Mustang Annie

by Rachelle Morgan

  But . . . why would a man of such obvious wealth go through all this trouble for a measly two-hundred dollars? It just didn’t make sense.

  Then, an even more horrid thought occurred—what if they had sent him?

  “Señorita.”

  Jolted, Annie looked over at Emilio, who held a gloved hand up, bidding her to wait. He’d dropped back to ride with her earlier that afternoon. Until now they’d not exchanged a single word, and Annie suspected Corrigan had sent him to guard her so she’d not distract him.

  She followed his gaze and recognized Corrigan loping toward them on Fortune. “Do you still have that little pea-shooter on you?” he asked, reining in.

  For a moment Annie was tempted to keep the element of surprise on her side and deny the Smith and Wesson in her boot. But the set of his jaw warned her that it was a serious question that demanded a serious answer. “I always have it with me.” Maybe it was better he knew up front that she’d never be caught defenseless. “Why?”

  “Keep it handy. Emilio, ven conmigo. Annie, you wait here.”

  “What’s going on?” she demanded.

  “There’s something up ahead. It’s probably nothing, but I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

  Corrigan and Emilio rode ahead to investigate while Annie and the others stayed behind, weapons drawn, all senses on alert, none forgetting that Comanche could appear out of thin air. Though most of them had been driven north onto reservations, renegades still prowled the area.

  Several heart thumping minutes later, a loud whistle rent the still air, the signal that it was safe to proceed. Corrigan met them halfway. “It’s just a supply wagon.”

  “Injuns?” Flap Jack asked.

  “Busted axle. We might as well pitch camp,” Corrigan said. “It’s early, but it looks like we’ll be in for a gully washer before nightfall.”

  Annie glanced up. The sky was pure blue, not a cloud to be seen, but she remembered how quickly that could change. Granddad used to say, “If you don’t like the weather now, little filly, wait five minutes.”

  “How are you holding up?” Corrigan asked of her after the men rode ahead.

  Like she’d been put through the wringer and hung out to dry. But there was no way she’d admit that the heat was wearing her down fast. Taking in the rings of sweat under his arms, the lines of weariness around his eyes, she gained some satisfaction that he was feeling its affects as well. “I could outlast you in the saddle any day of the week.”

  “Why, Annie, that sounds almost like a challenge.”

  Annie frowned. It did, now that he mentioned it.

  “How about it?”

  “How about what?”

  “A race to the wagon. Winner cooks supper tonight.”

  She shouldn’t. She absolutely, positively should not let him goad her into accepting another challenge—especially after the outcome of the last one. Not only was it too damned hot, but Chance, for all her heart, wasn’t built for speed the way his Arabian was. Yet if she did win . . . well, the image of Corrigan eating crow was just too tempting to ignore.

  “You’re on, tenderfoot. Let’s see if you can ride as well as you gloat.” She lashed the end of a rein against Chance’s flank. “Haw!”

  The mustang immediately jumped to obey, then quickly extended into a full gallop. Muscles stretched and tightened, breaths blew hot and aggressive. Her hooves churned up prairie grass, patches of yellow flowers and sandy soil.

  Annie tasted the heat of the race on her tongue, felt the sweetness of freedom in her blood. How long had it been since she’d raced for the sheer joy of it, and not to escape capture?

  From behind, the vibration of the ground grew stronger, and she knew Corrigan was gaining on her. She leaned low over Chance’s neck, adrenaline pumping through her veins like wildfire. Wind blurred her eyes and ripped at her hair, sending her hat sailing behind her.

  In the periphery of her vision, she saw Corrigan’s men draw their horses to a halt. Dogie stood in his stirrups and shouted something she couldn’t make out, but that sounded like encouragement.

  Chance kept pace with Corrigan’s stallion for a good half mile before the Arabian started pulling ahead. Annie lifted her weight from the saddle and bowed closer to Chance’s neck, urging her to greater speed. But the mare, for all her heart, just didn’t have the fleetness of the other breed.

  Rather than kill her horse over a stupid bet, Annie accepted defeat and allowed Chance to slow. She patted the mare’s sweaty hide, giving praise for her effort, while around her cheers and whistles erupted.

  With a disgusted frown, she watched Corrigan accept the congratulations from his men. “It’s all right, Chance. You gave it all your heart,” she consoled her mare.

  At the wagon, Annie dismounted and walked Chance in a circle to cool her down, patting her neck, crooning her approval while the men scavenged through the spilled crates.

  “Hey, look!” Dogie cried. “Canned peaches—and sourdough batter!” He held up a rusty tin can and a Mason jar half full of a thick, pasty substance. “We hit the jackpot here, Ace. Someone lost themselves a whole dad-gummed chuck wagon!”

  She knew without looking the instant Corrigan came up behind her. The air fairly crackled. A tingle began at the base of her back, crept up her spine, spread across her nape. His musky scent caressed her like a warm prairie wind.

  Bracing herself, she looked over her shoulder and found him standing too close, his golden brown hair tousled by the wind, his green eyes glittering with the same excitement that flowed through her veins.

  “Looks like I won again, Annie.”

  “With me cooking supper? I wouldn’t be so sure about that.”

  Emilio stirred his fork around his plate.

  Flap Jack sniffed his meal suspiciously, then raised his head. His bushy brows lifted, his lip curled.

  Wade Henry bravely tried a bit.

  Only Dogie ate with gusto, obviously not minding the undercooked beans or charred chunks of salt pork swimming in the greasy film.

  Annie chanced a glance at Corrigan. She might have been insulted at the sight of him chewing on a piece of jerky if it weren’t so amusing. Oblivious to her study, he brought the strip to his mouth. Annie found herself mesmerized as he parted his lips, pushed the jerky inside, and tore off the tip with straight, white teeth.

  Annie quickly looked away before he caught her watching him—again. Her face flamed anew at the memory of the last time she’d gotten caught staring at him. She still couldn’t believe she’d looked at the front of his britches. Worse, that he’d seen her doing it. She’d never been so mortified in her life.

  “That was some mighty fine supper, Miss Annie,” Dogie said, setting his plate aside, then wiping his mouth with his sleeve.

  She couldn’t help but smile. “Thanks, Dogie.”

  “That was some race, too. Ain’t seen so much excitement around here since Flap Jack had the tro—”

  “Dogie . . .” Corrigan warned.

  The boy ducked his face. “I ain’t seen anything like it in a long spell.”

  “I lost, Dogie,” Annie reminded him. The point still rubbed her raw. She’d known better than to let him cajole her into a second wager, yet she’d accepted it anyway.

  “I know, but . . . you were amazing! You looked like the wind. Where’d you learn to ride like that?”

  Annie hesitated a second before deciding that the truth couldn’t hurt. “My granddad.”

  “Did he race horses?”

  She exchanged a look with Mr. Henry, then glanced at Brett. He lay on his side across the fire with one ankle crossed over the other, watching her, waiting.

  “He had a talent for it,” she finally answered. “I suppose I learned it from him.”

  “Did you learn how to bust broncs from him too?”

  “No, that came later.” Putting an end to his barrage of questions, Annie rocked to her feet, grabbed her plate and cup, and left.

  “See what you did?” Flap Jack scol
ded Dogie. “You got her all upset.”

  “What? I was just curious!”

  “You know better than to be asking so many questions.”

  The chiding faded as Annie moved to the edge of the alkali puddle they’d camped by and plunged her dishes into the water, trying to keep her hands busy, trying to keep the panic at bay.

  Damn it, why was this happening? Why was this sense of losing control creeping up on her now? First the memories of Sekoda, then this awareness of Corrigan, now the resurrection of her granddad. . . .

  Why this sudden feeling that her past and her present were about to collide?

  Wade Henry came up beside a few minutes later, knelt, and swished his plate in the water. “You okay, Annie?”

  “Fine. Why?”

  “You wash any harder, you’re gonna scrub the tin off that plate.”

  Her hands stilled instantly.

  “Dogie didn’t mean no harm. He’s just curious about you. I think he looks to you as some sorta hero.”

  A hero? Her? He’d be better off idolizing Jesse James. She resumed scrubbing. “Yeah, well, one of these days he’s gonna ask questions of the wrong person and land himself six feet under.”

  Henry didn’t deny the truth of that. Around them, the cicadas had begun their prenocturnal songs. In her younger years, she used to love listening to the sound. She remembered sitting on the front stoop with Grandad, making up stories about the locusts.

  “Why didn’t you come to me after your grand-daddy died?” Henry asked quietly. “You know I would have taken you in.”

  She lifted her gaze to his wrinkled, sun-beaten face, and they shared a look born of a past that refused to rest. Everything Clovis James had been and had done had shaped her into the woman she was, and though she couldn’t find it in her heart to resent him since he’d done his best raising her, she often wished things had been different.

  She stared into the murky red surface of the watering hole. She tried to see in her reflection what Corrigan saw, but all that appeared was a hollow-eyed, gaunt-cheeked outlaw. “I thought about it once or twice.” Or a hundred times. “Reckon I didn’t know where to find you.”

  “As you can see, you didn’t have to look far.”

  Annie turned away, hating the gentle censure. Even if she’d known Henry had been so close, she’d never have gone to him. Never would have dragged him into the life she’d chosen for herself—a life he’d left long before she’d entered into it. He’d been given a second chance and he’d made something of it; she’d been given a second chance and had it ripped away from her.

  Deep in the distance, a grumble of thunder warned that it wouldn’t be long before the skies opened up and let loose with a good soaker. They finished washing their plates in silence, then returned to camp. The men had already begun unloading crates, barrels, pots and pans and assorted cooking equipment from the flatbed wagon, and were stacking them in a horseshoe shape nearby.

  Annie’s suspicions toward Corrigan continued to haunt her. She wished he’d just tell her what in hell he was planning, why he was being so . . . amiable, because the not-knowing was driving her mad. The only thing that kept her from jumping on Chance’s back and high-tailing it out of here was the possibility that she might be wrong—that she might be letting her own fears color her judgment. If Corrigan was playing straight with her and she fled prematurely, she’d be leaving behind her only chance for freedom.

  “Well, g’night fellas,” Dogie exclaimed, hitching up his britches in a boastful manner. “Reckon I’ll be staying all dry and cozy while the rest of you slugs get to sleep in the mud.” He started for the wagon.

  Flap Jack snagged him by the back of his coat. “Oh, no ya don’t. You got low rank in this outfit, pup. I’ll be the one sleeping in the wagon.”

  “Why should I be the one getting wet?”

  “You could use a little waterin’, ya scrawny little sprout. It might make you grow.”

  “Why, you—”

  Dogie charged at Flap Jack, lowering his head like a raging bull. Flap Jack’s broad hand to Dogie’s forehead kept the little scrapper at arm’s length. His fists flailed like paddles in a wild current, never making contact with the burly man holding him in place.

  “Knock it off, boys,” Corrigan commanded. “Annie’s sleeping in the wagon.”

  Flap Jack and Dogie snapped upright in surprise, then their heads ducked, as if in shame that they’d forgotten a female existed among them. Never had Annie felt so conspicuous—or so resentful of misplaced manly honor. How was she ever to have the respect of these men if Corrigan insisted on giving her special treatment all the time?

  Still, she might have been touched by his care for her comforts if she hadn’t spotted Wade Henry just then, lowering himself gingerly onto a crate. It didn’t take a medical man to see that all their traveling was taking its toll on his aged body. “No, Annie isn’t.” She approached the stoop-shouldered man and knelt on one knee. “Wade Henry? You okay?”

  “Oh, shore. Comin’ rain is just makin’ the rheumatism act up. I’ll be fit as a fiddle once the weather clears.”

  “I want you to sleep in the wagon tonight.”

  “No, Annie. Your heart is in the right place, but I can’t take your bed. It wouldn’t be right makin’ a woman sleep out in the rain.”

  “Don’t worry about me; I’m not made of sugar. Come on.” She hooked her arm through his and helped him to his feet. “Let’s get you settled.”

  He resisted with a strength that belied his feeble stature. “No, Annie, it’s a matter of honor for a man to put the welfare of womenfolk first.”

  “I can take care of myself,” she interrupted.

  “I know, but . . . sometime’s all a man’s got left is his pride. Even if I wanted to, Ace would never put up with it. I think it might be on account o’ his mama dyin’.”

  Annie drew back in surprise. “His mama is dying?”

  “No, she’s already gone. Died in some sort of accident years ago, but some things stay fresh up here”—he tapped his finger to his temple—“and in here.” He patted his heart. “I think he blames himself because he wasn’t there to stop it. It does something to a man’s innerds when he can’t protect his own.”

  Somehow her mind couldn’t wrap itself around the fact of Corrigan even having a mother, much less losing her. She did understand pride, though. Sekoda had been proud, and she’d seen what it had done to him when they’d stripped it from him. And by disagreeing with Corrigan in front of his men, she’d been no better. “Well, you leave Corrigan to me.”

  She left Wade Henry sitting next to the tailgate and strode past the rest of the men, who were dishing up the stew Wade Henry had cooked while they’d unloaded the wagon.

  “Corrigan, I need to speak to you.” Aware of his men’s curious attention, she grit her teeth and added, “Privately.”

  She turned her back on his wicked grin and led him a short distance away from their audience. “I want Wade Henry sleeping in the wagon.”

  His grin disappeared. “I’ve already decided who will sleep where.”

  Any sympathy she might have felt for him over the loss of a parent vanished at his unhesitating answer. “Damn it, he’s too old to be sleeping in the rain.”

  He turned away from her. “Boys, let’s finish getting this wagon unloaded.”

  Annie glared at him, every nerve and muscle in her body quivering with fury. “How can you be so heartless?”

  He twisted back around and looked at her through eyes as flat and unreadable as a block of stone, giving no clue to his thoughts. And yet, Annie sensed a struggle going on inside him. If he gave in to her, he’d lose face in front of his men—partly because she was a woman, partly because he would be showing preferential treatment toward Henry, a hired hand. If he didn’t, he looked inhuman toward an old man.

  “You’re fond of him, aren’t you?” she asked.

  “Of course I’m fond of him. He was like a second grandfather to me.”


  “Fond enough to make a wager?”

  Not another one. . . . “What kind of wager?”

  He searched their camp, then pointed to a keg a hundred feet away. “If you can rope that barrel, he sleeps in the wagon. If I rope it, you sleep in the wagon.”

  A glimmer of admiration was born in that instant. He’d found a way to save face and still respect her wishes, for they both knew her skill with a rope far exceeded his. “What if we both rope it?”

  “Then we keep throwing until one of us misses.”

  Chapter 8

  Annie got Wade Henry settled beneath the bed of the wagon in a rawhide hammock normally used to carry firewood or prairie coal just as a thick layer of pewter clouds rolled in. Then, with a heavy heart, she headed toward the tailgate.

  She couldn’t believe she’d missed. She never missed! Because of one stupid slip of the lariat, an old man was forced to sleep under the wagon instead of inside it. Sure, he’d be elevated out of the mud and muck, but nights got cold on the plains, and with rain coming. . . .

  She glanced at the wagon bed, then at the elongated mounds scattered about the ground. The few crates that had been salvageable were stacked in a half circle and the oilskins spread over them to make a lean-to, but it was pitiful shelter at best. Damn Corrigan. Why should she get to sleep inside the comfort of the wagon when everyone else was forced to sleep out in the elements? What made her so special?

  Nothing, that’s what.

  With sudden decisiveness, Annie grabbed her own slicker and bedroll and headed toward the horses. She didn’t know who was more surprised—Corrigan or her—when she stumbled over him. He sat against a tree trunk near the watering hole, his legs stretched out in front of him. Rain rolled off the brim of the hat tipped low over his eyes and onto the shoulders of his slicker.

  “You aren’t planning on sleeping out here, are you?” Annie asked.

  He took a deep pull of the cheroot cupped in his hand. “Someone’s got to keep watch. It would be just my luck that the stallion would try and filch a couple more of my horses tonight.”