The Rancher Takes a Cowgirl

by Misty M. Beller

  A loud breath leaked from her. “We’ll leave it like that for a while, then check again in a half hour or so.” Was it his imagination, or did her voice shake? Of course, this whole ordeal could stretch a person’s nerves tight. She’d shown more presence of mind than the rest of them put together.

  Monty stood and turned to face the rest of the men. “That’s all we can do for now. I reckon’, get back to work, but keep the animals away from here.”

  As the boys wandered back to their duties, Donato appeared with an armful of blankets and a bucket of water.

  The women took over, and Monty scooped up a handful of water to rinse his mouth out, just in case any residue of the poison remained. After that, there wasn’t much for him to do but stand and watch as they positioned blankets under Santiago’s head and continued bathing his face with the cool water. If the man hadn’t been so miserable, he’d have been a fool not to enjoy the attention.

  After a few minutes, Mama Sarita rose to her feet. “I need to go check the stew. I’ll be back in a bit.”

  Monty stayed close in case Grace needed him, but he’d never felt more useless. She coddled Santiago and murmured to the man, stroking his face with the towel. He did look a little worse for wear, which kept a lid on Monty’s jealousy.

  At last Grace turned those blue eyes his way. “Shall we take a look at the bite?”

  He swallowed, then nodded and stepped forward.

  Grace untied the bandana, her nimble fingers working much better than Monty’s had. When she wiped away the poultice mixture, a gruesome sight stared up at them. Blackened skin, swollen to twice its usual size.

  “How soon before the doctor arrives?” Grace’s quiet words echoed the severity of the picture before them, and sent a stone sinking in Monty’s gut.

  “Five hours, at the quickest. Prob’ly six.”

  “I think he should lie still for another half hour, but then we can move him back to the house.” She turned to face Monty, and he met her gaze.

  Those eyes. So brave and strong, yet it didn’t cover the fear there. Monty fought the urge to brush her cheek. “Yes. We can take him in the wagon.”

  At least getting the wagon ready gave him something productive to do. In just over a half hour, Monty drove the team back toward the ranch house. Mama Sarita had graciously allowed him to move all her cooking supplies out of the chuck wagon into a tent. It’d seemed like the best idea for her to stay with the men and food, while Grace rode in the back with Santiago.

  So here he sat. Driving the plodding team, doing his best to avoid the ruts and bumps. Although that was an impossible feat through the prairie land they traveled.

  Grace had been quiet behind him. Not unusual for her, but for some reason the silence bothered him this time. He shot a quick glance behind him, but only saw the back of her head. “How did you learn to tend a rattlesnake bite?”

  “Lots of snakes in California. The men were good at listening for them, but we still had at least one bite a year.”

  “And they brought them to you to tend?”

  “I was usually out working with them. Rusty taught me what to do with snakebite. But it doesn’t always work.”

  That he could believe. They’d been blessed with surprisingly few snakes through the years on the Double Rocking B, but he’d read some awful stories in the papers. He couldn’t help but hone in on one bit of interesting information she’d shared. “Who’s Rusty?”

  Silence met his question for a moment, and then finally, “He was our foreman.”

  “Was?” He almost bit his tongue when the question slipped out. The way she’d said foreman with such tenderness sent a surge of warmth through his chest.

  Another drop of silence spread between them like ripples in a lake. He fought the urge to turn and study her face.

  “He was our foreman from the time I was two years old. Until he died, just before I left California.” Grief laced her words.

  He wanted to press for more. To ask what this man was like who must have played an important part in her growing up, especially since she’d taken up the cowpuncher’s way of life in his footsteps.

  But he’d pushed far enough for today. Besides, the affection in her voice told him what kind of man Rusty must have been. The best kind. Someone an impressionable child—and then a determined young woman—had looked up to.

  The kind of man Monty wanted to be.

  Chapter Five

  GRACE STOOD IN the middle of the yard, one hand resting on her saddle and the other holding Pepper still. Should she stay or go?

  Santiago had made it through the night and seemed to be out of the worst of the danger. His leg still had a large area of solid black skin, still swollen, and pretty painful from the look of things. But the doctor had given him a tonic to help with the discomfort, and said it would be best if he slept for the next couple of days.

  Monty had ridden back out to the branding camp last night after the doctor left. When Grace had offered to stay at the ranch house overnight to assist the O’Brien family with Santiago’s care, Monty had only shrugged and nodded.

  But the night had passed now, and she should be joining the other cowpunchers to finish branding. Would Anna be all right caring for Santiago along with her own children? Should she stay and help?

  But she’d been hired as a cow hand, not a nurse. Monty hadn’t given her leave to shirk her duties with the herd beyond last night.

  With a sigh, Grace slipped her boot in the stirrup and vaulted into the saddle. Pepper sidestepped at the motion.

  “Easy, girl.” The mare settled as Grace relaxed her hold on the reins and fit her other foot into the stirrup. “I guess we’re headed out to brand cattle.”

  ~ ~ ~

  A WEEK LATER, Monty herded a group of steers toward the community round-up pens. With a quick reflex, he reined Poncho sideways to cut off a yearling cow’s escape. They’d made it to day two of the large round-up with the other ranches, and so far, they’d all kept plenty busy. With night falling soon, it was almost time for some grub.

  Up ahead, a cluster of his cowboys sat on horseback outside the corrals. Grace’s shapely figure was easy to spot on the outskirts of the group. She sure was shy for a woman, never interacting outside of the Double Rocking B hands. She’d even talked him into letting her stay out of church again this last Sunday, saying she’d remain with Santiago in case he needed assistance.

  He still wasn’t sure how to feel about her skipping church, although she said she read the Bible on her own. What did she have against gathering with other believers? Should he force her to attend? Lord, I’d appreciate some guidance here.

  As he herded the cattle closer, Grace looked up, and split from the group, riding out to meet him. Even as exhausted as he was, his pulse picked up a notch at the sight of her coming to see him. Not that she was coming just to enjoy his company, but still...

  When she was close enough for those blue eyes to take effect, she asked, “Whose cattle are these?”

  Nope, not coming to see him. But at least she’d offered to help. He pointed toward the feisty yearling cow. “That heifer has the Lazy T brand. The rest of ‘em can go in Double Rocking B stock.”

  Grace pointed her mare toward the cow he’d pointed out, and smoothly cut the animal away from the others. As she trailed it toward the Lazy T herd, he couldn’t help but watch her go. She knew what she was doing with cattle, no doubt. At least that part of his initial worries could be set aside. But should he still be concerned that she brought danger with her? There’d been no sign of it yet. No threat to the others, anyway. ‘Cause she surely did threaten his own concentration when she was around.

  But something about Grace still didn’t feel right. She was hiding something. Maybe that’s why she wouldn’t attend church. Was she wanted for a crime? Maybe after round-up he’d head into Seguin and take a look at the posters on the wall in the Post Office. Just to be sure.

  A hoot and a string of foul language came from a group of cow
boys near the Lazy T herd, jerking Monty’s focus toward them. Had the man said what it sounded like? Words that shouldn’t be spoken about any woman, much less Grace. And in her presence, too. Grace had neared the group with the heifer, but made no sign of having heard the shout, except for the stiff arch in her back.

  Monty turned his focus back to the three cows left in his own little bunch. He had them close to the Double Rocking R herd now, and he motioned for Paco. “Settle these in, will you?”

  The cowpuncher moved his horse beside Monty and took over directing the cattle toward the larger group. Monty spun his gelding back toward Grace. She’d already dropped off her charge and rode back in his direction. He met her under the spreading canopy of a grove of pecan trees.

  She must have caught the expression on his face, because she reined to a stop in front of him. “Everything all right?”

  He had to unclamp his jaw before he could speak. “Did those men say something indecent?”

  She shrugged but dropped her gaze. “I can ignore it.”

  “No.” He forced a breath in before he exploded. “I won’t have my hands treated disrespectfully.”

  That made her look at him. Yet, the look wasn’t grateful, more wary. “I’d rather not make a stir.”

  She’d rather be spoken to like a woman in a bawdy house than raise a commotion? Not on his guard. “Go put away your horse.” He kicked Poncho forward.

  As he neared the cluster of rowdies, Monty took their measure. Jared Thomas usually hired decent cowhands, but this scruffy trio didn’t fit that bill. They must be day hands hired for round-up.

  He reined in about ten feet in front of the man in the middle. He was pretty sure this was the cad who’d said those things to Grace, and the roguish grin on his leathery face tended to confirmed it.

  Monty met the man’s gaze with a glare. “Did you call my ranch hand a prostitute?”

  The man’s greasy yellow mustache twitched. “She’s someone I’d pay money to see more of.”

  The blood boiled in Monty’s chest. “If you come near her again, I’ll make sure you see the inside of a jail cell. Hands off. She’s to be treated with respect.”

  The other man’s eyes narrowed. “Why do you get all the fun?”

  Oh, if he could have wrung the scrawny man’s neck… “She works with the cattle, nothing more. Stay clear of her or you’ll answer to me.”

  He spun Poncho away and spurred him into a lope before he did something he would regret. Or maybe he wouldn’t regret it. The greasy rat probably needed a good pounding. I’ll apologize for that thought later, Lord. But if the man so much as looked twice at Grace again, he’d find the Lazy T foreman and make sure this lout received a swift dismissal.

  The rest of the evening passed in relative peace, with the boys enjoying their normal banter. They brought Grace into the teasing occasionally—always with an undertone of respect—and she was good at giving it right back.

  Jesse’s pot of beans hadn’t been half bad as trail grub, especially with the biscuits Mama Sarita sent. Sleeping on the ground for so many nights would have been too hard on the older woman, so the boys took turns cooking meals during the round-up.

  As they settled into tents and bedrolls, the night sounds took over. Crickets. The occasional low bellow of a cow. Monty pulled a blanket over himself, and adjusted his head against his saddle. Not such a comfortable pillow. A lot of the men—and Grace—slept under canvas tents, but he’d always preferred the open air. It let him keep an eye on things, and made him feel a bit closer to God without anything shielding him from the Lord’s creation.

  Lord, I’m not sure why things are feeling so off-kilter these days. Guide me. And with the prayer in his heart, his eyes drifted shut.

  ~ ~ ~

  SOMETHING WASN’T RIGHT.

  Monty eased his head over to peer into the darkness without creating a sound from his movement. Everything seemed still. The stars had all bedded down for the night, leaving only the moon to watch over the darkest part of the night when men and animals slept peacefully.

  There again. The white sides of a tent fluttered, as if something pushed it from inside. He focused on the movement. That was Grace’s tent.

  Monty sat up. Should he go see if something was wrong? It couldn’t be proper for him to see her sleeping, yet if she needed something… Maybe she was having a nightmare, or one of those epileptic fits he’d read about in the paper.

  He sprang to his feet and crept toward the tent. Something was definitely moving around in there. Thrashing, it looked like. Should he call out to wake her from the nightmare? But he didn’t want to disturb the others. And it could be a bit embarrassing for Grace. No matter how polite, the boys wouldn’t be able to resist a little teasing.

  Stopping at the edge of the tent, he hooked his fingers around the flap, but didn’t pull. “Grace,” he whispered, just loud enough for her to hear if she were awake.

  A muffled sound came from the tent, but the thrashing stopped. Then a quiet squeal and…a man’s voice? Monty jerked the flap aside.

  His eyes locked on the business end of the pistol pointed straight at him.

  He fought the urge to step back as he took in the scene. A man—the blond thug from the Lazy T—held the gun in one hand and the other clamped over Grace’s mouth.

  The look in her eyes sank in Monty’s gut like a rock in water. Utter fear. He jerked his attention back to the man as his mind spun through his options.

  He’d not stopped to grab his Colt, and the Smith and Wesson in his boot was too far from reach. If the bloke would just lose his focus for half a second, Monty could dive in and get the upper hand.

  His gaze flickered back to Grace for only an instant. Her hands pressed against the ground, but it didn’t look like they were tied. Why didn’t she try to get away? Maybe he could signal her to create a distraction.

  “She already knows if she makes a move, you’ll die first, then her.” The man’s voice came out hard as steel, not the jeering tone from earlier that day. “But I’d surely prefer to enjoy this pretty lady instead.”

  An almost imperceptible movement came from Grace’s direction, as if she were shrinking away. But Monty kept his full focus on the adversary.

  “So, mister, now that you ruined our party, I reckon you’ll need to step aside whilst we move the fun elsewhere.”

  Over his dead body.

  “I said move.” The man turned the pistol from Monty toward Grace, but it was the distraction Monty needed.

  The moment the barrel shifted toward the air, he charged the man. Slamming into the thug’s chest, he grabbed the gun arm with one hand and his throat with the other.

  The gun exploded.

  The man scrambled, but Monty’s reactions were honed from dealing with too many ornery cows. He had the man on his stomach within seconds, both hands twisted behind his back.

  Only then did he glance up at Grace. She was so far in the dark recesses of the tent, he could only make out her huddled profile. “Are you all right?”

  “Y-yes. The bullet grazed me, but it’s not bad.” Her voice was so weak, it took him a moment for the words to register.

  She’d been hit? His muscles bunched to run to her, but he had to keep a firm grip on the man underneath him.

  “What happened, boss?” Donato stood at the tent’s opening.

  Thank you, Lord. “This blighter attacked Grace. Tie him tight and get him ready for jail. And send someone for the doctor. Grace was hit by that shot.” A crash of guilt poured over him. The man never would have fired if Monty hadn’t moved.

  “I don’t need a doctor. It just skinned me.” Grace’s voice was a little stronger this time.

  Monty rolled off the man on the ground as Donato took over. While his cousin yelled commands to the men gathering outside the tent, Monty focused all is attention on Grace.

  She was balled in a corner of the little canvas covering, almost hidden in the dark shadows.

  “Let me see it.” He
tried to gentle his tone, but so much anger still coursed through his veins.

  “Monty, please. I just want to be left alone.” Half-whisper, half-cry, the words pierced him.

  “Grace.” He wanted to take her in his arms and make everything all right. But he stayed put.

  Donato finally dragged the grimy lout out of the tent, amidst a string of curses from the scoundrel.

  Silence took over, and Monty’s eyes finally adjusted to the darkness. He touched the elbow below where Grace clutched her upper arm. “Let me put salve on it and make sure you don’t need stitches.”

  She let out a shaky breath. “All right.”

  He stepped out of the tent and over to the cooking supplies where the medicines were kept. After lighting a lantern, the salve and bandages were easy enough to find.

  “We’re takin’ him in now. You want the doc to come?” Donato met Monty halfway back to Grace’s tent.

  Monty’s glance roamed the canvas, then back to his cousin’s face. “She says it’s not bad enough to need him. I suppose if it is, she should go to the clinic anyway. Just see that canalla gets locked up.”

  “Got it.”

  When Monty crouched back inside the tent, Grace had moved away from the corner. She sat in the middle of the space, clutching her shirt around her.

  He’d never seen her so…vulnerable. Always before, she’d had a competent air about her. But now, fear spread across her features in tight lines and haunted eyes.

  Monty knelt beside her, and Grace drew back from him. Easy now.

  She looked like she might bolt any minute. Had that man done something to her? His gaze flickered to her white-knuckled grip on her shirt. There was a button missing near where she held it closed.

  “Grace.” The whispered word escaped before he could stop it. “Did he…touch you?”

  Her gaze met his, then skittered away. “No, Monty. Please…just look at my arm. I want this all to end.”

  The pleading in her voice tightened his gut. He focused on her left arm where a bloody circle stood out against the brown of her shirt. The fabric was torn in a line across her arm, and he eased the edges back.