Rough Wrangler, Tender Kisses

by Jill Gregory

  He was trying not to remember the intoxicatingly soft way she had felt beneath him in the hay. Better to forget about that.

  “I’m going out for a ride to survey my property,” she replied airily. “Not that it’s any of your concern.”

  “Don’t wander too far. You don’t know your way around yet.”

  “Nor will I need to—I won’t be here long enough for that,” she retorted sweetly and stroked a hand along the mare’s flowing mane.

  Wade spurred his horse away, but then reined in and turned back to watch her mount at the fence post. A knot punched through his gut at the graceful way she mounted and then sat the mare. Any doubts he might have harbored about her ability to handle a spirited western horse dissipated as he saw the sure, easy way she handled the mare.

  “Something you should know,” he said as she trotted toward him. “We’ve been having a problem with rustlers.”

  “I do know. Winnifred told me about it when I was in town—right after she told me about the Campbell gang, and how Hope was so unsafe for a while that she had to leave for several months until things calmed down.”

  “Well, things have calmed way down. You’re safe as a baby at Cloud Ranch.”

  “So why are you warning me about these rustlers?”

  As she tilted her head up toward him in that breezy, mocking way, he couldn’t help staring at her mouth. It had to be the sexiest, most alluringly shaped mouth he’d ever seen. A mouth that belonged on a saloon girl—not on this irritating little snob with her proper manners and tight, buttoned-up-to-the-throat shirt and her elegant riding skirt that fell all the way to her ankles.

  “Uh, what’s that you said?” he asked distractedly, then scowled as he saw her smile. She repeated her question.

  “If I’m so safe here, why are you mentioning these rustlers now?”

  “Because you’re a tenderfoot and you don’t know a damn thing about life out here. If you see any strangers, anyone messing with the cattle, skedaddle out of there fast. Don’t ride up and ask them what they’re doing or some other damn fool thing.”

  A tiny stab of apprehension penetrated the cool facade she’d been wearing for his benefit. “Do you think the rustlers would actually . . . shoot me . . . or something?”

  “Doubt it, but you can’t be certain. Mostly they’re out at night, but they’ve been getting bolder. So stay close to the ranch. I don’t want to have to send a search party out for you.”

  “Heavens, I’d hate to inconvenience you,” she flung back at him.

  And then she was sorry she’d said it because for the second time that devastating little boy’s grin flashed across his face and she felt as if someone had slammed her in the stomach.

  “See that you don’t.” He quelled the suddenly mischievous impulse to tug that pretty little black Stetson she’d bought in Hope right off her head and toss it in the horse trough. “Rode into town yesterday,” he added hastily, leaning back in the saddle and surveying her from beneath the brim of his hat. “Ran into Luanne Porter. She said she invited you to that little supper of hers.”

  “That’s quite true.” Caitlin patted the mare as the animal pranced, restless to be off. “Surely you don’t object to that also?”

  “I think it’s fine that you’re settling in, making friends.” This time the grin was wicked. “Next thing you know, you’ll be joining the Hope Sewing Circle. And organizing the town quilting bee.”

  With that, he spurred his roan and rode off before she could spit out a reply. “Quilting bee, my foot!” Caitlin fumed, staring indignantly after him as a cloud of dust rose behind his horse’s hooves.

  Wade Barclay would be ruing those words by the end of this day.

  She called out to Miguel, who was chopping firewood near the barn. “Where is Jake Young working this morning?”

  He straightened and eyed her in surprise. “Rounding up strays over near Cougar Canyon.”

  “Where’s Cougar Canyon?”

  Miguel set the ax down and approached her. “Due north. ’Bout ten miles.”

  “Um . . . north?” Caitlin squinted at the sky, then at the horizon in each direction.

  Miguel pointed. “That way, senorita. But the boss wouldn’t want you to—”

  “You’ve been a wonderful help, Miguel.” Caitlin bestowed on him a smile as brilliant as the spring sunshine and a moment later she and the mare were galloping north, kicking up dust of their own.

  It was a magnificent day for a ride. Caitlin let the mare have her head and the gorgeous Wyoming grasslands whipped by. A sense of freedom and peace and exhilaration filled her as the warm breeze fanned her cheeks and the wild, open beauty of the landscape embraced her.

  She eventually slowed the mare to a canter and began looking around more closely. The plains had given way to a hilly landscape dotted with cattle, and there was a canyon ahead, but no sign of Jake Young.

  She rode toward the canyon, glancing in every direction.

  “Jake!” she called, breaking the stillness of the hot afternoon. “Jake Young!”

  There was an answering shout and a moment later the wrangler appeared on horseback upon a low ridge. Waving his hat over his head, he rode toward her.

  “I was just exploring a little,” Caitlin said with a dazzling smile, “and I remembered that someone mentioned you were working out this way. How is . . . everything going?” she asked, not quite understanding what he was supposed to be doing, but figuring she ought to pretend she did.

  “I’ve rounded up about a dozen strays, Miss Summers—got ’em in the canyon. I’ll be bringing ’em back shortly. There’s a few more farther back in the trees. I was just going to get ’em when I heard you call.”

  She tilted her head at him and regarded him through glowing eyes that had beguiled far more sophisticated men. “Wade Barclay was so angry with me yesterday for hiring those other men. You’re not angry with me, are you, Jake?”

  “Angry? With you? No, ma’am.” The young cowboy grinned from ear to ear. “Don’t reckon I could ever be angry with a lady as pretty as you.”

  “Why, aren’t you sweet.” He was sweet, Caitlin thought. She felt a bit guilty about using him in her plan. But it’s necessary, she told herself. “I brought a canteen of lemonade and some of Francesca’s sugar cookies.” She patted the small saddle pack she had tied to the mare’s saddle earlier. “Why don’t we have a little picnic—maybe you’d be kind enough to give me some advice.”

  Jake choked. “Me? Advice?”

  “You see, Jake,” she said earnestly, “I don’t really know much about ranching—and I’m afraid to ask Wade Barclay. He isn’t exactly an easy man to talk to.”

  His brows shot up in surprise. “Really? I’m surprised to hear that, Miss Summers. Wade’s usually real good at answering questions and explaining things. And he’s the best wrangler I ever did see.”

  “I suppose we got off on the wrong foot,” she mused, and lifted her shoulders in a pretty shrug. “But you— you’re so nice—and you’re obviously highly skilled at your job. So perhaps you could spare me just a little of your time? And knowledge?”

  “Sure thing.” The wrangler flushed with gratification.

  “It’d be my pleasure, ma’am.” Quickly he dismounted and hastened to help Caitlin from the saddle.

  They found a smooth clearing shaded by aspens and it was there, seated upon fresh spring grass, that Wade Barclay found them some time later. Jake was listening spellbound as Caitlin, on her knees with a buttercup tucked behind one ear, was gesturing gracefully and reciting a poem.

  “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. I love thee to the depth and breadth and height My soul can reach, when feeling out of sight For the ends of—”

  “What the hell is going on here?” Sitting astride his horse, Wade stared at the picturesque scene with a muscle throbbing in his jaw.

  “Oh! Mr. Barclay! Goodness gracious, you scared me!” Caitlin exclaimed, clasping a hand to her heart, but it was clear from t
he sparkle in her eyes and the overly innocent smile upon her face that she hadn’t been frightened at all. “Heavens, I was so caught up in this entrancing poem I didn’t even hear you ride up. Do you know it? The poem, I mean. Sonnet Number Forty-three from Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s Sonnets from the Portuguese—”

  “Young,” Wade interrupted in a taut voice. “Where the hell are the cattle?”

  He sprang down from the saddle even as Jake Young scrambled, red-faced, to his feet.

  “Boss . . . I . . . we . . . was just . . .”

  “Loafing on the job?” Wade’s hard glance took in the half a cookie still clutched in the cowpoke’s hand, and the canteen lying upon the grass.

  “We don’t pay you to eat cookies.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, boss.” Jake dropped the cookie as if it were a poison arrow. “We were just going to sit a spell and Miss Summers wanted to ask me a few questions . . .”

  “I just bet she did.”

  “And we started talking about . . . poetry and . . . it was my fault, boss,” the cowpoke rushed on. “All my fault.”

  “No, Jake.” Caitlin shook her head and the buttercup fell from her curls into the soft grass. “You’re too sweet, far too sweet, but you know that isn’t true.” Gracefully she rose to her feet and brushed an imaginary blade of grass from her skirt.

  “It was my fault, I’m afraid.” She couldn’t quite succeed in sounding regretful as she gazed into Wade Barclay’s blazing eyes. “It was all my idea. Jake was just being polite. But I’m afraid that once we started discussing poetry, I became quite carried away. The time seems to have escaped me. It seemed like we were talking for only a few moments—”

  “Poetry.” Disgustedly, Wade eyed the wrangler, who looked stricken. “What about rounding up those strays and driving them back to the corral for branding?”

  “I plumb forgot. I . . . I never did that before. Boss, I’m sorry—I don’t know what came over me.”

  “I do.”

  Jake flushed clear up to the roots of his dark sandy hair, but Caitlin Summers only opened up her eyes all wide and innocent.

  “When you didn’t show up to help with the branding, Miguel told me Miss Summers had been looking for you.” Wade shifted his gaze to the lovely face of the angel-haired blonde he wanted to strangle.

  “Reckon you’d best see to those steers now,” he said, still gazing hard at his “partner.”

  “Yes, boss.” Jake threw Caitlin a quick glance. “Thank you, Miss Summers. I sure enjoyed our talk. And that nice poem,” he said in a rush and then bolted toward his horse.

  When the wrangler had ridden off hell-bent after the strays, Wade spun around and stalked back to his horse.

  Caitlin shot him a look of surprise and followed him.

  “Where are you going?” she demanded.

  “Home.”

  “Isn’t there . . . anything more you wish to say to me?”

  “Like what?”

  She couldn’t help feeling a bit indignant that all of her efforts to disrupt Jake Young’s work had been for naught. Aside from that one little outburst, directed at poor Jake, Wade didn’t even seem to be that upset.

  “You know, it was all my fault that Jake didn’t get his work done on time. I needed to ask him some questions about roundups. It was fascinating. I’m not quite sure how we came around to Elizabeth Browning, come to think of it, but it was most enjoyable. I miss the intellectual stimulation available to me back east.”

  “Fine.”

  “And I’ll just bet some of the other men would appreciate a chance for a cultural discussion as well.” She gave him a great big smile. “And in return, they could no doubt teach me quite a bit about different aspects of ranching.” She clapped her hands together as if hit by sudden inspiration. “Now why didn’t I think of it before? I could accompany a different wrangler each day of the week and watch him work—possibly even help him, you know, until I learn every aspect of the cattle business.”

  If she’d been hoping to stir him into a state of fury with visions of cowhands picnicking with her and reciting poetry instead of attending to their work, she was disappointed.

  Wade swung into the saddle and took the reins. “Go ahead,” he retorted evenly. “Do whatever the hell you want, Miss Summers.”

  “You mean . . . you don’t mind?”

  “I don’t give a damn.”

  “Wh-why not?”

  His smile was cold and hard as a barbed-wire fence in February. “Because I’ll fire any man who stops work to talk to you—and they’re all going to be told that in no uncertain terms tonight.” His voice was infuriatingly calm.

  But his words shook her. She didn’t want anyone getting fired on her account. “Wait a minute, that doesn’t seem fair,” she objected, but he interrupted her.

  “Fair? None of this is fair, princess. It’s not fair that I’m saddled with a spoiled, frivolous female who’s determined to be a burr under my seat; it’s not fair that Jake got a dressing down because you used him to try to get at me; it’s not fair that I have to sit here and listen to you pretend that you care about anyone but yourself .”

  The contempt in his eyes cut her almost as deeply as his words. Stunned, Caitlin could only stare at him.

  “And,” Wade continued coolly, meeting her stricken look without a shred of pity, because he was certain that it, too, was all part of her act, “it’s not fair that Reese died without ever setting eyes on you again, because that’s what he wanted more than anything in the world.” He jerked at the reins and turned the roan sharply.

  “I only wish to hell I didn’t have to set eyes on you— ever again,” he muttered. Each word struck her so forcibly they might have been rocks bruising her flesh. She felt all the color draining from her face.

  Wade spurred his horse and rode for the ranch without looking back.

  Caitlin couldn’t move. She stood rooted to the spot as fury and frustration and a great hollow bitterness rushed over her.

  Her temples throbbed. Her throat ached. Somehow she mounted the mare and rode off, riding blindly, frantically, needing only to be gone from this sunlit place, to be alone with the torment of her thoughts.

  Why should Wade Barclay’s ill opinion of her matter? It shouldn’t, she told herself as scalding tears threatened behind her eyelids. She wouldn’t cry. She wouldn’t! She had nearly wept yesterday at Reese’s grave—she wasn’t going to let Wade Barclay turn her into a sniveling little weakling.

  “I never cry,” she whispered desperately, and urged the mare on faster.

  Chapter 10

  She wasn’t exactly sure when she realized she was lost.

  The world had become an angry chaotic blur where there was only the whipping wind that tore at her hair, the thunder of flying hooves, the choking whirl of dust—and the anger and pain in her heart—anger and pain that stung her soul like a thousand pricking needles. All those things had risen up and engulfed her in a great dark storm, whirling round and round like the scattering dust and veiling the hard, wild landscape through which she rode.

  Eventually the veil fell and the blurring haze cleared and she glimpsed the world again, returning to her senses only to discover that she didn’t recognize a single element of her surroundings.

  She was in a deep canyon, on a stony trail, with a high rock wall to her right and a sheer drop to her left. Star was cantering briskly along, but Caitlin gasped and reined her in as she took stock of her surroundings.

  Beyond the canyon the foothills rose. But which was the way out—and how did she get back to the ranch?

  A hawk circled high above but there was no other sound. No hint of any living creature.

  Panic gripped her but she fought it back. Once she was clear of the canyon, she’d be able to figure out where she was. Surely there would be some familiar landmark, some ridge or butte or something she’d recognize.

  “Come on, girl,” she muttered, putting a shaking hand to Star’s mane as the mare began to walk
forward. Caitlin peered around in the hot silence, searching this way and that for a trail that would lead her out.

  An hour later she finally managed to reach the rim of the canyon. Her throat was parched, her chest tight as she set out across a track overgrown with grass and studded with rocks. She was deep in the foothills, surrounded by pines and firs and spruce, by craggy slopes and empty ridges where now and then a deer or antelope appeared.

  Far below there was a deep open plain of grass and sagebrush like the one she had ridden across before, but it rolled endlessly in every direction to end in high black-shadowed mountains—and she was no longer certain from which way she had come.

  How would she ever get back to Cloud Ranch?

  With a sinking heart she realized that she had left the canteen in the grass at Cougar Canyon. She had no water. No food. At least it was still only early afternoon, she guessed. She glanced toward the sun, a molten bronze ball in the sky. It would set in the west, she told herself, so south would be . . . that way?

  She had to get back before Wade Barclay noticed her absence. The last thing she wanted was to have him gloating over her having become lost after he’d warned her not to go too far.

  I’ll reach the ranch before supper, Caitlin vowed, her hands clenching the reins, or die trying.

  A half hour later she began to fear this might really happen. She’d been riding north—she hoped—but there was still no sign of Cloud Ranch cattle, or of the stream, or of any human being anywhere.

  Despair filled her. And that’s when she heard the gunshot.

  She froze in the saddle. The mare’s ears pricked up. She pranced sideways, and Caitlin stroked her neck again. “Whoa, girl. Easy,” she whispered.

  After the gunshot there was no sound. Caitlin waited with her heart in her throat. Suddenly she heard a shout, and then another angry voice that echoed off the rock walls. But the sounds seemed to originate from beyond the next ridge.

  She didn’t know whether to ride away or ride closer. Perhaps it was some of the Cloud Ranch wranglers and they could tell her how to get home.