like Miss Devlin.” He turned to confront Kerrigan and added, “Especially when we offer him a substantial bonus for the job.”
Everyone waited with sucked-up guts to hear the gunslinger's response to this outrageous proposal. His eyelids were lowered, hiding his reaction, his voice emotionless when he asked, “How much of a bonus did you have in mind?”
“How about a hundred dollars?” Oak said.
“How about a thousand dollars?” the gunman replied.
His voice was curt, and Oak thought perhaps Kerrigan disapproved of the idea, except if he did, why hadn't he just said so instead of bargaining for more money? “That's a lot of cash.”
“As I understand the situation, what you're asking me to do will be well worth every penny,” the gunslinger drawled.
Oak's eyes scanned the room, getting tacit permission from those assembled. “All right,” he said at last. “One thousand dollars for the seduction of Miss Devlin.”
The gunslinger abandoned his negligent slouch by the fireplace and approached Oak. “It's a deal.”
Oak wanted to ask how and when they would know the deed was done, but remained silent in response to the icy coldness of Kerrigan's dark-eyed gaze when they shook hands.
“I'll be in touch,” Kerrigan said. Without taking the least notice of the men who stood gawking at him, he turned and left. They heard the heavy oak front door slamming shut behind him.
“How're we gonna know if he does what we hired him to do?” one man asked in the stupefied quiet that followed Kerrigan's departure.
“I imagine he'll turn the rustlers over to the sheriff,” Oak replied.
The man turned beet red. “No, I meant the other. A woman don't look no different when . . .”
“For crying out loud,” Cyrus said. “What makes you think he's going to be successful? I expect you're underestimating Miss Devlin. That woman would talk a man to death before she unbuttoned the first button.”
There were some relieved looks on the appalled faces of those men who couldn't quite believe to what ends their desperation had driven them. It was something quite out of the ordinary to hire a man to seduce an innocent woman. Their relief was short-lived.
“On the contrary,” Oak countered as hedoor through which the gunman had departed. “I think you're underestimating the persuasive powers of Mr. Kerrigan. To be on the safe side, however, I think we better keep this little bargain to ourselves.”
There was no objection to be heard from the men shifting uncomfortably around their consciences.
Meanwhile, on the other side of the valley, a similar meeting of nesters was under way led by Big Ben Davis. The farmers had gathered at the split-log home of one of the bachelors among them, Levander Early. Although the chinks in the walls had been stuffed with newspaper, the house was drafty. It had a dirt floor and shuttered windows. The single rectangular room served as bedroom, parlor, and kitchen. The farmers who had crowded inside the crude structure leaned against the wall, perched on the brass four-poster bed and straddled the benches at the kitchen table. Levander Early had claimed the rocker by the stone fireplace for himself.
“We cain't trust the Sweetwater Stock
Growers Association to deal fair,” Levander said. “I say we don't make up to 'em no matter what.”
“Easy for you to say,” Bevis Ives argued. “You and your friends don't have wives making your lives unbearable.”
Levander glanced quickly at the men who had been a part of his gang in the Montana Territory in the days before he had supposedly become an honest farmer in Wyoming. It hadn't been easy convincing Bud, Hogg, Doanie, and Stick that they could make a dishonest living in Sweetwater. He had carefully explained that being a part of the community was the perfect cover for their life of crime. They had all filed for adjoining land under the Homestead Act, and Levander had browbeaten his cohorts into plowing the land and planting crops, which they had harvested to their profit.
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