A PROPER SETTING DOWN
She landed in Cole’s arms.
The shock knocked the sense out of her. She couldn’t describe it any other way. Nothing else could account for the fact that not a single coherent thought remained in her head. He caught her easily, as if he’d done it before. He balanced her lightly against his chest, but that didn’t keep her from being acutely aware she was leaning against his body. Heat and tension passed between them like their clothes weren’t even there.
“Put me down,” she said, finally managing to find her tongue… and the indignation that should have boiled to the surface immediately.
“I can’t.”
“If you don’t, I’ll punch you in the nose so hard it’ll make your eyes water. I’m not in the habit of being manhandled by every passing drifter.”
“It’s not that,” he said. “I—”
She drew back her fist. “You’ve got exactly one second.”
He shrugged and set her down. She felt her stocking feet sink into warm, soft manure.
The Cowboys Series by Leigh Greenwood:
JAKE
WARD
BUCK
CHET
SEAN
PETE
The Seven Brides Series:
ROSE
FERN
IRIS
LAUREL
DAISY
VIOLET
LILY
To Heather: If you want to find a good man, get a gun.
Copyright © 2000, 2011 Leigh Greenwood
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Epilogue
Author’s Note
Chapter One
Sunnyvale, Indiana
1874
Drew Townsend settled her rifle at her shoulder. “Pull,” she called.
Three clay pigeons rose into the air in rapid succession. Just as quickly, Drew fired three times and shattered all three. The challenger looked on in dismay, disgruntled and angry.
“Let me try again,” he said.
“The man wants another chance, Gordy,” Drew called out. “Load ’em up.”
“Wait a minute,” the man said. “I’m not ready.”
“Take all the time you want,” Drew said.
Drew was the sharpshooter for Earl Odum’s Wild West Show. They were traveling west from New York to the Mississippi River, playing in more than a hundred cities and small towns along the way. When they reached St. Louis, they’d head south to Memphis, then to New Orleans.
The show was laid out in a large field outside the small town of Sunnyvale. Stands now filled with over five thousand spectators had been set up along the east side of the field. The tents that housed the costumes, wagons, stagecoaches, Indian tents, and other props had been set up to the south, the pens holding the horses, cows, and buffalo to the north.
“I don’t need a lot of time to get ready to shoot,” the man responded angrily. “I just need to be the one to say when I’m ready.”
Drew didn’t reply. She had been through this hundreds of times. Most men got angry or embarrassed when a woman beat them at a skill they considered their special domain—marksmanship. Even though Drew had earlier demonstrated her ability with a variety of trick shots, there was always one man in the crowd who was convinced it couldn’t be so hard if a woman could do it She had learned to stand quietly, to give them all the time they needed to calm their nerves and take their shots. The outcome would be the same as it was last night and all the nights before that.
She always won.
“You ready?” the challenger called to the man operating the clay pigeon machine.
“Ready,” he called back.
The man shifted nervously on the balls of his feet, leaning forward, then rocking back on his heels. Drew knew what was going through the man’s mind, why he was taking so much time. He knew he was beaten. He didn’t want to shoot and prove it all over again, but he couldn’t back down before a woman.
He checked his rifle, changed his balance, and grew still. “Pull!” he shouted.
He missed all three. Earl Odum, ringmaster and owner, broke in to divert attention from the dispirited man. “Once again Miss Townsend proves there’s nobody better with a rifle.”
As the defeated man turned toward the stands, another man rose from his seat and started forward.
“She may not be as big as her opponents,” Earl continued, “but she’s huge in talent. There’s simply nobody better.”
Drew hated it when Earl called attention to her size. She longed to be as tall and strong as a man. She hated being trapped in a woman’s body.
The second stranger reached the bottom of the stands. With the easy, fluid motion of a well-trained athletic body, he vaulted over the low wall that separated the performers from the crowd.
“I want to shoot against Miss Townsend,” he announced.
“Her act is over for tonight,” Earl said. “She’ll—”
“I want to shoot against her,” the stranger repeated. He was dressed in boots, denim pants that fit his hips and thighs like a second skin, a wide belt around his narrow waist, a chambray shirt that covered broad shoulders, and a broad-brimmed, flat-crowned hat that shaded his eyes. Drew wasn’t normally affected by a man’s appearance, even one as well formed as this man, but a frisson of excitement ran down her spine.
She decided to ignore it.
“You’re too late. We’re about to start the trick riding.” Earl never let two men shoot against Drew in the same evening. It slowed the show too much and made the audience restless, especially the women, who didn’t care about guns. The children, too, preferred the trick riders, even the boys old enough to have their own guns.
“Now,” the man said. “I think I can do better than that other fellow.”
The defeated challenger had disappeared into the crowd.
“Why can’t you come back next time we’re through here?” Earl asked.
“The audience wants to see someone go up against her who has a chance to win. What do you say?” he said, turning to the audience.
A round of applause appeared to give him all the support he needed. He came toward Drew. “You’re pretty good, aren’t you?”
No one called Drew pretty good. She was great, unbelievable, unbeatable, or any of several other superlatives. Pretty good was practically an insult. Drew made a conscious effort not to let her pride cause her to react. No one had beaten her in the two years she’d been with the show. “I try to give the public a good show,” she said modestly.
His gaze blatantly raked her body. “I’d say that was an understatement.”
Drew bridled. Her regular outfit was a skirt long enough to reach just below the tops of her boots, a vest, and a shirt buttoned up to her chin. Her favorite color was brown, because it reminded her of buckskin. But no matter what color vest she chose, she couldn’t hide her breasts. Buttoning her shirt up to her throat didn’t help either. She wore her dark brown hair down in soft curls tha
t billowed in the breeze.
“Are you going to shoot or talk?” Drew asked. She suspected he might be trying to rattle her by his gaze and his rudeness. He would soon learn he was wasting his time. She’d faced hundreds of men, many more rude, more intimidating, more infuriating than he.
“I guess I’d better let my shooting do the talking for me. Do you have a rifle I can use? I don’t have one handy.”
Drew pointed to the rifle the last challenger had used. He looked at the rifle, and swung his gaze to Drew, then back to the rifle.
“Is there something wrong?” she asked.
“If there were, I wouldn’t know, would I?” He turned to the audience. “What do you think, folks? Should I use the same rifle or ask for another?” Several men urged him to use another one. “How about letting me use your rifle?” he said, turning back to Drew.
She knew he meant to imply that the rifle had been fixed so he couldn’t win. She handed him her rifle. “Use mine,” she said, speaking loudly enough for everyone in the audience to hear her. “I’ll use the other one.”
It pleased her to see she’d caught him by surprise. Did he really think she’d give the challengers a faulty rifle? That angered her, but her anger subsided quickly. She knew he’d be the one to walk from the ring in defeat.
“Thanks,” he said. “That is mighty sporting of you.”
“You go first,” she said. “I’ve already established my credentials.”
He smiled. She’d scored a hit that time. It was up to him to prove he wasn’t all talk and no substance.
He turned back to the audience. “Do you think I can hit the pigeons?”
The men answered with shouts of encouragement. It annoyed her that he was trying to turn the spectators against her.
“What happens if I make every shot?” he asked.
“I’ll make every shot, too.”
His eyebrows lifted ever so slightly. “You don’t think mere’s a chance you’ll miss?”
“If I do, I’ll be out of a job by tomorrow.” Earl, a small man with feminine good looks, didn’t care about his performers, only the number of tickets they could sell.
“Maybe I shouldn’t shoot after all,” he said to the audience. “I wouldn’t want to cause the little lady to lose her job.”
Now he really was being insulting, implying the gentlemanly thing to do was to back down so she wouldn’t lose her job.
“You can’t back out now,” Drew said. “You’ve got everybody’s attention. They’ll think you’re a fake.”
She didn’t like cocky men, but this man gave the impression of being able to do just about anything he wanted. Drew was certain he wouldn’t have come down out of the stands without knowing he had a good chance of beating her.
“I’m no fake,” he said.
“Now’s your chance to prove it.” She gestured to the spectators. “Everybody’s waiting.”
The man lifted the rifle to his shoulder, checked its weight, its balance, the sight line. “In case you’re curious, my name is Cole Benton.”
“I wasn’t curious,” she replied.
“I’m a Tennessean by birth, a Texan by adoption, and a cowboy by preference,” he announced to the audience, who laughed and applauded. They were enjoying his show.
“I’m sure Texas considers itself fortunate.”
“If it doesn’t now, it soon will. Pull!”
A clay pigeon flew out of the machine. Cole hit it.
When the crowd broke into noisy applause, Cole turned and executed an exaggerated bow. Then he turned to Drew as though he hadn’t done anything unusual. “Your turn.”
Drew pulled her rifle to her shoulder and gave the signal. One clay pigeon was propelled into the air and immediately shattered.
“There’s obviously nothing wrong with that rifle,” Cole said.
“Did you think there was?”
“Not all shows are completely honest.”
“Don’t you mean you didn’t think it was possible for a woman to outshoot a man unless she cheated?”
“All things are possible,” he said. He turned to the audience and asked, “What should we do next?”
Several people called for them to shoot two pigeons.
They did. There were no misses
Cole turned to the audience again, but they were already chanting: “Three pigeons! Three pigeons!”
“It looks like we’ve got our orders,” he said to Drew.
The results were the same.
“The machine doesn’t hold more than three pigeons,” Drew said.
“What do you suggest we do next?” Cole asked.
The audience sat in silent, rapt attention. By now Drew knew she was up against a superb shot. She didn’t know if she could beat him. If she went down in defeat… well, she’d figure out what to do when it happened. Until then, she was the best shot in Texas, and she meant to prove it.
“Face away from the target,” Drew said. “Shout pull, turn, and fire at the clay pigeon.”
“That doesn’t sound very easy,” Cole said.
“It’s not. Let me show you how it’s done.”
She turned her back. “Pull!” As she called out the command, she turned and fired at the pigeon. It shattered. Polite applause from the women.
“Good,” Cole murmured. “Very good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“No, but it’s still very good.”
He took his position with his back to the machine, shouted the command, turned and fired.
He hit the target. The men and boys erupted with shouts and the noise of stamping feet. He had succeeded in dividing the crowd. That made Drew angry. This was her audience, yet half of them were rooting for Cole. It just went to show a woman couldn’t depend on men when the chips were down.
“Two pigeons this time,” Drew said. She was tired of this game. It was time to finish up and let the next event begin. Besides, this man irritated her.
She turned her back, called out the command, spun around, and hit both targets.
Cole tried it, missed one pigeon. The men in the audience fell silent.
“Let’s try it again,” Drew said. Again she hit both targets. The women responded by jumping up in their seats, shouting and cheering.
Again Cole missed one.
He turned to her, and with exaggerated gestures, bowed and kissed her hand. “To the winner!” he called loudly to the audience.
The women in the audience loved Drew’s winning as well as Cole’s courtly behavior in defeat. They applauded loudly. Even the children voiced their approval.
The men remained quiet.
The band started to play in the background, and Earl began the buildup for the trick riding. Drew turned to leave the ring. Cole Benton walked beside her.
“Shouldn’t you go back to your seat?” Drew asked.
“Why?”
“Your family—friends, a young lady, I don’t know!—somebody must be waiting for you.”
“I don’t have any family, and I didn’t bring a young lady.”
“Everybody has a family.”
“I came alone.”
Drew didn’t like the tickle of excitement that stirred in some dark recess of her mind. Or the one that danced along her nerve endings. She wasn’t about to put up with any of this nonsense. She’d stamp it out before anything got started. Cole Benton might be a fine figure of a man, but she wasn’t interested in men, fine-figured or not. She had enough men in her family.
“You’ll lose your seat,” she warned him. “The trick riders are very popular.”
“I’m sure they’re no more popular than you.”
“They’re followed by an Indian battle. People fight over seats for that.”
“They’ll soon be fighting over seats to see you.”
She stopped and turned without warning. “Why are you following me?”
“I want to talk to your boss.”
“Why?”
“I’ve got a proposition t
o make.”
“Well, he’s over there,” she said, pointing to Earl. “Now go away. I want to watch the trick riding.”
“Why?”
“Because the two men doing the riding are my brothers.”
Cole turned to the ring, a look of surprise spreading over his face. The questions would come next. It annoyed her to have to reveal anything to a stranger about her personal life, but there was no other way to explain how her brothers could be a half-breed Indian and a Negro.
“We’re all adopted,” she said.
“You must have an interesting family.”
“I do, but if you’re going to speak with the boss, you’d better do it now.”
She didn’t care if he spoke to Earl Odum or not. She just wanted him to leave her alone. And give her a chance to get rid of this annoying feeling that she might like to get to know something about him. He was an arrogant nuisance. She didn’t need to know any more.
She turned away, directing her attention to the ring as Cole walked off toward Earl. The audience always started out a little cool. It made her angry that people weren’t just as ready to applaud an Indian or a Negro as a white man. Zeke and Hawk were wonderful showmen, though, and by the time they were done, the spectators would be on their feet cheering. For Drew, that was vindication enough.
“That was a good performance. You ought to do it every night.”
Drew turned at the sound of old Myrtle Rankin’s voice. She was in charge of the costumes for the show. Her husband helped take care of the animals.
“I couldn’t if I wanted to, which I don’t,” Drew answered. “I don’t even know the man.”
“He’s nice-looking,” Myrtle said.
Drew made a face. “You think every man under forty is nice-looking. I sometimes think your only requirement is that they be breathing.”
Myrtle chuckled. Her laugh sounded rich and fruity, and came from deep within her large body. She looked like someone’s kindly aunt or grandmother. It was hard to believe she’d once been part of a trapeze act.
“When you get to my age, you can’t afford to be so choosy,” she said. She looked back over her shoulder at Cole. “But this one is good-looking.”
Drew turned to look at Cole, now in deep conversation with the boss. “I guess you could say he’s not too bad,” she admitted. She tried to ignore the tickle which now skittered down her spine. It was probably irritation. It would disappear as soon as Cole Benton went away.
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