“Jake?” Will glanced around as though another person might suddenly appear inside the coach. “Who’s Jake?”
“I am.” Without a moment lost to indecision, Priscilla wriggled headfirst through the window on the far side from the approaching attackers.
Will stared dumfounded for an instant. Regaining his senses, he grabbed her around the waist and hauled her back inside.
“Turn me loose.” She struggled to free herself, but Will held tight. “Don’t you know anything?”
“I know better than to let a lady climb on top of a stagecoach when it’s barreling over the road at breakneck speed, even if her name is Jake and she dresses like Billy the Kid.”
“For your information, greenhorn, we’re being attacked. The shotgun rider just got hit.”
“Then I’ll go up.” Will reached for her rifle. They tagged back and forth, and finally he wrenched it away. “Use your pistols from in here.” His brown eyes challenged her. “If they get close enough.” With that, he climbed out the same window she had attempted to use earlier.
Priscilla watched him disappear. She considered pulling him back inside, but not until it was too late. His actions had come as such a surprise, she hadn’t had time to react. What good a greenhorn like him would do on the box, she couldn’t imagine.
“If my gold gets stolen, I’ll hold you responsible, greenhorn,” she hollered out the window.
“Then get busy and defend it from down there. If you think you can shoot straight enough.”
Livid from the slur on her marksmanship, Priscilla drew her pistols, loaded them, and began firing randomly at the advancing outlaws.
“Don’t waste shots,” Will shouted down. His mocking tone set her teeth on edge. “Unless that gold they’re after has been molded into bullets.”
Before long Priscilla realized that although he might dress like a greenhorn, Will Radnor’s marksmanship was superior to that of anyone she knew. Except her pa’s. And maybe her own.
But using her rifle, Will kept the advancing attackers too far away for her to get off a pistol shot to prove her competence. He dispatched the outlaws in record time, and the stage settled into its normal bouncing gait. Will remained on top, however, leaving Priscilla alone inside the cab to ponder the incongruities between the man’s looks and his behavior. She liked the way he had taken charge, pulling her back inside and risking his life on top without hesitation. She liked the way he talked, teasing, yet serious. She wondered what he was doing in New Mexico Territory, and whether she would see him again. She’d like a chance to test her marksmanship against his.
She knew she could outshoot him. But recalling his arrogant insults, her indignation returned. She stuck her head out the window. “You don’t have to show off by riding the rest of the way on top. We already know you can shoot—when you have the use of a good rifle.”
He chuckled in reply, further irritating her. “Being the expert you are, you surely don’t expect me to abandon my post.”
“Humph!” His post! Zeke had called down for her help, not that of a long-legged greenhorn. Why, she was surprised he knew enough to ride on top without falling off. On second thought, maybe he didn’t know as much as he thought he did, not if Zeke could be encouraged to join in a little fun.
“Hey, Zeke,” she called up. “While you’re stopped, I think I’ll pick some of those primroses over yonder.”
Zeke hee-hawed from the box, but he didn’t whip up the horses like she’d expected.
“Sorry not to oblige you, Jake,” he called down, “but the team’s winded from outrunnin’ them road agents.”
Will Radnor spoke, obviously to Zeke, not to her, for his words were lost in the wind. Zeke laughed.
Priscilla replaced the gold coins that had rolled out of her saddlebags. She tried to relax, but with that infuriating greenhorn on top of the stagecoach, pretending to be a shotgun rider…
He wasn’t half-bad-looking, though, for a greenhorn. And he was tall. With those long legs, he’d likely top her pa by half a head, and Pa stood nearly six feet in his stockings.
No, she decided, Will Radnor wasn’t half-bad-looking. She liked clean-shaven men; you could see their features—angular face, strong chin, broad forehead. Except for that city-pale complexion, he wasn’t half bad-looking.
But he was city-pale, and he had taken her place on top of this stagecoach—using her rifle.
Like Pa said, a man couldn’t get stomped on, unless he laid down. Her pride might be hurt, but she could fix that. She’d demand a rematch.
If he owned a rifle!
Securing the thongs on her holsters, Priscilla hefted herself through the window of the rocking coach. The ground rushed by in a blur below her. She hesitated, reconsidering such a foolhardy move. But Will Radnor had done it, blast him. And he was no more than a greenhorn.
With more trouble than she would admit in a thousand years, and a goodly measure of trepidation, Priscilla wriggled until she turned herself around in the window frame. From there she reached for a handhold on the luggage rack.
When Will glanced back from the driver’s box, he gaped, wide-eyed, as though he couldn’t believe his eyes, and Priscilla almost laughed. Then his brows arched in a cocky way and she heard his insulting lilt even before he uttered the words.
“Get on back inside, Miss Jake. I’ll protect your gold on into Santa Fé.”
“Like hell you will,” she muttered. With a heave she hoisted herself until she lay with her belly over the luggage rack. Her arms burned from the exertion and her breath came short. But she’d be damned if she’d let Will Radnor know it.
She half expected him to offer her a hand, but he didn’t, which further infuriated her. Of course, she would have refused it, which, something told her, was the reason he turned back to Zeke and continued a conversation she couldn’t make out.
By the time she gained the top, Priscilla was breathing hard. She wondered whether the climb had winded Will. Surely. Him being a greenhorn and all. But he certainly hadn’t shot like a greenhorn.
And the smile he turned back to her was genuine. He shifted toward the outside of the driver’s box, motioning her to the space he’d created between himself and Zeke. When she hesitated, his arrogance returned.
“Sit between us, Miss Jake. Wouldn’t want you to fall off the edge here.”
Although she hated to admit it, curiosity got the best of Priscilla, and she squeezed into the space between the two men. “You couldn’t be trusted to catch me if I did fall off,” she retorted. Even wedged between them, she found it hard to keep her balance on the rocking driver’s seat. For support, she propped her boots on the box—beside those flimsy things the greenhorn wore.
“Why, Miss Jake,” he was saying, “what a short memory you have. Didn’t I do a fair job of driving off those highwaymen?”
“Highwaymen?” Priscilla laughed. “Out here we call them road agents—or simply bad men.”
“Whatever you call ’em,” Zeke put in, “that was mighty fancy shootin’, Mr. Radnor. Wouldn’t you say so, Jake?”
Priscilla stared straight ahead, over the rumps of the galloping horses. Zeke was laughing at her, blast him. “Fair,” she conceded.
“Fair?” Will questioned. “You could have done as well, I suppose?”
“Better.” She indicated her Winchester, which he still held across his knees. “If you plan to remain in this country long, you should carry one yourself.”
He grinned in a companionable way, before searching the horizon from mountain range to mountain range. “For a woman who lives in such a big, free country, you’re certainly quick to put a man in a box. If everyone out here jumps to conclusions the way you do, I’m in serious trouble.”
Jump to conclusions, my eye, Priscilla thought. She studied his feet, propped beside hers. The difference between their boots extended beyond size. Hers were no-nonsense work boots, made in the Spanish tradition from bullhide, with high slanting heels and pointed toes, designed to
not slide through a stirrup—and to slip easily out of one to keep a downed rider from being dragged. Will’s footgear, on the other hand, was of the thin-soled city variety.
“That’s the second time I’ve caught you laughing at my boots.”
“My mama’s kid gloves are sturdier.” Although she had decided against offering any more advice, she couldn’t resist. “A word of warning, greenhorn. Don’t call those things boots out here.”
Soon afterward, the stage rolled into Santa Fé, crossed the Río Santa Fé, and circled the plaza which was studded with cottonwood trees and teemed with people awaiting the arrival of the stage or taking a siesta. Will scanned the scene, preoccupied. Priscilla wondered again what he was doing here, and how long he would stay.
“I feel like I’ve entered a foreign country,” he admitted.
“You have. I don’t know where you’re from, greenhorn, but this is ranching country, and you’re gonna stand out like a lamb licker at the Cowboy Christmas Ball.”
He winced. “Sounds bad.”
She nodded gleefully. Then, recalling Pa’s admonition to play it straight and fair, even with those less fortunate, she added, “Except for your shooting.”
Will tipped his bowler. “Gracias, señorita.”
Priscilla was still pondering Will’s having thanked her in Spanish, the language of choice in Santa Fé, when Zeke guided the team to a stop before the adobe station. Will jumped to the ground and reached his hands to catch her.
“Jump,” he ordered.
Without fully intending to, she stepped off the driver’s box into his waiting hands. He caught her around the waist and lowered her to the ground with the greatest of ease. Their gazes held. He grinned.
“You smell like you’ve been sleeping with your horse.”
His voice held no censure, and she took no offense. Instead, she laughed. “Fifty of them. For over a week.”
Will watched her face light up at his teasing. The brilliant blue dome of sky above them seemed to dim at the sparkle in her eyes. Or was it at the thought of who she was? A McCain.
He reached to the box for her Winchester, but made no attempt to hand it to her. “No hard feelings, I hope.”
With a cocky tilt to her head and a voice sweet enough—he had no doubt—to get her just about anything she damned well wanted, she replied, “I demand a rematch, greenhorn.”
“By all means, Miss Jake. Name the place and weapons.”
“I’ll have to think about it. Will you be in town long?”
“I’m here to stay.”
A frown creased her brow above a lovely straight nose. Funny, he hadn’t noticed how really pretty she was. “I’m a lawyer,” he explained. “I’ve taken a position with Faust & Haskel.”
The light in her eyes went out. Her expression turned cold.
Behind them Zeke Grayhorse instructed the station manager to send someone back along the road to pick up Whit, the shotgun rider. “He took it in the shoulder. Shouldn’t be too bad off, if we get to him in time.”
Zeke clapped Will on the back, announcing to all who had gathered around the ancient plaza in Santa Fé, “This here’s our new hero, folks. Saved the day after Whit caught himself a bullet.”
The words droned in Priscilla’s ears. She stepped away. Retrieving her saddlebags, she threw them over a shoulder and tried to move through the crowd that had gathered to hear Zeke recount the adventure.
“Miss McCain?”
She paused at Will’s call, steadied her gaze on a piñon tree in the distance.
“You forgot this.”
Turning, she accepted her rifle.
“Thanks for the use. Mine’s stashed in the boot.” He shrugged. “Guess I have a lot to learn about this country.”
His candor surprised her. She was suddenly sorry for her unwarranted attack on him. For a greenhorn, Will Radnor had possibilities.
Everyone out here came from somewhere. That’s what her parents always said. “Don’t judge a man because he dresses different, or talks different. Most of us came here from someplace else. If we can make a life in New Mexico Territory, others can, too.”
“About that rematch—” Will was saying.
“There won’t be a rematch.” Without explanation Priscilla turned and left him standing in the dusty Santa Fé street.
Two
Spanish Creek Ranch spread thirty miles along the Pecos River in north-central New Mexico Territory, flanked on the west by a triple-decker range of mountains. The distant ridges formed a dusty blue horizon high in the Navajo-blue sky. Priscilla sat her horse at the crest of the nearest hill, scanning the familiar setting below. All looked quiet. No sign of trouble. That established, she allowed the delicious emotions of returning home to sweep through her. Joy. Love. Security.
The rambling adobe ranch house flowed in serpentine fashion around oases of piñon and cottonwoods, with deep verandas for respite from the scorching summer heat. Clay ollas and strings of red peppers hung from vigas. Her mother’s prized red roses added an additional touch of color.
Home. Priscilla had been born in this house, back when the structure amounted to only two rooms. The rest, numbering twelve rooms to date, had been added later. As had the barns and corrals and holding pens for livestock.
Home. Where her father and mother had tamed the desert and made friends with the warring Apache.
Home. Which the Haskel Land Grant Company was determined to steal from them. Unwanted visions of Will Radnor flashed through her mind—his angular, handsome face and shining brown eyes, his citified clothing, his expert marksmanship. His hand, smooth from an easy life of office work; his smile, teasing and ready.
His employer, Faust & Haskel.
Nearing the house, she spied her mother and father sitting in the shade of the deep veranda, watching her approach. She slid off her mount, flipped the reins over the pole rail, and bounded up the steps, a broad smile on her face. Ten days earlier, when she and Uncle Sog rode away, Pa had been confined to bed.
“I see Mama let you up while I was gone.” She stooped to hug her pa, then stood back and perused him, her blue eyes softening on his bloodless face. His skin was sallow and more wrinkled than she recalled. His wiry hair was streaked with much more gray than she’d ever noticed. Even his blue eyes were dull and lifeless.
She looked to her mother—stately and serene, always the lady. Her blond hair fell in one long braid down her back, as did Priscilla’s; her starched white cotton shift grazed a body that was still youthful at forty-five. But her mother’s beauty and ladylike ways no longer threatened Priscilla. Indeed, her mother was her best friend—next to her pa.
Priscilla couldn’t recall a time when she hadn’t idolized her pa; she’d tried to emulate him in every way, and had succeeded in many. Her mother allowed it, for the most part, setting her foot down only on matters of grave importance—such as the time she found Priscilla behind the woodshed, with a wad of chewing tobacco protruding from one jaw.
Seeing Pa now, pale and unable to leave the house, unsettled Priscilla. “How is he?” she demanded of her mother.
“He’ll be fine, darling.”
“He looks weak. Is he—”
“Don’t worry about me, Miss Priss,” Charlie interrupted. He’d always had a hard time calling her Jake—except when discussing ranching matters, man to man, as it were. Occasionally he resorted to the childhood name he knew she hated most, just to show her who was boss, she suspected. Although most of the time he used it with such tenderness, she had to pretend to be offended. “Your mama nursed me back to health once before, she’ll do it again.”
“He’s right,” Kate agreed. “You’re not used to seeing your papa any way but in charge of things. He’ll be back running this ranch before you know it.”
“I’m still running this ranch, sweetheart,” Charlie growled. “Even if neither of you care to take note of the fact.”
After Priscilla carried in the gold and related the circumstances of Uncle Sog
’s accident, assuring her parents she had paid the doctor for his services in advance, she glanced toward the barn. “Any trouble while I was gone?”
“Not a squeak out of the Haskels,” Kate answered.
Pa, as usual, was anxious to get on with business. “Crockett drove in that herd of steers yesterday, Jake. Looks like you’ll be short-handed for the branding. ’Less you can make use of Avery.”
“Red’s still around?”
Her pa’s eyes flashed. “That dadburnt, red-headed, freckled-faced, over-educated archaeologist—”
“Don’t be so hard on Red, Pa,” she teased. “It isn’t his fault, you know. If he’d been born wearing boots and working cattle, you wouldn’t approve of him.”
She watched Pa frown. “I’m not that hard on you, am I?”
Priscilla laughed. “We’ll just have to wait and see. Don’t start worrying right away. I certainly don’t have designs on Red Avery.”
Kate raised her eyebrows. “I’m afraid he has designs on you, darling.”
“So am I.” Priscilla turned serious. “I’m surprised he wasn’t the first to curl tail and run at the sound of gunfire. But you never can tell about folks. There was this greenhorn on the stage who turned out to be a sharpshooter. He sure surprised Zeke and me.” She grinned sheepishly, then added, “With my rifle.”
They pressed her for details, and by the time she finished the tale, Pa’s eyes were flashing again. “You seem mighty interested in some feller you met only one time. Where’s he from? What’s his line of work?”
“He just moved to Santa Fé, Pa. I didn’t ask where from, and I’m not interested. He’s a lawyer. For Faust & Haskel.”
“Humph!” Charlie snorted. “Reckon that puts an end to that.”
“Don’t worry,” she consoled again, only half in jest. “No man’s gonna ride in and carry me away from Spanish Creek.” She ruffled his hair playfully. “And I promise not to get desperate and encourage Red to stay on.”
The next few days were so busy, Priscilla had little time to think about men—even a greenhorn lawyer who worked for the enemy. Branding five hundred head of steers was hard, hot, dusty work—work that began before sunup and ended after dusk. Her mother did her share in the corral, although with Uncle Sog gone, she was left with cooking chores, too. In the evenings, Priscilla helped wash dishes and prepare meals for the following day.
Reluctant Enemies Page 3