Mustang Annie

by Rachelle Morgan

  Mr. Henry responded with a toothy grin. “Ace always surrounds himself with the best life has to offer. I expect that’s why you’re here.” He walked farther into the room. “Ace? You got a visitor.”

  At the far end near a bay window, a shadowy figure at a desk glanced up from the stack of papers beneath his hand. “I’m not receiving call—” The sentence broke off abruptly.

  The tension in the room went as taut as a pull rope, and Annie wrestled with the urge to turn on her heel and run. Only the belief that Corrigan owed her this job kept her from doing so.

  Mr. Henry cleared his throat. “Think I’ll mosey on down to the stables and see if those lazy good-fer-nothin’s fed the horses before taking off for town.” He tipped his hat in Annie’s direction. “Nice seein’ you again, Annie.”

  She gave him a short nod, then returned her attention to Corrigan.

  “You know my foreman?” he asked.

  “He was a friend of my grandfather’s.”

  Setting down the quill in his hand, Corrigan rose from his chair, then all six feet two inches of him rounded the desk.

  She remembered the last time she’d seen him, standing near the corral fence at the Bar 7, looking for all the world like a dandy out for a Sunday buggy ride. But a woman would have to have been blind not to notice how well the broadcloth coat and trousers flattered his brawny build.

  Much to her dismay, he cut just as fine a figure in working duds. The dark chambray blue shirt he wore open at the collar emphasized the stretch of his shoulders. His sleeves were rolled up to reveal corded forearms liberally sprinkled with golden hair. Faded blue jeans hugged his legs from hip to ankle like a second skin, and from beneath the hem of his britches peeked out a pair of—

  White wool socks.

  Annie might have laughed if the sight didn’t surprise her speechless.

  “So . . . Miss Harper.” He leaned a hip against the desk corner, crossed one ankle over the other, and hooked his thumb into his front pocket; his fingers splayed downward along his groin, drawing her attention to the impressive bulge between his thighs. “To what do I owe this honor?”

  Annie’s head snapped up. One look at the smug grin on his face squashed any hope that the direction of her gaze had gone unnoticed. Her gaping mouth shut with a click, then she drew back her shoulders and tilted her chin. “You still want a mustanger to go after those horses?”

  Green eyes twinkled from beneath thick brows. “I might.”

  He wasn’t going to make this easy, was he? “I’ve been reconsidering your offer.”

  “I’m flattered.”

  “Don’t be. It’s going to cost you.”

  “I didn’t expect you’d work for free.”

  Annie walked toward him. “Five hundred for each mare, a thousand for the stallion, and the first colt produced. And I run the show. I don’t take orders; I don’t put up with anyone telling me how to do my job.”

  He didn’t speak for several long seconds, just stared at her with the same unnerving intensity as he had done back in Nevada. Annie stared back, uncompromising.

  Finally, he moved back behind the desk and stroked his jaw. “Those are some mighty high demands.”

  “Take it or leave it.”

  “How do I know I’ll be getting my money’s worth?”

  “You don’t.”

  Annie wondered if maybe deep down she’d hoped he would reject her price. If so, she was disappointed.

  “You’re right. I expect that’s a gamble I’ll have to take.” He pointed toward the curving stair-case. “There are a couple of spare rooms upstairs. Choose whichever one strikes your fancy.”

  “I’ll sleep in the stables.”

  He looked as if he’d argue, but pressed his lips together and conceded with a nod. “As you wish. Henry will see that you’re settled in. The rest of my men have gone into town for the night, but you’ll meet them before we ride out in the morning.”

  “We?”

  “You didn’t expect I’d let you go after those horses without protection, did you?”

  Annie bristled. “I don’t need protection.”

  “You may not think you need it, Miss Harper, but you’ve got it anyway.”

  Annie flattened her hands on his desk and leaned forward. “I work alone, Mr. Corrigan.”

  He mimicked her stance and smiled implacably. “Not this time.”

  Annie stomped into the sparsely furnished six-by-six room Henry had assigned to her, threw her saddlebags on a narrow iron-framed cot and slammed her hat on a wall peg, then moved to a square of a window set shoulder-high into the wall. She hadn’t dared let Corrigan see how much his announcement had disturbed her, but in the privacy of her temporary quarters, she gave her frustration free rein.

  Having him along—let alone his men—had never been part of her plan. There was no predicting how long it would take to track down and capture the horses. Sometimes she and Sekoda had spent weeks following the bands, observing their daily habits, discovering their hideouts, and the best way to capture them. Of course, back then, time had been their friend, a treasure never to be squandered. . . .

  “You’re playing with fire, Annie.”

  She ran both hands through her tangled hair, stunned to find her fingers trembling. There was no way she could let Corrigan go with her. Yet how the hell could she stop him? He’d agreed to every other term she’d set, but every man had his limit, and he’d clearly reached his. If she refused his company into the canyon, she might as well say adios to this job.

  She was damned tempted to anyway. Every instinct inside her warned her against working with Corrigan. She couldn’t trust the man. She couldn’t trust anybody, but especially not him. He had the eyes of a gambler: scrutinizing, assessing, and much too unsettling.

  And she had the distinct feeling that pulling this job off wasn’t going to be as easy as she’d first believed.

  Long after the light in the spare tack room went out, Brett stood at the bay window in his study, savoring a nightcap of bourbon, thoughts of Annie lingering in his mind.

  He didn’t know what to make of her. Ten days ago she hadn’t given his offer a passing thought. He’d never been a man to give up on something he wanted, though, so he’d gone back to the Bar 7 the next morning, only to discover she’d skipped town with one of the owner’s finest horses.

  He’d briefly considered joining the search in progress, but delaying his return to the ranch any longer was out of the question. He’d been away too long as it was. So he’d come back to the Triple Ace and begun planning his own excursion into the canyon. Mustang Annie or no Mustang Annie, he had horses to catch.

  Then out of the blue, she shows up on the Triple Ace with her stiff spined demeanor and dead-sea eyes, demanding outrageous prices no sane man would even listen to, much less agree to. He’d agreed to them only because, as much as it galled him to admit it, he had neither the time to waste nor a better chance of getting his fillies back before the stallion ruined them.

  The question was, what had changed her mind? Desperation? The illusion of easy pickings?

  His immeasurable charms?

  The last thought made him grin. For a woman who so obviously wanted nothing to do with him, she’d developed quite a fascination with his nether region. He hadn’t seen anyone turn so red since Melanie Haverson had gotten caught in the swamp with his brother, Adam.

  Brett had to give Annie credit, though; she’d recovered much faster than he had. If ever a woman had given him such a swift and painful arousal with just a look, he couldn’t remember it. If she’d stared at his crotch any longer, he swore he’d have busted a seam. She’d really have blushed then.

  “You wanted to see me, boss?”

  Startled, Brett swung toward the door where Henry stood, his ten-gallon hat gripped in a gnarled hand. He cleared his throat, then strolled toward the cabinet and refilled his snifter. “Is our guest settled in?”

  “I tried to put her up in my cabin but she wouldn’t
budge. Insisted on taking up in the stables, so I put her up in the spare tack room.”

  “She refused one of the rooms upstairs, too.”

  “Sounds like Annie,” Henry replied with a yellow-toothed grin. “Stubborn as on old cay-use.”

  Brett returned to the window overlooking the dark stables. “Tell me everything you know about her.”

  Through the reflection in the window, Brett watched Henry shove a plug of chaw into his mouth and work it around to his cheek. An unspoken “why” hung in the air.

  “Not much to tell,” he finally said. “Me and her granddaddy used to work with the same outfit till I hired on with Durham. Ole Clovis owned a bitty spread down south of here and took up sheep. Annie was just a girl back then. Perty as a sunflower, but good glory, she was a wild one. When she wasn’t stirring up mischief, she was out chasin’ the horses.”

  “So that’s how she got her name,” Brett said with a smile.

  “Her name?”

  The old man looked genuinely puzzled, yet a strained note in his voice put Brett’s suspicions on instant alert. Did Henry not know what had become of his old friend’s granddaughter? Or did he know, and just wasn’t saying? Loyalty had always been one of the traits Brett respected most about Wade Henry—so long as it wasn’t misplaced.

  Well, he’d let the man keep his secrets for now. He’d be spending the next couple of weeks with the infamous horse thief. By the time they caught his horses, he’d know everything he wanted to know about her—and more.

  Chapter 4

  Dawn crept softly over the tops of the sage-brush, drizzling the woody shrubs with gauzy pink. Steam rose from the sea of dewtipped buffalo grass surrounding the house and outbuildings, giving the land an ethereal appearance.

  Brett stepped out onto the shaded gallery, saddlebags draped over one shoulder, and paused at the railing to savor the view. Mornings had always been his favorite time of day. Even as a kid, he could remember waking up long before the trainers on his father’s farm, just to watch the sun rise. The habit had stayed with him through adulthood. No matter where Lady Luck led him, no matter how late the stakes kept him awake, he’d wait until the blushing sky gave way to orange and blue before dropping exhausted into whatever bed he’d found available.

  But there was no more beautiful a sunrise than those he’d seen here on the High Plains. And no more beautiful a woman than the one emerging from the stables.

  Brett watched Annie lead her horse, a fine buckskin with a java brown mane and tail, and a mustang’s distinctive stocky build, to the series of blocks and sawhorses his men used to tend their equipment.

  They’d gotten off to a rocky start, he and Annie Harper, but new days brought new beginnings.

  Adjusting the saddlebags to a more comfortable position, he strode down the steps and across the yard. “ ’Mornin’, Miss Harper.”

  She didn’t so much as glance at him.

  “I trust you slept well?”

  Continuing to ignore him, she grabbed a coiled lariat off an up-ended barrel between the horse and the corral fence. Beside it waited a bulging pair of well-used saddlebags, a cowhide canteen, and a gray bedroll. Packed and ready. Brett wondered if she’d been planning on leaving without them.

  Keeping his thoughts to himself, he circled the mare. “Nice piece of horseflesh here,” he complimented, running his hands across her sleek hide. “You catch her yourself?”

  Still no response, and Brett had to chuckle at her refusal to acknowledge him. “Nobody could ever accuse you of talking a man to death.”

  She finally turned toward him. “Let me make one thing clear, Mr. Corrigan. You’re paying me to catch your horses, not chit-chat, so save the small talk for someone who might appreciate it. It’s wasted on me.”

  His smile faded. Her words held no inflection, yet they stung like nettles. “Would you like a cup of coffee before we head out or is common hospitality wasted on you, too?”

  She actually had the grace to look chagrined. “Coffee would be welcome, thank you.”

  So she had manners after all. Hard to tell. The woman was as temperamental as an old cayuse.

  Hoping a good, strong cup of Arbuckle’s would soften her disposition, Brett entered the main room of the bunkhouse where he knew a fresh pot would be brewing. He’d just passed the bunk room door when raised voices—one voice in particular—made him pause.

  “All we need is a woman getting underfoot.”

  He took two steps backward and perked his ears just outside the bunk room.

  “Women got only two uses far as I’m concerned—lying on their backs or standing at the stove.”

  Brett’s jaw tightened. The remark might as well have come straight from his father’s mouth.

  Time swept him back over twenty years. You think you can do better than me, Maggie? You should be thankful I married you, because sure as shootin’ no other man wants you. Only things you’re good for are baking and breeding, and you can’t even get those right.

  Never had he felt more powerless than he had as a twelve-year-old boy, listening from the top of the stairs to his father degrade his mother.

  He wasn’t powerless anymore, though.

  He stepped through the doorway, his shadow casting a long length of intimidation on the hardwood floor. A half dozen men froze next to the iron bunkbeds stacked along both walls.

  Brett leaned his back against the frame and slid a cheroot out of his shirt pocket. He took his time lighting it, purposely letting the tension build. Finally he targeted his gaze on the tallest man, a twenty-year-old wrangler who had shown up at the Triple Ace nearly a month ago with a gunshot wound to the shoulder. To Brett’s knowledge, no one had ever broken the code and questioned Rafe about it, but it quickly became apparent that his newest hand was still young enough and audacious enough to rile up a pile of goose feathers if he had a mind to.

  “Is there a problem in here?”

  For a long time no one spoke. A couple of the men averted their faces, a couple more shuffled their feet.

  “You hired a mustanger to bring in the horses,” Rafe finally said, his tone bordering on belligerent.

  “That’s right.”

  “But she’s a woman!”

  “I’m aware of that.” Sorely. Despite her masculine duds, no man with eyes could fail to notice the curves under the simple cotton shirt and loose denims. “It seems to me that you’ve forgotten who deals the cards at this table. But you’ll have plenty of time remembering over the next few weeks, while you’re constructing the breeding pen.”

  Rafe’s tan gave way to ruddy indignation. “You’re leavin’ me behind over some skirt?”

  “That skirt happens to be the best mustanger alive, and it wouldn’t have been necessary to hire her in the first place if you hadn’t let that stallion steal my fillies.”

  Rafe’s complexion grew even more mottled. For a second there, Brett thought he’d press the issue. It would be a shame to lose one of the best wranglers he’d ever had, but one thing he never tolerated was having his decisions questioned, and every hand on the ranch knew it. If any one of them didn’t agree, he could pack up his spurs and head down the road. There were plenty of others willing to keep their mouths shut and their minds on their job instead of in the boss’s business.

  That thought must have occurred to Rafe, too, because he shoved his hat on his head, grabbed an ax from the wall by the door, and strode out the door without another word.

  Brett turned to the rest of the men watching the scene with a mix of wariness and discomfort. “Anybody else got a beef with the way I handle my business?” he challenged in a quiet tone that belied the anger simmering in his blood.

  Not a one spoke up. Obviously they valued their jobs.

  “Then Emilio, Flap Jack, and Tex, load up your gear. We’re heading out in fifteen minutes.”

  The men he’d chosen scrambled out the door faster than he could say tumbleweed.

  Brett followed, drawing in deep, even breaths
in an effort to calm his temper. He didn’t know what angered him more—the slurs against Annie or the blatant disregard of his authority.

  The trouble with cutting Rafe from the crew was that it left him short a wrangler to tend the extra mounts each rider would bring. He already had every man he could spare—eleven in all—divided between himself and Tex.

  The only wrangler left was. . . .

  Brett closed his eyes and cursed. He had no choice. He’d have to bring Dogie.

  “I can’t believe it!”

  Startled by the exclamation, Annie spun on the ball of one foot to face a lantern-jawed boy in his early teens wearing the loudest purple shirt she’d ever set eyes on. She’d been so preoccupied with eavesdropping on the conversation drifting through the bunkhouse window—and rattled at the way Corrigan had come to her defense—that she hadn’t heard anyone approach.

  “I just can’t believe I’m standin’ on the same spot of ground as Mustang Annie!” The boy grinned widely.

  Annie’s heart stuttered. Hell, did everyone know who she was? And why was he hollering at her? She pushed past him to fetch her saddlebags from an up-ended barrel. “You’ve got me mixed up with someone else,” she muttered.

  “What?” He smacked the side of his head a couple times. “Sorry, since the explosion I don’t hear so good.”

  She raised her voice a notch. “I said, you’ve got me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Oh, no, I’d recognize you anywhere!” he insisted. “You probably don’t remember, but I met you a few years back, after you broke a mustang down by the Tongue River.”

  The Tongue River? She hadn’t been there since—oh, God, now she remembered. How could she have forgotten? She and Sekoda had gone down to trade a few mares and discovered a contest in progress. She never should have let Koda coax her into entering the competition, for it had made public her talents on horseback that she’d much rather have kept a secret.

  “I’m Dogie.” The kid swiped a sweat-and-soil-stained hat off his head. A shock of curly wheat-brown hair tumbled past his ears. “I tend the horses and tack.”