by Pam Crooks
Yelling, relentless, he fought to turn the animals into the center of the herd. Then, to the side of him, there was Woollie, Stinky Dale and Jesse, and damn it, the she-boss, too, lashing her quirt, as desperate as the rest of them to get her herd to shift direction.
Finally, finally, the cattle began to veer into a wide circle, changing their straight run into a giant wheel of heaving cowhide. The switch got them bellowing to one another in confusion, and relief flowed through Penn at the sound, a sign their stampede was nearing an end. Gradually, they slowed and shuddered to an exhausted halt.
Penn halted, too. Breathing hard, he vowed vengeance on the night-herders responsible. Orlin Fahey was one, and he’d better have one hell of a good reason for those steers to run like they did.
His gaze clawed through the dusty air for a wide-brimmed hat, and he found it, the she-boss safe farther down the circle. He found Jesse and Stinky Dale, too, and the other cowboys whose darkened shapes he couldn’t distinguish.
“Woollie!” Miss Lockett’s voice called out. She twisted in her saddle, looking for him. “Woollie! Where are you?”
“He’s here, Miss Lockett. Right here. Aw, hell, I think he’s hurt.”
Stinky slid from his horse, and dread rolled through Penn. If the cowboy had to get down, it meant Woollie was on the ground, and that could mean he’d been trampled. Or worse.
Penn barked orders to the others to guard the cattle. Moonlight illuminated Woollie’s unmoving shape, Stinky down on one knee beside him. Penn raced toward them and dismounted. The staccato of horse hooves indicated the she-boss wasn’t far behind. He hunkered next to Woollie, but his glance lifted to Stinky’s.
“How bad is it?” he asked, grim.
“Not sure, Mr. McClure. But he’s alive, at least,” the cowboy said.
“Yeah.” Woollie’s head swiveled. “But it’s bad enough. My shoulder, Penn. My arm, too. I think they’re broke.”
Miss Lockett reined her horse in hard and was out of the saddle before the mare came to a full stop. She dropped to her knees beside Penn, her breathing ragged, and reached for her foreman as if to assure herself he wasn’t dead.
“Oh, Woollie. What happened?” she asked, her anguish pure.
He grimaced, held the injured limb against his chest. “My horse got hit, Carina, and I got thrown. I must’ve rolled across a couple of steers’ backs before I landed.” He sucked in a breath, seeming to get a hold on the pain. “Next thing I know, there’s Stinky lookin’ down at me.”
“You had no business running this stampede,” Penn growled, sliding a hand over the injured shoulder and finding it out of place. “Not with your head hurting like it was. Slowed your thinking.” He examined the favored arm, too. “You could’ve been stomped into sausage.”
“Reckon so,” he said, looking serious.
Miss Lockett bit her lip.
“Could’ve been worse, I suppose,” Penn said. “Easier to fix bones than sausage.” He drew back. “Your shoulder’s dislocated, and you broke your arm, all right. I suspect your collarbone’s broken, too. Going to be hard to get you on a horse if we don’t fix you up here and now. You agreeable with that?”
“Guess I don’t have a choice.” Woollie frowned. “My horse doin’ okay?”
In unison, Penn and Miss Lockett’s heads lifted, searching for the mount. Found him a short distance away, reins dragging, apparently none the worse for wear for the collision he’d had.
“He’s fine, Woollie,” Miss Lockett said. “Just waiting for you to climb on him again, that’s all.”
“Anyone got some tarantula juice?” he said, tried to move and moaned from the mistake.
Penn recalled the bottle of whiskey he had never been without since the day Abigail was killed. Old Taylor had given him plenty of comfort since then, but Carina Lockett put an end to his imbibing the night she sprung him out of jail. Everyone in her outfit knew it was one rule she strictly enforced. No drinking allowed. Ever. Much to his regret.
And now, Woollie’s.
“Going to have to go through it stone sober,” Penn said, commiserating. “Wish it could be different for you.”
“Makes two of us. Let’s do it, then.”
“McClure. I’d like a word with you.” Miss Lockett stood. “Stinky Dale, let the others know we’ll be driving the herd back to the bed ground as soon as Woollie is tended to, you hear? Then take Jesse and Ronnie with you to look for strays. There’ll be plenty.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The cowboy stood, too, and mounted up to follow her orders.
She moved away from her foreman in that purposeful stride Penn had learned to recognize. She had something to say, and she’d mince no words to say it.
He had little choice but to follow and hear her out. She swung toward him, her head tilted back.
“Sourdough is the next best thing to a physician this outfit has,” she said in a low voice.
“So I’ve heard.”
“He should be tending Woollie, not you.”
“Sourdough is back at camp.” Penn set his hands on his hips and glared down at her. She knew a cook never worked the cattle, no matter what happened, his place being to watch the camp until the rest of the outfit returned. “The stampede put a couple of miles between us. How’re you going to get him here? On wings?”
“Do you have any idea what you’re doing?” she demanded.
Her doubt in him rankled. “You mean about doctoring?”
“That’s right.”
Penn thought of his years with Tom Snyder, the injuries he’d seen, the mending he’d done, all learned from men who’d driven cattle longer and farther than she had.
“I can handle it,” he said.
She seemed to war with his response, taking so long to answer, Penn began to wonder if she would.
“What if you can’t?” she asked.
The night’s shadows hid her expression, but the words sounded wrenched from her. Penn knew her foreman meant a lot to her. She was scared to death of seeing him hurt.
She’d already had Callie Mae taken from her. She had to know she’d lose Woollie, too, from this drive, that he’d be in no shape to herd cattle one-armed with a painful shoulder and collarbone in the grueling weeks ahead. Right now, he couldn’t even sit a horse.
“You’ll just have to trust me, Miss Lockett,” he said softly. “Won’t you?”
At some point, it’d become important to him that she did. Trust him. In getting her cattle to Dodge City. In leading her men. In preventing her from handing her hard-earned money over to Rogan Webb, most of all.
“I learned a long time ago trust is something that must be earned, McClure. I don’t give mine at will, and certainly not to a man. At least, not one I hardly know.”
Her contempt made it clear she allowed no one but a prized few into her private, self-reliant world, and he sure as hell wasn’t one of them. He had to change that, or it could cost him his chance for revenge. His jaw hardened.
“Like it or not, I’m all you’ve got, Miss Lockett,” he taunted. He indicated Woollie lying behind them, full out in the grass. “Unless you want to tend to him yourself, here and now.” He glared at her. “What’s it going to be?”
Her throat moved. A moment passed. The trust she struggled to wrest into place.
“Just do your best with him, McClure,” she said finally. “You’ll do that, won’t you?”
Despite the command in her tone, the persistence of her worry showed through. It moved him, that worry, coming from the tough Carina Lockett. She’d had more than her share of it of late.
“My best, yes,” he grated.
“I’ll help you.”
She took a step around him, heading back to her foreman.
Penn’s hand shot out, snatched her elbow, stopping her. “No.”
The shadows couldn’t hide the tempest quick to brew in her features. “The hell I won’t.”
He intended to spare her the experience. Some men took their hurting in stride.
Others screamed like a baby. Penn didn’t know which category Woollie would fit in, and the she-boss shouldn’t have to witness either one.
“There’s a few things I’ll need first,” he said.
“Like what?”
“Something for a splint—a couple of tree branches, sturdy and straight. And bandannas to tie them on with.”
Her gaze darted to Woollie, then back to Penn. She nodded once. “All right. I’ll get them.”
He didn’t let her go, engrossed instead with how his grasp revealed the slimness of her arm through the sleeve of her blouse. If he tried, his fingers would almost touch around it. Somehow, she should be bigger than that, he mused, the thought dropping into his mind. Her power, her resilience, gave the impression of it.
She was tall, too. Taller than Abigail had been, and most women besides. Without her hat, her head would be level with his nose, something he didn’t often find when he stood next to a female like this.
It shouldn’t matter what Carina Lockett felt like, he told himself firmly. Or how tall she stood. What had to matter was knowing if he wasn’t more careful from here on out, she’d get him to thinking of her more as a woman, and less as his boss.
And that would be a mistake. A distraction he couldn’t afford. Carina Lockett was the ticket on his journey to revenge, he told himself firmly. His inside track to Rogan Webb. Nothing more.
He released her then. She stepped back.
And they both braced themselves for what lay ahead.
Chapter 6
It was nearly dawn by the time things were said and done. Strays gathered up. The herd driven back to camp. Each man present and accounted for.
Except for Woollie, no one had gotten hurt. Carina had found a quiet place for him to rest, on the edge of camp. He slept quietly wrapped in his bedroll, his arm in a sling, his pain relieved from the healthy dose of laudanum Sourdough had given him.
Her stomach tightened just thinking how close she’d come to losing him. Those long horns, spread five, six feet wide, could rip bark off a tree. Only divine intervention spared him from dying a gruesome death.
He’d given her the scare of her life, for sure, and she’d hardly left his side since. What would she have done without McClure to take care of him? The man had slipped Woollie’s shoulder back into place and reset the arm with a skill she’d been afraid to hope for—using an efficiency she couldn’t have matched to save her soul.
Woollie bore it with remarkable stoicism, but now, he’d have to leave the trail. Just for a while, until he was fully healed, and the knowledge left her feeling empty inside.
Carina rubbed her forehead. Driving three thousand head of cattle was a gargantuan task for anyone, rife with problems and hardship, and daunting for even the most seasoned of drovers. Times like these, she wished she was a man. Wished she had the tenacity and experience to handle it herself.
But she didn’t.
McClure had the ability, however, and she had to depend on him now. There was no one else.
But it was unsettling, McClure having that much power over her. He was a stranger, a drifter Woollie had hired right off the range. What did she know about him really? Enough to entrust him with the job of getting to Dodge City in the shortest time possible? Enough to ensure her ability to pay the ransom for Callie Mae once they got there?
“Miss Lockett?”
Her musing ended at Jesse Keller’s approach, and she glanced up at him expectantly.
“Mr. McClure has a few things to say to the outfit,” the cowboy said. “He sent me over to ask if you’d like to join him.”
Her gaze slid across the camp. The men began to collect around the chuck wagon. More specifically, Sourdough’s coffeepot. The stampede’s aftermath had kept them in the saddle all night long. No one had had any sleep yet.
Including McClure. Whatever he intended to talk about was sure to pertain to the near crisis. He’d want to get to the root of it.
“I would,” she said.
Thanks to the laudanum, Woollie still slept quietly. She reached over and tugged his quilt higher over his shoulder.
Jesse extended a hand. “Let me help you up, Miss Lockett. Reckon you’re as tired as I am.”
Another time, she would’ve deplored looking so helpless, so female, but she had to admit her tired muscles appreciated the gesture. She took the young cowboy’s hand and allowed him to assist her to her feet.
“Thanks, Jesse.”
She fell into step with him. Jesse was close to her age and had worked for the C Bar C for the past six years. She trusted his loyalty. And she’d noticed how he and the rest of her men had begun to think of McClure more as “Mister” and less as “Penn.” The shift of authority evident.
“A real shame about Woollie getting hurt and all,” Jesse said. “Is Mr. McClure going to be boss for him from here on out?”
She was sorely tempted to remind him exactly who was in charge. As owner of the C Bar C, those three thousand head of cattle were hers, and hers alone, at least until she turned them over to Rogan.
“Can you think of anyone better for the job?” she asked.
“No, ma’am. He knows what he’s doing, no doubt about it. That’s important to drive a herd the size of yours.”
“Does the rest of the outfit like him well enough?” she asked, not sure why she did, except to assuage her own weary worries.
“Yes, ma’am.” He hesitated. “Well, at least most of us.”
His glance touched on Orlin Fahey, looking morose as he stood off to one side, all but ignored by the rest of the hands. He was one of the night-herders assigned to watch over the herd, Carina recalled, and her mouth tightened. He had to know he’d be held responsible for any wrongdoing.
“Seems to me Mr. McClure’s doing all he can to help you move your herd on Miss Callie Mae’s account,” Jesse continued. “Guess that says something for him.”
Carina declined to mention the bargain she’d struck with McClure in his jail cell. That shackled him to her right there. But her gut instinct insisted the man had integrity. Jesse’s impression of him—Woollie’s and Sourdough’s and just about everyone else’s—confirmed it.
They reached the chuck wagon, and Jesse took the cup of Arbuckles’ coffee Sourdough handed him. Lifting a finger to his hat brim, he left Carina to join the others at the campfire.
“Best give me one, too, Sourdough,” Carina said. “I can barely keep my eyes open.”
But her eyes found McClure just fine, hunkered next to the fire.
“He looks mad enough to eat the devil.” Sourdough shook his head while he poured a dose of milk from the Borden’s can into her brew. “He ain’t takin’ the stampede lightly.”
McClure stared out over the herd, which was bedded down, chewing their cuds and so peaceful no one would know they’d spooked and run only hours before. His Stetson rode low on his forehead, and the shadow of a beard roughened his cheeks, giving him the look of a ruthless outlaw.
She accepted the cup from Sourdough. As an afterthought, she asked for another, and once obliged, she headed toward the fire.
McClure roused at her approach, and their gazes met. He stood slowly and watched her come toward him, that simple uncoiling of his body lithe and so full of unleashed power that the blood fluttered in her veins.
She sensed the anger in him—untamed, barely restrained. Warranted, but dangerous, too, and a slow heat curled inside her.
He appealed to a primitive side of her she didn’t know existed. Why this man was capable of affecting her, she didn’t know, couldn’t comprehend, and she did her best to hide the way he made her feel. She halted in front of him and offered him the cup, steaming in the chill of the dawn.
“It’s fresh, and it’s strong,” she said.
Beneath the brim of the Stetson, those dark eyes smoldered, like embers stirring into fire. She sensed the fading of his fury, as if he’d banked it for something else.
“Just what a man wants to hear,” he murmured.
His fingers closed over hers while she held the tin, a deliberate ploy to keep her from stepping away. She felt their strength, yet there was a gentleness in them, too, and for a moment, a single, wild moment, she thought he misunderstood what she said. That he’d guessed the effect he was beginning to have on her more and more, this attraction building inside her. That he thought she spoke of that instead of the Arbuckles’ in her hand—
She couldn’t let him know. This blamed weakness. If he knew, he’d use it to his advantage, like Rogan had done….
Her chin lifted. She schooled her features into an impassive mask. Rechanneled her thinking into a logical response. “A woman, too, McClure. When she’s been up all night.”
He nodded, agreeing. He still hadn’t released her.
“How’s Woollie?” he asked in his low voice. Smoky, intimate, controlled.
“Sleeping. Doing as well as can be expected.”
“There’s a farmhouse a few miles back. We’ll see if he can stay there a while.”
“Nothing else to do, I suppose,” she said, hating it.
“He’ll catch up with us later. You mind if I send a cow along?”
Their gratitude for the privilege of Woollie’s recuperation. The farmer would appreciate having the beef.
“Of course not,” she said.
She tugged against his grasp. Her men were surely watching. What would they think, his fingers bold on hers like this? As if there was something between them. McClure and her.
“If you have something to say to the outfit, you’d best get a start on it,” she said coolly. Which was nothing like how she felt. Cool. “They’re tired, and they’re waiting on you.”
A moment passed, as if he debated obeying her order just yet. But he released her. Finally. She took a discreet step back. Covered her awareness of him by taking a sip of the coffee in her cup, the pathetic side of her needing something ordinary to do, when he made her feel anything but… ordinary.
Yet with maddening ease, he turned his attention from her to the cowboys sprawled on the ground. The tension shimmered from him, a return of the anger he held inside. Bleary-eyed, unshaven, and tousle-haired from the night’s work, her men talked in somber tones while they kept themselves awake with the Arbuckles’.