Untamed Cowboy (C Bar C Ranch Book 1)

by Pam Crooks

  Salesmen like this one were tagged “drummers” for the business they solicited for employers located in towns too far away for the outfits to reach. He hastened from his seat, a rather awkward dismount considering the breadth of his belly. By the looks of his dusty, rumpled suit, he’d been on the road a spell.

  “Theodore Farrell, sir. I’m with the Wichita Wholesale Grocery Company.” He shook Penn’s hand heartily. “Just runnin’ this part of the Western in case outfits like yours are gettin’ low on supplies. If you’re in need of somethin’, I might have it for you.”

  Penn hooked a thumb in the waistband of his Levi’s. “We made a stop at Fort Supply a few days ago. Bought some provisions then.”

  “Did you now? Well, I’ll be your last tradin’ point until you get to Dodge City.”

  Undeterred, Farrell headed toward the back of the wagon bed and unbuckled the straps holding in his cargo. He rolled back the tarp, opened a crate, pulled out a couple of bottles of Old Fitzgerald whiskey and several sacks of Bull Durham, then held them all out to Penn.

  “Here you go, Mr. McClure. On me. I’d appreciate a few minutes of your time to show you what I have.”

  Amusement grew in Penn’s features. He made no attempt to take the proffered goods. “Thanks, but I’m not the purchasing agent for this outfit.”

  “You’re not?” He drew back, perused the unshaven faces of the men and evidently didn’t find one who looked as though he might have some authority. “Who is?”

  “I am. The name’s Carina Lockett.” Carina strode forward and extended her hand. “Pleased to meet you.”

  The drummer blinked, turned to McClure and suddenly guffawed with laughter. “You boys are always tryin’ to pull a fast one on us greenhorns, aren’t you?”

  “It’s the truth.” McClure leaned an elbow on the wagon bed and smiled.

  “A woman boss, out here trailin’ cattle. That’s just too rich.” He laughed until his shoulders shook.

  The rest of the outfit cleared the tucker from their throats and found something else to look at. Like the toes of their boots. Or that blue, blue sky. Their respect for her, Carina knew, kept their mouths shut.

  She lowered her hand, the opportunity to shake Farrell’s hand gone. The desire for it, too. He had an engaging way of showing his merriment. Could’ve been contagious if she hadn’t been so annoyed with him.

  “Do you think a woman isn’t capable of trailing three thousand head of cattle, Mr. Farrell?” she asked coolly. “Because if you do, you’d best turn around and drive off my bed-ground. I won’t be doing any business with you.”

  The amusement sputtered. He threw a fast glance at McClure, checking his reaction to her threat.

  McClure simply nodded. “She’s Carina Lockett, like she said. Owner and boss of the C Bar C Ranch outside of Mobeetie, Texas.”

  A short, choking sound stomped out the laugh for good. The blood drained from Farrell’s round face, but then it all rushed back again to flame his cheeks red.

  Muttering a strangled oath, he scrambled to bundle the whiskey bottles under the arm that already held the tobacco. He whipped off his hat and crushed the thing to his chest.

  “Forgive me, ma’am. Oh, forgive me. I thought—I was sure—”

  Carina had gotten the same reaction so many times it didn’t matter anymore. She knew who she was and what she could do. If a man had trouble believing it, well, she couldn’t care less.

  The drummer looked as uncomfortable as a bear in a bramble patch, though. She took pity on him for his blunder. Most likely she’d have made the same mistake if she’d been the one to pull on his boots this morning.

  “I know what you thought. Forget it,” she said and found a smile to reassure him.

  “Then these are for you, Miss—” He halted, looked uncomfortable again. “Or is it Missus?”

  “Miss,” she assured him.

  Another glance at Penn suggested the drummer found that baffling, too. A female alone on the trail, with near a dozen men. And no husband with her.

  “She hasn’t found a man who can handle her yet,” McClure said.

  “Nor do I want to,” she retorted so fast she didn’t have time to admit to herself it wasn’t always true.

  Like lately. At night, in her bedroll, when she was alone and worried and in sorry need of strong arms around her.

  She blamed McClure for planting the seeds of foolish womanly longings inside her. They’d begun to sprout after he kissed her up good and right. Until then, she’d never been so bothered by them.

  “I hope you’ll accept these blandishments, Miss Lockett,” Farrell said, covering his bald pate with his hat again. “I’ve gotten off on the wrong foot with you, I’m afraid, but I’m still hopin’ you’ll take a few minutes to see what I’ve brought with me.”

  He waited for her acceptance of the whiskey and tobacco. She didn’t condone liquor on a trail drive, but she fervently hoped they’d all have an opportunity to enjoy some soon.

  In Dodge City. To celebrate Callie Mae’s return.

  The tobacco would be welcomed by the outfit until they got there, however, and she inclined her head in agreement.

  “Thank you, Mr. Farrell. My men will put your gifts to good use.”

  He looked relieved and handed her the pair of Old Fitzgeralds. “The whiskey’s fine, from Kentucky, you know, and well, I’d give you some of my best cigars if I wasn’t fresh out. Had some real nice Caribbeans, but a pair of gentlemen bought my last box the other day, down by the border.”

  “Did they?” she asked, turning the tall bottles over to Stinky Dale with a quiet order for him to give them to Sourdough for safekeeping.

  “Yes, ma’am. Paid for ’em with a crisp C-Note.” After he handed her the sacks of Bull Durham, he rooted around in the wooden crate and pulled out bibles, the cigarette papers to go with them. “Strange to see a couple of men like that, carryin’ new money and not herdin’ cattle like everyone else.”

  “What were they doing if not that?” McClure asked, a frown forming.

  “Don’t know. They were out there, off the trail, oh, a quarter mile or so. Just ridin’.” He shrugged. “They weren’t cowboys, that’s for sure. Didn’t have so much as a single little dogie with ’em.”

  “Didn’t happen to get their names, did you?” he asked as Carina took the bibles, too.

  The drummer thought a moment. “I sure didn’t, Mr. McClure. They didn’t stick around to talk much. But I can tell you they had on suits and string ties. One of them had a mustache, curled and waxed. Dandies, for sure. And well-armed. I thought that was strange, too.”

  Carina’s fingers tightened around the tobacco. Her alarmed gaze found McClure’s. Her thoughts jumped to Rogan and Durant and stayed there, same as, she knew, his had.

  The sound of a wooden spoon banging on a cast-iron pot had them all swiveling toward Sourdough.

  “Chuck’s on!” he yelled. “Come and get it if you want it hot!”

  Farrell sniffed deep. “Are those flapjacks I’m smellin’?”

  “They are. Have you had your breakfast yet?” Carina forced herself to think of the ordinary, the courtesy she was obliged to give a visitor.

  “Well, yes, ma’am, but nothin’ which smells as good as what your cook’s stirrin’ up.”

  “Go on over, then,” she said. “Fill a plate. Your wares will wait.”

  The drummer grinned. “You sure you don’t mind, Miss Lockett?”

  “Not at all. There’s plenty. The outfit might be inclined to spend more once their bellies are full.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” He chuckled. “Thank you, ma’am.”

  He took off with the rest of them and left her alone with McClure. She pivoted toward him.

  “I think Rogan and Durant are following us,” she said in a low voice.

  His nod was grim. “Seems so.”

  “I saw one of them. Just a few minutes ago.”

  “You did?” Eyes, dark as saddle leather, sharpened over her.
“Where?”

  “In the cottonwoods.” She gestured across the prairie, to the stand of trees that showed no movement.

  His head angled to follow where she indicated. “Who did you see?”

  “I couldn’t tell. He’s gone, though. I think Farrell scared him off.”

  “No.” A muscle leaped in McClure’s lean cheek. He turned back to her again. “Whoever it was is still out there, Carina. If he’s been following us since we left Texas, he has no reason to stop following us now that we’re in Kansas.”

  Her gaze drilled through the cottonwoods, willing the branches and leaves to part so she could see what their shadows might hide.

  “I’ll ride over there, see what I can find,” McClure said.

  “No,” she said.

  His eyes narrowed. “If Rogan’s hiding, I’ll get him now. Save you the trouble of turning your herd over to him later. Same goes for Durant, if it’s him.”

  “We’ll do nothing to jeopardize Callie Mae, you hear me?” Her voice grated with a rush of desperation, the terrible certainty that if they didn’t cooperate fully with Rogan and Durant, she’d lose her little girl. “They’re holding all the cards, McClure, so we have to play by their rules.”

  “You’re wrong.” His expression turned hard. “We’ve got the aces they need to win their game—that herd of yours out there. They’re following us to make sure we’re playing right. No other reason.”

  “Maybe.” She took comfort in his use of we and us. The knowledge that he’d be with her to the end, no matter how the cards landed. “But don’t you see, McClure? If it was anyone else, or a whole different bunch of circumstances, I’d go after him myself and fillet him alive for what he’s doing. The bastards, both of them.”

  “Nothing to stop you from it now, is there?”

  She blinked up at him. Why did the man have to be so stubborn?

  “Yes!” she snapped. “Callie Mae is stopping me.”

  He studied her in that dark way of his. He had an air of danger, of mystery, about him. She’d sensed it before. Sensed it now. And was reminded again of how little she knew about him.

  “I know,” he said finally, his features not so hard anymore. “But it still won’t hurt to ride over there and see what I can find.”

  She set her jaw and stopped fighting him on it. “Go, then. But I’m telling you, he’s gone, whoever he is.”

  “I’d like to know why they split up, too.”

  “You won’t find out looking in the trees.”

  “Maybe I will before we get to Dodge City.”

  Carina couldn’t fathom how he would, but did it matter? Rogan and Durant would be there, waiting for them, and that’s what mattered most.

  But afterward, the uncertainty of what would happen tortured her. The risks…

  She wanted it to be over. Her temples took on a dull ache. She needed coffee, strong and hot. She’d yet to have her first cup of the day.

  Carina thrust the drummer’s gifts at McClure. “Here. See that these are distributed fairly.”

  “Please.” Eyes narrowed, he took them.

  “Please.” Impatience spiraled through her. “And let’s start moving the herd across the river no later than noon.”

  She turned on her heel to head for the chuck wagon, but his strong arm hooked around her waist. He all but lifted her off her feet, twisted and pressed her back against the wagon, all in one quick, unexpected motion.

  “Not so fast, Carina.” He tossed the Bull Durham and bibles onto the tarp behind her.

  Her surprise warred with indignation. “What are you doing?”

  “You’ve been avoiding me.”

  Her chin lifted. He stood so close, instant awareness shot through her. The breadth of his shoulders, the heat of his big body reaching toward hers. “I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Ever since we left Fort Supply you have been.”

  A damning warmth bloomed in her cheeks. The memory of how completely vulnerable she’d been in the bathhouse.

  The bloom caught McClure’s attention.

  “Don’t tell me you’re still embarrassed,” he said, his gaze brimming with amusement.

  “I’m not,” she lied and pushed against the unyielding wall of his chest. “I never was.”

  “The hell you weren’t.”

  She didn’t waste time denying it further. “You caught me unaware, McClure. You know you did.”

  “So I got lucky,” he said and chuckled.

  Which distracted her. The pleasantly male sound wound its way through her and found a place somewhere inside her chest.

  “I should have climbed in with you.” The chuckle died, and his voice turned husky. Blood-stirringly intimate. His gaze settled over her mouth. “A thousand times, I’ve thought of it.”

  Never would she admit she’d thought of it, too. When she least expected it. Their nakedness together in that tub. Arms and legs tangled, their skin soapy and slick against the other’s…

  “You shouldn’t be thinking such things, McClure.” She hated how the words came out, soft and shaky. “They won’t get you anywhere because it’ll never happen.” She forced herself to say the words they were both thinking of. “Us in a tub with one another.”

  A part of her knew she should end their silly conversation and walk away. Her men could see them, standing close and talking hushed, even though McClure kept his body angled to shield her.

  She didn’t walk away, though. The foolish female part of her wanted to stay.

  His hand lowered to the buttons of her blouse.

  “Can’t help thinking of us like that.” A corner of his mouth lifted. “You wearing your new pink underwear this mornin’, Miss Lockett?”

  His voice, so husky it could’ve been a whisper, contained an outrageously charming amount of male curiosity. She pressed her lips together to hide their treacherous curving.

  A button flipped open.

  And this time, she dared to play his game. What was a little pink fabric and lace, after all? Nothing he hadn’t already seen.

  A second button opened. He parted her blouse wide, and the morning air swirled over her skin.

  “Well, well, well. What do you know? She is,” he murmured.

  “I ought to plug you with lead for the liberties you’re taking with me,” she said, not moving, letting him look.

  “But you’re not going to shoot me. ’Else you would have by now. Isn’t that right, Miss Lockett?”

  She bit her lip and refused to admit the truth. He took his bold curiosity another step further. By untying a narrow snip of ribbon. He undid the camisole’s top button, and parted that, too.

  But he stilled when his attention snared on the photograph she was never without. Lifting one corner, he pulled it from its place against her breast.

  He studied the image pressed to the paper, then lifted his glance to hers. The playfulness was gone; in its place, a somber darkening of his eyes.

  “My daughter,” Carina said quietly. “Taken last year on Daisy, her horse.”

  “She looks like you,” he said.

  “You think so?” She didn’t have to see the photo to recall the sun-streaked curls and wide, mischievous smile flirting with the camera. “Her eyes are as blue as the sky, and her hair is the perfect shade of cinnamon.” Callie Mae had delighted in the photographer’s attention that day. But then, what child wouldn’t? Carina frowned. “There are times she reminds me of her father.”

  “Can’t be helped, I suppose. She’s half Webb.”

  “To my everlasting regret.”

  Times had been simpler back then, when the traveling photographer stopped by the C Bar C. Carina had never questioned if Callie Mae was happy, had always thought the photo was proof.

  But her daughter wanted more than Carina could give her and took off in pursuit of it, with no thought to the repercussions on those who loved her most.

  And wasn’t that just like a Webb?

  Her throat tightened. Did Callie Mae miss her at al
l?

  McClure gently tucked the photograph inside the camisole again. But he didn’t step away, lingering instead to trail his knuckle along the swell of her breast. Her flesh tingled, and she hung on tight to her composure. His touch, the exquisite simplicity of it, its tenderness and caring, delved inward and stroked something deep, something buried, something Carina was afraid to feel.

  Or enjoy.

  Except she was.

  Feeling and enjoying. Needing, most of all.

  Yet her fingers curled around his strong wrist, the boss in her insisting she must stop him immediately for what he was doing.

  The woman in her didn’t.

  For her weakness, he could seduce her so easily. There, against the wagon, if he wanted. This power he had over her had gotten too complicated to comprehend.

  She didn’t bother trying.

  But it was there. Stirring, sprouting, stretching. A yearning, a reawakening of her femininity.

  Then, almost before she realized it, McClure tied the ribbon on her camisole and refastened her blouse.

  The moment gone, her fingers fell away from his wrist, and he stepped back.

  Yet his gaze lingered over her, a fathomless pool of unspoken things between them. Desires and promises. Curiosities left unsatisfied.

  For now.

  He touched the brim of his Stetson, turned and walked away.

  And though he hadn’t told her so, Carina knew one thing for sure.

  Penn McClure wasn’t finished with her yet.

  Chapter 12

  “Mr. McClure? Mind if I ask you a question?”

  Looking troubled, TJ Grier ducked under the rope corral holding in the remuda and sprinted toward Penn.

  Penn threw the saddle blanket over his gelding’s back. “I’m listening.”

  “It’s about Callie Mae.”

  He straightened the corners, made sure they hung straight. “What about her?”

  “What if we don’t get her back?”

  Penn lifted his glance. He didn’t tell the young wrangler it was a question he’d asked himself once or twice. Or a thousand times. “Don’t you think we will?”

  “I’m hoping, for sure. But Mavis Webb, well, from what I’ve seen, she’s all wire and no cotton. She ain’t one to mess with.”