A Cowboy for Keeps

by Jody Hedlund

  “Might be wasting a whole lot of time growing my own hay,” he said as they urged their horses onto higher terrain up a hillside dotted in aspens, ponderosa pine, and Douglas fir. “Some say there’s enough natural grass here that we ain’t got nothing to worry about. But Judd said we should have extra in case we get a bad winter.”

  “Sounds like a wise decision. Are the winters severe?”

  “You’d think so since we’re out here in the middle of the Rockies. But the past couple have been pretty mild. Lots of snow, but it don’t stick around long enough here in South Park to keep the cattle from being able to graze.”

  “Better to be prepared than watch your herd starve to death.”

  “That’s what Judd said.” Wyatt reined in his horse and shifted to peer back over the direction they’d come.

  She did the same. At the sight that met her, she sucked in a breath of amazement. The view was just as spectacular to the west as it had been a short while ago in the east when they’d watched the herd of pronghorns. A panorama of high-peaked giants lifted their bald heads to the sky. The expanse was vast against a cloudless hazy blue.

  “I ain’t been here long,” he whispered reverently, “but already this land is winning me over something fierce.”

  “I can see why.”

  They sat in silence, taking in the landscape, letting the gentle morning breeze cool them as the sun warmed their heads. As with other times when she’d surveyed the wilderness, her thoughts turned heavenward with silent thanksgiving to the Creator who’d made such wonders.

  But even as her heart swelled with praise to a God who was big enough to make the mountains and valleys and everything in between, her own insignificance taunted her. Why would the Lord of the universe care about someone so unimportant, small, and inadequate? Although she’d been taught to say her prayers, and did so regularly, she’d always wondered why God would listen to her. Not when He was busy with other more important matters elsewhere.

  Of course, her stepmother and Thomas’s father, the pastor at her Illinois church, had assured her the Lord heard everyone, from the least of them to the greatest, and that He didn’t answer every prayer the way they wanted since He knew what they needed better than they did.

  Greta understood that, and she believed it. But she still couldn’t shake the feeling that her concerns were too trivial for so great a God, especially her concerns over Astrid’s health. If only she had a stronger faith . . .

  When Wyatt nudged his horse on, she released a sigh and put the thoughts from her mind. They rode a short distance farther into the wooded hillside before he stopped and slid down.

  She was off her horse before he could come around to assist her. Already she spotted the pale purple huckleberries near the forest floor. The small plants bearing the berries were loaded, bent with the weight of the fruit.

  They picked together until the area was cleared and one of their bags was full. Then they rode to another shaded grove covered with the berries. This time, she picked alone while he hiked off with his rifle to hunt, telling her he’d be no more than a hoot and holler away. Although she worked quickly and efficiently, her progress was slower by herself. And too quiet.

  During his absence, she realized she’d enjoyed spending time with him. They hadn’t spoken of anything deep or revealing, but he was easy to talk to, knowledgeable, and interesting.

  He reminded her of Thomas with his willingness to engage in conversation and treat her like a friend. But a current of something more told her Wyatt was no mere friend. Thomas had been ordinary, never standing out in a crowd. But Wyatt was so ruggedly handsome she couldn’t keep from noticing him. And while Thomas had always brought her a sense of peace and comfort, Wyatt made her pulse patter faster with strange anticipation.

  By late morning when she’d filled all the sacks they’d brought along, she rested on a large stone near where the horses were grazing along a small brook. She’d heard several shots and guessed Wyatt had some success with hunting. She hoped that meant he’d be back soon. After the time away from the ranch, she was anxious to see how Astrid was faring. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust Judd. Rather, she didn’t trust Astrid. Even when the child was sick, she wasn’t easy to handle.

  At the crackle of branches in the woods behind her, she breathed out her relief and slid off the rock. “Hope you got what you came for . . .”

  As she spun, her words died. Instead of Wyatt, three men stood a short distance away, their horses behind them. The tall one in the middle wore an eye patch and aimed his pistol at her.

  With a thin face and gangly limbs, he had the appearance of many of the men she’d encountered since starting her journey up into the mountains—ragged and undernourished. A look that testified to the scarcity of necessities and the difficulty of life in such a wild place.

  He raked his gaze from the top of her head to her boots, making her feel like a prized heifer. “Got what I came for?” He arched a brow. “Reckon maybe I just did.”

  Chapter 10

  At the echo of men’s voices, Wyatt halted. With his rifle slung over one shoulder and two grouse he’d shot over the other, he bumped up the brim of his hat with his elbow to get a better look around.

  The voices came again, this time followed by laughter and the angry shout of a woman.

  His muscles tensed. Was that Greta? And was someone bothering her?

  The Tarryall diggings were over the ridge along Tarryall Creek. Had some of the miners been out hunting this morning and happened upon her?

  Urgency propelled him forward until he reached an outcropping above the huckleberry patch where he’d left her. She was still there, and sure enough, several men surrounded her.

  As one of them grabbed her arm, anger flooded Wyatt. He dropped the grouse from his shoulder, grabbed his Colt, and fired a shot.

  The bullet flew through the accoster’s hat, knocking it from his head. Cursing, the man stumbled and fell, more from surprise than anything.

  Wyatt trained his revolver on the second fella and let another shot rip, this one landing in the dirt and leaves, forcing the culprit to jump back. He, too, cussed a blue streak that would have made the vilest tavern dweller sound angelic.

  Wyatt was tempted to put a bullet in the man’s backside for using such foul language around Greta, but he’d already aimed his gun at the third fella and sent a shot flying, hitting his pistol and forcing him to release it.

  Thankfully, Greta was a smart girl and hadn’t needed him to instruct her on what to do. She’d scurried away, unwound the lead ropes of their horses already laden with the berry sacks, and was climbing on top of her steed by the time he’d fired his third shot.

  Only then did he take a closer look at the scallywags, zeroing in on the tallest and scraggliest one with the eye patch who was picking himself and his hat up off the ground. “Roper Brawley, you oughta know better than to touch a woman without her permission.”

  Brawley’s curses faded, and he squinted up the hill in Wyatt’s direction. “McQuaid? That you?”

  “Yep. And that there is my wife.”

  Brawley’s homestead was north of Wyatt’s and was near the foothills too. At first, Brawley had tried to file a claim for the same one hundred sixty acres as Wyatt. It was a prime piece of grassland because of the river winding through it, which would not only make watering a herd easy, but provide irrigation for crops.

  Wyatt had gotten to the land office, finished the paperwork, and paid his fee, all in the same afternoon. Brawley had ridden in the next day, complaining that the homestead was his and that Wyatt had stolen it from him.

  The surveyor hadn’t budged on his decision, and Brawley had been forced to place a claim on the acreage north of Wyatt. It wasn’t a bad parcel, even had a little creek flowing into Wyatt’s bigger river. But they both knew Wyatt had gotten the far better place, and Brawley hadn’t been able to forget it.

  Brawley held up his hat and cursed again. “Look what you done to my hat, McQua
id.” He poked a finger through the hole that went through one side of his crown and out the other. “You’re gonna have to buy me a new hat now.”

  “I ain’t buying you a new hat.” Wyatt aimed his revolver on the second fella, who was reaching for his gun. “I’m thinking it’ll serve as a reminder that next time you so much as blow a breath on my wife, I’ll be blowing off your head instead of your hat.”

  From his periphery, he glimpsed Greta circling wide with the horses and heading up the hill toward him. Most women would have frozen up and acted all helpless, but she was doing everything just right.

  “Didn’t hear nothin’ about you getting married.” Brawley situated his hat on his head.

  “Now you’ve heard.” He fired another shot at Brawley’s partner who was inching his gun too high. This time Wyatt took aim at the sack he’d dropped at his feet. The bullet pinged hard, and Wyatt hoped it showed off his gun skills enough that the men wouldn’t try anything else. He might not be as fast as Judd, but his friend had taught him a fair share about shooting iron.

  “She just arrived on the stagecoach the other day.” Brawley’s gaze narrowed upon Greta now, and Wyatt didn’t like it. “How’d you end up getting married so quick?”

  He couldn’t very well explain to Brawley she was part of a cattle deal with Steele. The truth wasn’t exactly something he was proud of. Besides, he didn’t want Brawley knowing about the Shorthorns till the new herd was safe on his land. If his surly neighbor got wind of the bargain, no doubt he’d do everything he could to make sure the plans failed.

  “She was Phineas Hallock’s mail-order bride.” Wyatt fumbled with the answer. He had to figure out what to say because every man this side of the Continental Divide would be pestering him once word spread. “Offered to help her out for my friend’s sake.”

  “For your friend’s sake?” Brawley’s question ended in a laugh.

  Wyatt ventured a glance in Greta’s direction. She was drawing closer. He picked up his rifle and grouse with one hand and kept his revolver trained on the men with the other. Then he sidled toward her.

  “We all know why you scooped up a pretty little thing like that.” Brawley snorted. “But the real question is why she agreed to marry a clodhopper like you.”

  Wyatt hastened his pace, praying he could get Greta out of range before Brawley and his men decided to use them for target practice.

  “When your ranch ends up failing and you have no choice but to give me what’s mine, maybe I’ll end up with her too.”

  “No how, no way!” Wyatt ran the last few steps to Greta.

  She reached for his rifle and the grouse, freeing him to mount his horse. She waited to make sure he made it up before she nudged her horse forward. He did the same, trailing her. Once they were out of gunshot range, he kicked his horse into the lead.

  The descent was rocky and challenging, especially since he was in a hurry to put as much distance between them and Brawley as possible. When they finally reached more level ground, he picked up the pace, working into a gallop. Greta stayed close behind, low to her mount, clearly understanding the danger they were still in.

  They rode hard even after they were back on his claim. When the alfalfa field was in sight and the cabin and barn beyond, he tugged on the reins and halted. Greta pulled her mount alongside his and glanced over her shoulder.

  “They won’t follow us here,” he said.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yep.” Brawley wouldn’t dare. They might not have the same law and order in Colorado Territory that folks were used to in the civilized East, but a person couldn’t get away with committing crimes—at least not forever.

  As she shifted forward, only then did he notice that her face was pale and her pretty lips set tight.

  His gut cinched. Blast it all. Had he gotten to her too late? If so, he’d go back after Brawley and pump him chock-full of lead. “Did he hurt you?”

  “No, thank the Lord.” Her voice wobbled.

  Even with her reassurance, his stomach soured worse than bad whiskey. He slid down and was at her side in the next moment. “You sure?”

  She nodded but bit her lip.

  “Come on down,” he said gently. “We’ll walk a spell.”

  He took the grouse and rifle from her, then slung them across his saddle. She was already on the ground by the time he turned to assist her. “You alright?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She swayed just a little.

  He reached for her upper arms to steady her. But then for a reason he couldn’t explain, he drew her into an embrace. Maybe to comfort her, or express his relief, or assure himself that she really was fine. Whatever the case, she let her body sag into him and rested her head on his chest as though she didn’t have the energy to hold herself up any longer.

  “You did real good back there in getting away.” He hardly dared to breathe for fear of frightening her.

  “Did I?”

  “Yep, real good.” Her bonnet had fallen down her back and now loose strands of her hair ruffled in the breeze and tickled his chin and cheek. “Couldn’t have done it much better myself.”

  Tension seemed to ease from her.

  “I shouldn’t have left you to fend for yourself.”

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “Didn’t expect to run into Brawley out there today. But don’t matter. I should’ve been more vigilant.”

  She nestled in, not seeming in any hurry to end their embrace.

  He tried to let himself relax, but she felt mighty good pressed up against him. She was warm and soft and womanly in all the right places. He bent and let her hair brush his face, and he breathed in the scent of her, a mixture of pine and fruit.

  It had been longer than a coon’s age since he held a woman. In fact, he couldn’t remember the last time. And now that Greta was in his arms, he liked it a lot. A whole lot. He thought he’d been fine being single, reckoned it was better to be alone than land in a bad marriage. But what if he didn’t have to end up in a bad marriage? What if he could do things right?

  His pa had once loved his ma and had modeled for him and his brothers what it meant to be a devoted and kind husband. He could follow in his pa’s steps instead of letting Rusty’s bad example scare him off of trying, couldn’t he?

  All the same, he’d told Greta he wouldn’t pester her to share the marriage bed, gave his word she could leave at the end of autumn if that’s what she wanted. He wasn’t about to go back on his promise.

  She released a soft breath, one that only made his blood pump faster. Had he been too hasty in making the promise?

  Just as quickly as the thought came, he spit it a shooting distance. He was merely being a friend. And there wasn’t nothing wrong with holding and comforting a friend.

  Judd was a good companion. But with Greta . . . well, the morning with her had been pleasant and the conversations a welcome change. He’d enjoyed her company and hoped maybe she’d learn to like his too.

  She didn’t make a move to break free, so he held her several heartbeats longer, until his thoughts once again jumped to how beautiful she was and how good she felt. At the fresh spurt of heat in his gut, he gently leaned back.

  As she straightened, she offered him a smile. “Thank you, Wyatt.”

  He started to shake his head and tell her he didn’t need any thanks, but she continued before he could. “The more I get to know you, the more I’m beginning to see how blessed I am that God brought you my way just when He did.”

  Wyatt wanted to take comfort from her compliment, but all he could think about was the fact that God hadn’t brought him her way. Steele and his cattle deal had.

  He needed to tell her the truth, but the moment didn’t seem right. Instead, he reached for his horse’s lead line and prayed one day he’d be worthy of such praise.

  Chapter 11

  Greta stepped outside the general store and attempted to quell her growing despair. She’d assumed she’d have no trouble selling her sweets i
n Fairplay. But it seemed she’d been wrong and could hardly give the hand pies away.

  At midmorning, the mountain community was teeming with men, horses, and teams pulling wagons. Everyone appeared too busy to be bothered, except for a few men who loitered outside one of the shops.

  As with the last time she was in town, she didn’t see women coming and going. Except for an old native woman who helped service the laundry, the only other women in town were those of ill repute. She’d been told the next closest neighbor was a grandmotherly woman who lived in Buckskin Joe and helped her husband run a hotel. If only the grandmotherly woman were closer. She’d surely appreciate and purchase some of the hand pies.

  Greta glanced up and down the street. Wyatt had suggested selling her baked goods at the Fairplay Hotel, a place where many of the town’s patrons ate. When the hotel owner scoffed at her, she picked up her basket and left without a word, heading to Simpkin’s General Store. But Captain Jim wasn’t willing to consider tasting a hand pie either.

  Maybe she should have tried harder to find containers to make jam. But without jars or tins, she’d had little choice. Instead, she’d cooked up the chokecherries and huckleberries into a pie filling. In the process of creating the flaky treats, she used up every bit of flour, sugar, and lard in the cabin.

  And now she had to sell her baked goods. After all, she’d told Wyatt her business venture wouldn’t cost him a cent and that he wouldn’t regret letting her do this.

  At the sight of Wyatt exiting McLaughlin’s Livery, where he’d gone to return Mr. Steele’s wagon, she pretended she hadn’t noticed him and started down the sidewalk the opposite way.

  “Greta,” he called, clearly having no intention of letting her pass by.

  She slowed her steps and rearranged the towel over the hand pies so if he peeked into her basket, he wouldn’t notice she hadn’t yet sold a single one.

  “Any luck?” He strode across the street, his long legs quickly eating up the space between them.

  She tugged at the towel again, not wanting to meet Wyatt’s curious gaze as he halted next to her. “I guess the men aren’t as interested as I thought they’d be.”