He didn’t know how much time had passed before the horse finally began to wear down, then settled in a quivering, defeated stance, head low, girth heaving. She remained on the horse’s back, bending low over its neck, caressing every inch of its sweaty flesh within reach, as if praising him for his surrender.
Lucky beast, Brett thought, watching her lavish attention on the animal. Any time he’d been stroked like that, it had wound up costing him—one way or another. He couldn’t remember a single time he’d been rewarded simply for a job well done, and it struck him as odd that he might even want it.
He’d been cured of wanting what he’d never get years ago.
Finally she dismounted and handed the reins to a young wrangler. He must have told her that Brett was waiting to speak with her, because she glanced over her shoulder in his direction. A long moment passed while she studied him from under the brim of her dusty dun Stetson. He felt her reluctance. Her wariness.
Finally, she headed toward him. Leaning his shoulder against the fencepost, Brett treated himself to her approach. He knew from experience how badly the snapping back and forth could batter a body, yet it didn’t seem to faze her in the least. Her hips swayed from side to side in an utterly provocative, utterly feminine walk that heated his blood. The fringe on her leather chaps slapped against legs as perfectly formed to straddle a man, as a saddle.
She came to a stop a couple of feet away. The top of her low-crowned felt hat barely reached his nose. “I’m told you’re lookin’ for me.” Her voice, brisk and smoky, carried a distinctive Texas brand.
For a moment Brett couldn’t breathe, much less speak. This definitely was not the leather-faced, weather-skinned rope spinner he’d anticipated. The brim of her Stetson cast her eyes in secret shadows, but didn’t hide the fact that she was younger, softer, and much, much prettier than he’d ever expected. An oval face, small nose, and lush mouth just ripe for kissing. And that bleached corn silk braid falling to her waist would tempt any red-blooded man to unravel the bound strands and feel them dragging across his bare skin. . . .
Brett forced himself to remember the reason for seeking her out had nothing to do with an affaire de cœur, and everything to do with reclaiming his fillies. “I am if you’re Annie Harper.”
“And if I am?”
She tilted her hat back and Brett stilled. Staring up at him from a circle of thick, golden lashes were a pair of eyes so flat and expressionless that it chilled his blood. Not a speck of emotion, not a flicker of life showed in the dull blue depths. Brett gave himself a mental shake. “Then I have a proposition for you.”
“I’m not interested.”
To Brett’s surprise, she turned away and started walking back toward the barn. He’d never chased after a woman before—it had never been necessary—and he wouldn’t have started now if his entire enterprise wasn’t at stake. He caught up to her in two long, loping strides. “You haven’t heard it yet.”
“I’ve heard it a hundred times.”
He stepped in front of her and gave her his most persuasive smile—the one women claimed to find charming and irresistible. “Not from me.”
Faster than he could say howdy, a pocket six-shooter appeared in her hand and leveled itself at his mid-section.
His smile faded; his hands lifted. It struck Brett in that instant that they were talking two different brands of beef: he meant business; she thought he meant—Well, he had a damned good idea what she thought he meant, and she couldn’t be further off the mark. Not that the idea didn’t have its merits, he decided, taking in the trim figure standing on the other side of the Smith and Wesson. Annie Harper had a body that could convert a saint to sinning. The leather vest she wore over a loose cotton shirt hardly disguised the womanly swells straining the tiny buttons.
“Mister—”
“Corrigan.” He licked his dry lips. “Brett Corrigan.”
“Unless you want a hole in you the size of a pie tin, move out of my way.”
The glint in her eyes told him she’d do it in a heartbeat and probably dance on his grave afterward.
“Look,” Brett said, holding her gaze. “I don’t doubt you’ve received your share of propositions.” Some undoubtedly more honorable than the one streaming through his mind, which involved bare bodies, slick skin, and wild rides. “But let me assure you, mine is strictly a business venture.”
The barrel lowered a notch. Winged brows dipped together over the bridge of her nose. “What kind of business venture?”
Pleased that he’d snared her attention, he slid his thumbs under his lapels and cocked his hip to the side. “A year ago I . . . acquired a modest ranch in Texas.” A dry grin touched his mouth at the image of the broken down heap of boards he’d found waiting for him. Folks in Tascosa had assured him the then Bar 7 was one of the finest spreads south of the Canadian River, and he’d bought into it like a greenhorn at a hustler’s table. “I say modest because the only thing of any value turned out to be a handful of Arabian fillies.”
One slender brow lifted.
Brett chuckled. “I know. I’m sure you can imagine how popular that makes me.” Arabians were about as welcome in mustang country as rats in a flour mill. “But I plan to breed the fastest Arabians in the territory for competition—or I did, until a wild stallion took it in his head to claim my ladies for himself.”
“So what is it you want of me?”
“To catch the fillies—and the stallion who stole them.”
If Brett hadn’t spent over half his thirty-four years studying people’s reactions, he might have missed the slight tensing of her spine.
“Then you’ve wasted both our time.”
The unhesitating answer didn’t register until she turned and started walking away, her spurs making a staccato ringing against the packed earth. Brett saw the hand of his future spread wide, the success of his ranch slip through his fingers like sand. “I’ll make it worth your while.”
Halfway across the paddock, Annie came to an abrupt stop.
I’ll make it worth your while.
Six little words. They should have meant nothing. But those six little words spoken in a husky bayou drawl drove shards of splintered memories through Annie’s breast.
“I’ll make it worth your while, sweet Annie.”
“Oh, yeah? What’ll you give me?”
“The moon on a silver platter.”
The words came from a place deep inside, laughing, teasing, with such familiarity that it nearly brought her to her knees.
She closed her eyes. One deep breath. Two. Her emotions tightly held in check, she slowly turned to face Corrigan.
He stood against a backdrop of hot sun and ice blue, looking more suited to a fancy Carson City casino than a horse ranch. A tailored green coat and fine linen shirt of starched pearl stretched across the breadth of his shoulders, a black silk tie loosely circled his neck, and a shimmering green vest lay open over a flat abdomen. His trousers fit snugly around his waist and buttoned down one side of his pelvic bone. The woolen fabric tapered down muscled legs to just below the knees, where they disappeared into fashionable glossy brown stovepipe boots with fancy stitching from knee to ankle.
His face wouldn’t crack any mirrors, either. Deeply tanned skin and creases at the corners of his eyes carried the mark of the outdoors. Hair the color of liquid amber was slicked back from a high forehead and curled around his ears to toy with his nape. Silvery green eyes—the same swirling shade as his fancy waistcoat—studied her through thick, spiky lashes in a manner that had a long cold ember flickering to life in her belly. She recognized that look. Had encountered it and spurned it more times than she cared to count. But it had been years since it had stirred any sensation inside her beside nausea.
“Why?” she asked in a tight voice she hardly recognized as her own.
“Why?” he echoed. “That stallion stole my fillies and I want them back.”
“No; why me? There are plenty of other mustangers—”
Annie didn’t deny it. She was the best. At least . . . she used to be.
For the briefest second, she was tempted to take him up on his offer. It awakened a restlessness inside her she hadn’t felt in years. To feel the thrill of the chase, to ride with the wind, to pit her skills against nature and beast, just to see if she still could. . . .
Annie squared her shoulders and said, “Find someone else, mister. I don’t chase horses anymore.”
She didn’t wait to see if he left; she didn’t care. Mouth tight, movements precise and efficient, Annie disappeared into the barn, tossed a saddle on her buckskin mare, and rode hell for leather across the desert. Wind tore her hat from her head and sent it slapping against her back. Churned grains of sand ripped across her cheeks. The stench of a charred past filled her nostrils.
Chance finally stumbled, jolting Annie to awareness. She pulled on the reins until the winded animal came to a stop.
Her upper body dropped forward; her head fell against Chance’s sweaty neck. Damp horsehide pricked her wind-chapped cheek, and her heart pounded with such force that she wondered how it kept behind her ribs.
She slid down the mustang’s heaving side to the ground and pressed her forehead to its mane. Her hands smoothed the quivering withers. She’d caught this animal after she’d been abandoned by her herd and raised her from yearling. How could she have pushed her so hard?
Damn Corrigan! If he hadn’t approached her with his stupid proposition, if he hadn’t stirred up memories from the grave. . . .
She fished in her pocket for makings and tried rolling herself a cigarette, spilling more on the ground than in the fold. In frustrated despair, she flung the tobacco and papers and wrapped her arms around her middle, cradling the unexpected pain. It had been years since she’d heard his voice, and eternity since she’d felt his touch. “Oh, Koda,” she whispered.
“Buck up, girl, it’s time to ride.”
“I can’t do it, Sekoda. I can’t do it anymore.”
“You’re Mustang Annie. You can do anything.”
Not this, she couldn’t. Not this. Not now. Not ever.
Mustang Annie didn’t exist anymore.
Chapter 3
Ten days later, Annie held tight to Chance’s reins and stared at the rambling adobe house visible beyond the arched gateway. A trio of entwined T’s and A’s had been burned into a pine board above the drive, broken up by the symbols of a deck of cards: a spade, a diamond, a club . . . no heart, though. How appropriate.
What was she doing here? Why had she come back? Four years ago, she’d walked away from this area and vowed never to return. Yet here she was again. Had she lost her last ounce of common sense? She must have, otherwise she wouldn’t have set foot back in Texas, much less shown up at Brett Corrigan’s ranch.
She should turn around. Corrigan would never be the wiser, and she’d still have some dignity left.
Too bad dignity didn’t keep the hang man’s noose at bay.
Her hand went to her vest, where an old folded poster lay in the inside pocket. Rotten timing, rotten luck. Usually Annie could smell danger a mile off. She supposed anyone who’d spent over half their adult life staying one step ahead of the law would develop the sense. If she hadn’t been so rattled by Corrigan’s visit that day, her instincts would have warned her against going back to the ranch. Instead, she’d returned to the Bar 7 and found herself face to face with a trader she’d rustled from in the old days, who’d come to do business with her boss.
Her years of making an honest living training mavericks shattered in the split second it took him to recognize her.
With Chance winded from their earlier run, Annie had no choice but to break the promise she’d made to Sekoda all those years ago: she had stolen a horse.
Chance eventually caught up to her at the border, and Annie had considered returning the horse she’d taken. But she knew from experience that the only chance she had of saving her neck was to put as much distance between herself and the Bar 7 as possible, in as short a time as possible, and to find someplace to lie low for a while. Unfortunately, she’d left before collecting her fee for settling the stallion. With no money and no quick means of getting any, she sold the paint for a fraction of its worth and hightailed it out of Nevada—as a wanted woman.
Well, Corrigan had claimed to make it worth her while, and by God, she’d hold him to it. Since he was partly to blame for throwing her back into a life of crime, he could provide the means to get her out of it. Those fillies of his must be worth a pretty penny or he wouldn’t have traveled a thousand miles to try and convince her to recover them. She’d recover them all right, along with the stallion, and he’d pay for the service.
Handsomely.
She flicked the reins, feeling her heart tighten and her stomach twist with each step that brought her closer to the house. She had to admit that he kept a fine spread. X-style fencing wearing a fresh coat of whitewash encompassed the front pastures, where dozens of Quarter horses grazed on Texas grama, along with a breed she’d often heard of but hadn’t seen before now—Arabians. No self-respecting horse rancher in the territory would be caught dead raising such a blue-blooded breed. But then, Brett Corrigan hadn’t struck her as a man who gave a tinker’s damn what folks thought. He could obviously afford not to.
Just as she halted Chance at a hitching post by the wrap-around porch, a bow-legged man in his early fifties wearing faded britches, worn cowhide chaps, and a matching vest emerged from the house. Spurs jangled against the planked gallery.
“Can I he’p ya?”
“I was told I’d find Brett Corrigan here.” Just saying his name left a bitter taste on Annie’s tongue. Lowering herself to go to him for work chafed her as badly as a week in the saddle.
“Good Glory—Annie? Is that you, little filly?”
The pet name threw Annie off balance. It had been so long since she’d heard it that she’d almost forgotten it. She squinted, then her eyes widened in amazement. “Well, I’ll be horsewhipped—Wade Henry?”
Annie dismounted. Before her feet even hit the ground, she found herself enveloped in a bony embrace. “You’re the last person I expected to see,” she told him after he set her down.
“I’m surprised you remember me. The last time I saw you, you was still in ponytails.”
“How could I forget? Granddaddy talked about you all the time.”
“How is the old cowpoke?”
Annie’s delight at seeing the old wrangler dimmed. She pulled back and let her arms fall to her sides. “He died, Mr. Henry. About five years back.”
Surprise skittered across his features. “How?”
Annie averted her eyes and let her silence speak for itself.
He passed a veined hand down his face, then turned away to absorb the news. They’d been close once, Wade Henry and Clovis James. Annie had lost count of the stories her granddad had told of their adventures, most of them so incriminating they couldn’t be repeated in public. What Annie remembered the most, though, was Grandad telling her that his and Wade’s biggest fear was being betrayed.
Wade Henry had escaped that fate.
Clovis James hadn’t. And there was a grave on Boot Hill to prove it.
When Henry looked at her again, his eyes were moist with sorrow but he managed a smile for her anyway. “Well . . .” he cleared his throat. “It’s good knowin’ there’s still a piece of him left behind. You growed up right pretty, Annie.”
She managed a weak smile.
“Made quite a name for yourself, too.”
Annie stilled at the faint censure in his tone. They both knew he wasn’t referring to her skill at taming horses. Quietly, she replied, “I never planned it that way.”
“Wh
at are you doin’ back here, little girl?”
Little girl? Once upon a time, maybe, she’d been a little girl, with big hopes and even bigger dreams. But things changed. Little girls grew up. Hopes fell. Dreams died. Sometimes all that was left was survival. “I expect I’m here to see your boss.”
Concern clouded his solemn brown eyes, but thankfully he didn’t press for reasons and Annie didn’t offer. Instead, he stepped aside and gestured for her to lead the way up the steps.
The instant she passed through the doorway, the breath left her lungs. Nothing on the outside of the house had prepared her for the magnificence she discovered within the adobe walls. It was definitely a man’s domain, decorated in colors of the earth—deep blues, hunter greens, autumn rusts. A curved staircase with a polished pine balustrade led to a second floor landing, while the main floor remained open and airy. Each doorway boasted painstakingly detailed archways, the elaborate grooves and swirls scorched a rich chestnut tone to give the appearance of age and wear. Elongated windows of real glass, set two feet apart, allowed the sun to flow freely onto a red flagstone floor polished to a high sheen. The Navajo rugs strewn about showed an appreciation for southwestern design, and paintings framed in gnarled mesquite complemented the textured whitewashed walls.
Mr. Henry gestured to a striped medallion-backed sofa and two matching chairs in the center of the main room, which seemed to invite anyone who passed through to relax and enjoy a crackling fire from the granite fireplace. Hurricane lamps with prism fringe sat idle on nearby tables, waiting for dusk to display their painted glory. On each wall, glass fronted cabinets with wooden fixtures and heavy walnut shelves displayed glazed pottery and priceless trinkets. Two plush burgundy chairs with matching footstools waited in a nearby corner, inviting someone to read an almanac, journal, or classic novel from the cabinet behind.
The smell of wealth hung in the air, thick as the humidity outside. Forcibly containing her awe, Annie remarked, “He isn’t subtle, is he?”
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