by Pam Crooks
But only McClure mounted up to ride toward her. Carina nudged her Appaloosa into an easy lope, meeting him halfway.
“How much longer before we head out?” she asked.
“As soon as Sourdough’s ready.”
The low timbre of his voice sounded different now that he wasn’t drunk. Smooth, husky. Richly masculine. She dragged herself back from noticing. “Good. Shouldn’t be much longer then.”
The cook would leave first, she knew. He needed the time to get ahead of the herd to arrive at the location Woollie designated. By the time the outfit met up with him about midday, Sourdough would have dinner hot and waiting.
But it seemed neither he nor Woollie were going to leave just yet. They stood at the back of the chuck wagon with the table down while Sourdough rummaged around in one of his possible drawers.
“Woollie wants to make camp tonight at the Washita,” McClure said. “It’ll be a long day to get there.”
“That’s all right.”
She pulled her attention back to him, and her concentration wavered again. A stubble roughened his cheeks, and with the Stetson riding low on his forehead, his features were thrown into shadow. He had an air about him she couldn’t figure. An edge. Untamed and wild.
She steeled herself against it. Another time, she might have given in to this fascination that continued to sway her. But not now. She couldn’t think about anything except what lay ahead.
“Making it to the river would be a good head start for us to get to Kansas.” Carina was grateful for the cool authority she managed to infuse into her voice. “I’ll ride at the front with Woollie.”
Carina knew her limitations. Woollie had always been the C Bar C’s trail boss, not her. He’d be the one to make the decisions in the coming weeks, but her place would be right beside him when he did.
McClure reached into his pocket, pulled out a rolled cigarette. “Ever been on a cattle drive before, Miss Lockett?”
“Of course I have,” she said.
But not since Callie Mae had been born. Even then, only once back in ’73 when her father gave in to her pleadings and let her tag along. The spring and fall roundups kept Carina away from home long enough. And what business was it of his if she had or not?
“No place for a woman, if you don’t mind me saying so.” McClure tucked the unlit cigarette into the corner of his mouth.
She bristled. “I do, as a matter of fact. Mind you saying so.”
“Going to be hard work. Hate to see you go through it.”
Carina glared at him. It was something she’d always done. Work hard. Just like everyone else in her outfit. And he knew, he knew, how important this trail drive was to getting her daughter back.
“What would you have me do, then?” she asked coolly. “Sit home and knit socks until everyone comes back?”
The emptiness in the house, the silence, would be her undoing. Not hearing Callie Mae’s chatter, her boots clomping on the wood floors, and seeing her empty chair at the dinner table night after night would be harder than any cattle drive could ever be.
He regarded her, his eyes as brown as saddle leather, his expression as tough. “If you had to.”
She stared in disbelief. “You seem to have forgotten I’m the boss of this outfit, McClure. The herd you’re driving to Dodge City is mine. I intend to see that it gets there and that I’m paid in full when it does.”
“So you can turn your hard-earned money over to Rogan Webb.”
“Yes.”
“And leave Kansas with nothing to show for your trouble.”
The words burned right through her. “Yes.”
“Damned waste, isn’t it?”
Mockery threaded his low voice, taunting her with his disapproval. Carina wanted to punch him for it.
“You’re not being paid to tell me your opinion of my personal matters, McClure. We made a deal to get your sorry ass out of jail. Just keep your end of it and your mouth shut while you do.”
The faintest of curves softened the hard line of his mouth. He inclined his head. That mockery again. “Yes, ma’am.”
She gripped the reins. It rankled he found her amusing over something so serious, but she forced herself to keep from chastising him about it. If she offended him, he could quit on her, leave her shorthanded, and she didn’t dare risk it. She needed him too much. She’d gone to him with her pride in her pocket and practically begged him to come to work for her, after all.
She gestured toward the chuck wagon. “I’ll go down to see what’s taking Sourdough so long.”
“Woollie’s not feeling well this morning.”
“Isn’t he?”
Concern filtered through her, and her gaze swiveled toward the two men. Sourdough appeared to have found what he was looking for in the last possible drawer and handed it to Woollie, who promptly uncapped the container and took a quick swig.
“His stomach bitters,” she said, dismayed. “He has a headache again?”
“Yes,” McClure said.
Poor Woollie. He’d been plagued by the affliction for as long as she’d known him.
He swore by his bottle of Hostetter’s, though, which claimed the medicine would cure anything from dry cough to liver ailments. Carina was convinced a good nap was really the cure, since Woollie always seemed to need one even when he didn’t take a dose, but what did she know?
“We’ll head out of here about nine,” McClure said. “That’ll give him time to rest up.”
She glanced at the sky, beginning to clear from the dawn, and couldn’t help feeling disappointment. “That’s two hours yet.”
“The grass is too wet if we leave sooner. Hooves can go soft. Best to let the ground dry some.”
“A longhorn’s hoof is as strong as steel, McClure. Or maybe you didn’t know?”
“There’s different opinions about cattle walking on wet grass. You’ve just heard mine.”
“I see.” Her chin tilted. She wasn’t accustomed to being put in her place by one of her men. Did he think he had the right? “I wasn’t aware you were in charge of this drive.”
“Never said I was.”
“I’ll discuss our departure time with Woollie.”
“I already have. He agrees.”
“But it’s two hours, McClure.”
The words were out before she could think to stop them, a protest that made her sound petulant and desperate, even if she was both.
But of course, she had to do what was best for the herd. If she didn’t, it would only cost her in the end.
“Never mind,” she said, her tone an impatient snap. “Two hours is fine.”
She didn’t want to see his triumph, and she tugged on the reins to leave him. She could find plenty to do in those two hours, she supposed, despite her haste to get moving, and checking on her foreman was first on the list.
“Miss Lockett.”
She turned back toward McClure. He pulled the cigarette from his mouth and studied the end he hadn’t bothered to light.
“You’ll get your daughter back,” he said. His gaze, dark and piercing, lifted to meet hers. “If it’s the last thing I do.”
The grim avowal pushed a surge of unwanted emotion into her throat. She hadn’t expected him to be intuitive, certainly not this determined. Maybe she hadn’t given him enough credit for being either one.
“That makes two of us, then,” she managed, and giving the Appaloosa a nudge in the ribs, she left him.
Chapter 4
“I’m going to close my eyes for a spell, Carina,” Woollie muttered, climbing up onto the pile of bedrolls loaded on the chuck wagon. The canvas stretched over him would keep the rising sun off and the bedding would make him comfortable while he dozed. “Just long enough to give the bitters time to work.”
“Take as long as you need.” She watched him worriedly. She was still seated on her horse, which made it easier to see him. “We’ll pull out when you’re feeling better.”
“Don’t wait for me.” He lay
back and closed his eyes. “I can stay with Sourdough, then ride back to meet you and the herd later.”
Carina bit her lip. From the miserable looks of him, it was the best way. But why did he have to fall ill now? Of all mornings, when she needed him most to move her herd toward the trail?
But she knew why. They both did.
“You’ve been worrying about Callie Mae.” She reached over to pat his leg in sympathy. “That’s what made you sick, isn’t it?”
“Haven’t been worryin’ any more than you or anyone else in this outfit. And don’t you go worryin’ about this drive, either,” he said, his words sounding tired. “McClure can do the job without me.”
“McClure?”
She drew back. He was practically a stranger. What did she know about him except that he was good with a rope and a horse?
“He knows what he’s doin’, Carina. Going to have to trust him on that. Don’t fight him so much.”
“He doesn’t want the cattle to get their hooves wet.” She frowned. Sounded silly, just saying it.
“He told me. Some truth in it, besides.”
“We could be moving out right now. Two hours closer to Callie Mae.”
“I know.”
Carina swallowed down further complaint. Woollie was in no condition to keep hearing them. Besides, she’d just been counting herself lucky to have McClure on the payroll only a short time ago. And it wasn’t as if Woollie was leaving her for good. Only the morning, until he felt better.
He emitted a soft moan and covered his face with his Stetson. She glanced up at Sourdough, sitting up on the box, waiting.
“Have a care with him, you hear?” she said.
“He’ll sleep like a baby if I can help it,” Sourdough said.
She eyed her cook doubtfully. He’d drive like a bat out of hell so he could arrive at the noon rendezvous point as soon as possible and start stirring up dinner. The ride over rough rangeland would be merciless.
“I’ll meet up with you later. McClure knows where,” Sourdough said.
“All right. Later, then.”
She nudged her horse back a few steps. Sourdough slapped the reins over his team of four, and harnesses clinking, they strained forward under their heavy load.
Carina watched them go. The iron wheels picked up speed; the wagon jostled and groaned, and she was glad for the heap of bedding that would cushion Woollie’s ride.
By the time she saw him again, the Hostetter’s nostrum would have had time to kick in. His pain and nausea would be gone. He’d be back to his old self.
She hoped.
Penn had to admit it was an impressive sight.
A long river of brown moving north across the Texas range. The longhorns traveled four and six abreast, guided on both sides by C Bar C riders who kept them in line with their ropes and hollers. A few seasoned steers led the cattle in a steady march toward the Western Trail, which would take them directly into Dodge City in a few weeks’ time.
Yeah, it was impressive all right.
And something Penn hadn’t expected to take part in again anytime soon. Make that for the rest of his life. But then, Rogan Webb changed his plans. Abigail, too, and the greed they shared.
His gut tightened, like it always did when he thought of her. Of what she’d done.
Of how absolutely stupid he’d been to fall in love with her.
He clenched his jaw, fought down the pain, rechanneled his thinking to Carina Lockett and how she fit in his picture. She filled a big part of it. Driving her beeves proved a real handy way of getting his revenge satisfied and his counterfeit ring case closed, all at the same time.
Penn grimaced. But damned if the she-boss wasn’t a pistol waiting to fire, prone to wound him any chance she got.
Granted, she had a lot on her mind. Having a child taken away would make anyone edgy. Being on the verge of financial ruin would, too, and her foreman being sick hadn’t helped any. She was used to being in control, and this drive was out of her hands. Penn would need a heap of patience to get through the next few weeks with her.
About the only thing he could look forward to was Rogan Webb waiting for them when it was all over.
“So what makes you an expert at driving cattle, McClure?”
He swiveled a glance toward Miss Lockett, seated on her mare beside him. She had a proud profile with her chin tilted higher than most. A perfectly shaped nose and high cheekbones. She wore her wide-brimmed hat low on her forehead to shut out the sun, but her days on the roundup had already tinted her skin golden, something a woman of genteel society would’ve been loath to allow. By the time the drive was over, she’d be as brown as a bear cub.
She’d insisted on riding in front, though he could’ve used another swing rider down the line. They moved ahead of the herd to inspect the range behind them. That long river of brown. Her silence up to now told him she was as impressed as he was.
“Never said I was expert, did I?” he said, knowing he hadn’t.
“Woollie seems to think so.”
Penn grunted. They’d become friends based on mutual respect, nothing more. The foreman was as dedicated as he could be to the C Bar C Ranch. He appreciated Penn doing the job he was being paid to do. Penn suspected the only difference between himself and the rest of the outfit was that Woollie had determined Penn was more experienced than most.
“I used to drive cattle for Tom Snyder, down in south Texas in the seventies,” he said.
She nodded. “I’ve heard of him.”
“Most cattlemen around these parts have.”
“How long did you work for him?”
Penn accepted her grilling. Figured as his boss she had the right to know who was handling her herd in her foreman’s place.
“Six seasons.” He squinted an eye against the mid-morning sun and scanned the limitless country in front of him. They were hard, grueling years. He’d started them as a kid, finished them as a man. He’d thrived from the adventure, the exhilaration that came from surviving the whole experience. “I’ve driven from the Gulf up to Salt Lake City and every state in between one time or another.”
“My, my. You are good,” she murmured.
He met the directness of her gaze. The morning sun darkened her eyes to deep purplish pools, a shade that could’ve been blue in a different light. Long, sultry lashes fringed those orbs. If a man wasn’t careful, he could just about drown himself in eyes like hers.
But Penn wouldn’t be so foolish. Or weak. Not the way he’d been with Abigail.
He pulled himself back from the past. Into the present. “Yeah. Reckon I am.”
As if she disdained his scrutiny, she turned away. Her own gaze swept over the cattle, drawing steadily closer. “Why did you quit?”
“I wanted to do something different.”
“Like what?”
Despite his avowal, his glance stayed on her. Drifted lower. Past her face and to the slender column of her throat. The breeze lifted the edge of her blouse beneath her jacket, presenting him with a shadowy glimpse of the curve of her breast.
His imagination stirred. Warmth strolled through his groin. Not since Abigail left him cold and bitter had a woman affected him like this.
“McClure. I asked you a question.”
Annoyed she’d caught him staring, he straightened and dragged his gaze off her. Carina Lockett didn’t seem to know she was a beautiful woman. Or didn’t care that she was. But he couldn’t let her distract him anymore.
“I wanted to do office work,” he said finally, knowing she wouldn’t understand why.
Her brow arched. “Office work!”
“Yep,” he said, figuring her right.
He didn’t expect her to understand. When he hired on with the United States government as an agent with the Secret Service, it’d been important to have a real job, with decent wages and room to climb through the ranks. He wanted to wear a suit and tie instead of a sweaty Stetson and dusty Levi’s. To work with his brain instead of his b
ody.
He’d wanted all those things. Still did. And he’d have them again once he settled his score with the lowlife who took them away.
“Why aren’t you, then?” she asked. “Doing office work?”
He heard the scoffing she didn’t bother to hide. “My plans changed.”
He declined telling her the rest of his story. The man he truly was. A former Treasury Department agent who’d gone beyond the toil of routine office work to investigate cases involving hundreds of thousands of dollars. Crimes of counterfeit. And that he’d gotten damn good at it.
Until Abigail. Until Rogan Webb.
She wouldn’t like his plan to keep Webb from getting all her money, not when she was so desperate to give it to him. She wanted her daughter back, and that affected her thinking.
“Well, McClure, in case your plans include leaving this outfit to do office work somewhere, let me remind you of the deal I expect you to honor.” All her scoffing was gone. She was back to being tough Carina Lockett, cattle queen for the C Bar C. “I’ve got money tied up in you. You’re a long way off from settling your debt.”
His mouth thinned. Another stupid thing he’d done. Getting drunk in Mobeetie. Damages to the saloon had been considerable. More than he’d expected.
Maybe the saloon owner was just getting even, but regardless, the she-boss was right. Penn had cost her some bucks, and he owed her for it.
He studied the stream of three thousand head of bawling cattle, the remuda comprised of eighty horses moving alongside, the dozen men working the drive. He had a hand in organizing all of it, right along with Woollie. He’d come too far to back out now, even if he didn’t have revenge to settle.
“Pull your claws in, Miss Lockett,” he said finally. “I have every intention of returning to my office job as soon as I can. But I’m not going anywhere in the next three weeks except to Dodge City.”
“I’m glad we’re in agreement, then. I don’t take kindly to a man whose word can’t be trusted.”