Mustang Annie

by Rachelle Morgan

  The remark had her suspicions surfacing once more. If the entire scheme to catch his horses was an act, it was a damned convincing one. He could be sleeping behind the windbreak with the shelter with the rest of his men. Or even in the cooney, instead of Mr. Henry. Corrigan was the boss, after all. Yet here he was, willing to give up his own comfort for those of his men.

  And for her.

  “You best get bedded down,” he said, crushing out his cheroot.

  Annie pushed aside the stab of guilt. He was right; morning came early. Clutching her slicker and bedding, she headed for the opposite end of the string of horses, as far from Corrigan as safety would allow. No sense in giving any of his men the wrong impression, should any of them wake up in the middle of the night.

  Somehow it didn’t surprise her when Corrigan came up behind her a moment later. “Annie, what do you think you’re doing?”

  A flick of her wrist sent the layer of slicker and quilt rolling open across the ground. “Bedding down.”

  “Out here?”

  “I am not sleeping in that wagon when everyone else is stuck out in the rain.”

  “The hell you aren’t. We made a deal, Annie. Now get your little fanny in the wagon.”

  She whirled on him and planted her hands on her hips. “Stop telling me what to do. I’m not one of your lackeys.”

  She saw his temper rise like mercury in mid-July heat. “Either you get into that wagon or I’ll put you there.”

  “You and who else?”

  She should have known better than to challenge him; the instant the words flew out of her mouth, she regretted them. But no power on earth could take them back before Corrigan reached her.

  He tossed her over his shoulder so quickly she had no time to prepare. Momentum folded her over his shoulder; bone and muscle dug itself into the tender spot between her ribs; her head swam from the swift motion of flying through air. Despite her struggles, she couldn’t free herself of the iron tight grip around her thighs. “Damn it, Corrigan! Put me down.”

  “Not on your life.”

  Annie continued to demand he let her go. He ignored her. Pounding on his back with her fists had about as much affect as hitting a steel keg with a feather. He slipped and slid down the slight slope next to the barracks, then regained his footing and strode without pause to the wagon, where he flipped up the canvass and dumped her inside.

  A second later, he climbed in after her. The already cramped space shrank even further. Annie sat up and glared at him as he settled his frame against the tailgate. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Making sure you stay put. I wouldn’t put it past you to sneak around me after I fall asleep just to prove some dumb point—and the last thing I need is for you to get sick on me.”

  Her hands clenched into fists. “We are not sleeping in this wagon together, Corrigan.”

  “Oh, yes, we are. Me on this end, you on that end. Keep arguing with me about it and I’ll lay on top of you.”

  Annie didn’t make the mistake of thinking he was bluffing.

  Furious, she climbed across the wagon bed as far from him as the close confines would allow. Overbearing brute. God, she hated him.

  Annie busied herself with spreading her soogan along the floorboards. Though the old canvas above was ripped and torn, it would give her more protection than the slicker she’d planned on huddling inside.

  As she listened to Corrigan peeling off his wet clothes, she hoped he wasn’t taking everything off. Sharing her quarters with a man was one thing—sharing her quarters with a naked man quite another.

  He settled down with a sigh that made Annie grip her pillow and clench her eyes shut. Outside, the storm built. Wind rocked the wagon, raindrops splattered against the canvas, lightning sizzled across the sky; flashes of it glowed through the coarse white covering stretched over her head.

  She knew Corrigan was watching her; she could feel it. The heat of his gaze chased off the chill seeping through the cracks of the side boards.

  Annie brought the blanket up tighter over her shoulders and tried to ignore his presence. Easier said than done, though. The air seemed thicker, the heat seemed hotter. And there was some-thing about the darkness that made the senses more acute. The scent of him, warm and musky, rose above the dampness of the rain and the staleness of the dust. The sound of his breathing spun a circle of intimacy, reminding Annie how comforting it could be, having a man beside her after a tough day or a lonely night. And she remembered the glory of being able to turn to the man beside her, feel his body pressed against hers, let his hands chase the loneliness away . . .

  Thunder crashed above them, making Annie flinch in surprise.

  “If the storm bothers you, I don’t mind you snuggling up to me.”

  She pushed back an image of the two of them tangled together. “No thanks.”

  “Afraid you might enjoy it?” he teased.

  That’s exactly what she was afraid of. “I’m afraid you will.”

  “Don’t you doubt it for minute.”

  Annie refused to rise to the bait. She had no wish to engage in any sort of conversation with him, much less one with sexual undertones. Maybe if she pretended sleep. . . .

  “What’s that scent you’re wearing?” he asked softly.

  She looked at him over her shoulder. He’d clasped his arms behind his head, and the heat of his stare had the air around her crackling. “It’s saddle oil.”

  “No, the other. The flowery one.”

  Her lilac soap? “Why?”

  “It’s nice.” Silence fell for a moment. Rain pattered on the canvas like little feet.

  “There is nothing more evocative than the scent of a woman, did you know that?”

  Wonderful. Now she wouldn’t be able to use her favorite soap without worrying that it got him excited. Sarcastically she replied, “I suppose if you say it, it must be true. After all, you’re the expert, aren’t you?”

  “You know what they say—practice makes perfect.” She caught a flash of white teeth in the darkness. “It starts with a look—the kind that makes her feel as if no one else exists.”

  His soft, slightly accented words made Annie’s breath catch in her throat.

  “Then sound—a whisper of her name in the darkness.”

  She could almost hear it; the whisper of her name. . . .

  “Scent comes next. Sometimes soft and alluring, other times musky and potent. And touch. The heat of a hand on flesh. Lips against lips. The heart starts beating, fast and furious—” He turned his head, looked pointedly at her breast. “Just like yours is now.”

  Her gaping mouth shut with a snap. He was right, damn him; her heart rate had tripled. She crossed her arms over her front and flopped onto her side, not trusting the darkness to hide the perking of her nipples from his view. Damn him. He’d done it on purpose, tried seducing her with words. “You think you know so much about women.”

  “I know what they want, and I know how to give it.”

  It wasn’t a boast, just a simple statement of fact that had the power to kindle a fire in the pit of her stomach. “And what does she get out of it?”

  “She gets to feel needed. Cherished. Desired.” Each word fell in tempo with her heartbeat. “Think about it, Annie.

  She did. In excruciating detail. Worse, she had the picture of him wading in the creek to help her. All that muscle. All that power. All that . . . utter and absolute maleness. And it could be hers with a crook of her finger. She could hardly remember the last time the blood in her veins felt so hot. “Is bedding women all you think of?” she demanded.

  “Bedding you is all I can think of.”

  Even if she could think of a reply, Annie wasn’t sure she could utter it. The timbre of his words made her feel as if she were the most desirable woman on earth. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth, and her heart galloped in her chest. For despite the lightness of his remark, she detected a seriousness that both disturbed and aroused her.


  “You don’t believe me?”

  This is not a conversation she wanted to have with him. It made her remember all the things she’d lost, all the things she missed. The touch of a man, the warmth of his embrace, the sensual connection of two people sharing a mutual need. “I think you’ll do or say anything to get what you want from any woman handy.”

  “Your opinion of me grows more flattering by the day. Tell me, who gave you such a low opinion of men?”

  “Who gave you such a low opinion of them?”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” he asked, sounding confused.

  Annie realized that she wasn’t quite brave enough to answer. So he was strict with the men who worked for him. So he wasn’t as patient and tolerant a teacher as Sekoda had been. Who was she to judge him? “Never mind. Let’s just get some sleep.”

  She rolled onto her side and crunched the blanket beneath her head. What kind of fool was she, anyway? Seduction could just be part of Corrigan’s plot to deceive her, and here she lay with him nearby, letting him stir up forgotten memories, letting him weaken her with his words, letting him rouse longings inside her that she’d buried four years ago. . . .

  Damn him for making her want to feel like a woman again.

  As always, Brett awoke long before the rest of his men. Whistling an aimless tune, he dropped sourdough batter into a dutch oven they’d found in the wagon. He replaced the lid, then crouched near the fire with his hands clasped around a cup of Arbuckle’s and waited for the biscuits to bake.

  He couldn’t say what had put him in such fine spirits. A dismal gray sky hovered over the plains, yet the bright glow of success warmed his insides. Annie would deny it to her last, but he knew damn good and well that she’d been sexually aware of him last night.

  Just as he’d been aware of her. Hell, visions of her racing that mustang had haunted him the entire day. She’d looked glorious—her color high, her blues eyes glittering, her hair tousled from the wind. He’d never wanted to be a horse so bad in his life. If she looked half as glorious in the throes of passion as she had racing the wind, he wasn’t sure he’d survive it.

  It amazed him that he’d been able to resist rolling across that wagon bed and pulling Annie into his arms. Though it had taken every ounce of control he could muster, he’d managed to keep his distance, even at the cost of another night of misery.

  Woo them. Win their trust.

  Brett knew better than anyone that the two went hand in hand. And if he kept playing his cards right, he’d have her in his bedroll by the time they found the herd.

  “Aw, dadburn it—Dogie!”

  Brett glanced behind him and saw Flap Jack sitting on his bedroll, pouring what looked suspiciously like last night’s leftovers out of his boot.

  “Damned young pup,” the tracker grumbled. Catching sight of Dogie, he dashed into the rain in his stockinged feet, stood in the lean-to’s entryway, and shook his boot in the air. “When I get my hands on you I’ll take a switch to your tail end!”

  Brett shook his head and sighed. Sometimes that boy could test the patience of a monk. Then he found himself grinning. He sure kept things interesting, though.

  “¿Qué es ese olor?” Emilio asked, his nose curling.

  Brett’s attention shot toward the Dutch oven. “Aw, damn it, my biscuits!” He grabbed the lid, then wrenched his hand back with another curse when his fingers met the hot cast-iron handle. The lid clattered into the fire. Sparks and bits of prairie coal sprayed up, then filtered back down into the kettle.

  Emilio and Flap Jack joined him in staring down into the oven at the mounds of dough, scorched around the bottom edges, doughy and sunken on the top.

  Flap Jack looked at him. “Canned peaches and hardtack again, Ace?”

  Brett grimaced. Five men and one woman in this outfit, and not a damned one of them knew how to cook. “Come on—let’s get these supplies gathered up and covered with the tarp before we head out. Someone will be coming back for them sooner or later.” He’d make inquiries in Sage Flat over who the wagon belonged to, so he could pay for what they’d used. In the meantime, the least they can do was see that the rest didn’t spoil.

  He bent over and, wrapping his shirt around his hands, lifted the Dutch oven off the fire.

  Wade Henry chose that moment to appear in the opening of the lean-to, mud up to his knees, his eyes wild. “Ace, somethin’s wrong with Annie.”

  Brett dropped the kettle. Pushing past Wade Henry, he raced across the sodden ground, slipping and sliding all the way to the wagon. He yanked Dogie out of the way, gripped the tail gate, and peered inside. In the dim interior, he saw Annie’s slight figure curled up in the corner, whimpering like a wounded animal. “Annie? What happened to her?” he demanded of Wade Henry.

  “I don’t know—I heard noises, and when I came to check on her, I found her like this.”

  Brett clambered over the end board to her side. His hands hovered above her helplessly. Was she ill? Had he been pushing her too hard? She’d been fine just a few hours ago. . . . “Annie, are you awake?”

  A skein of pale hair shielded her face. Needing to see her face, he brought his hand over her shoulder. The instant his fingers grazed her cheek, she wrenched herself around.

  Brett fell backward on his heels. His heart dropped to his stomach as he stared down the barrel of a Smith and Wesson six-shooter. “Jesus Christ . . . Annie, put that thing away!”

  The order was met with an ominous click.

  “Get away from me,” she said, her voice as cold and deadly as the weapon in her hand.

  “Annie . . .” he croaked, lifting his hands palm-out on either side of his head. The last time she’d pulled a weapon on him, he’d been more surprised by her nerve than afraid she’d shoot him. This time he knew without a doubt she’d pull the trigger. “What are you doing?”

  She held the small revolver steady and firm, her mouth tight, her cheeks white, her blue eyes almost black.

  Only then did Brett realize that she didn’t see him, but something—or someone—else. Lowering his hands with agonizing slowness, Brett kept his gaze locked with hers, willing her to snap out of whatever spell had her in its grip.

  “Annie, it’s Brett.” He cautiously stretched his hand toward her. “Give me the gun, sweetheart.”

  She tightened her grip on the trigger.

  Brett paused. Sweat broke out on his brow. “I’m not going to hurt you, darlin’. Just give me the gun.”

  A thousands heartbeats passed before the glaze slowly receded from her eyes. Her arms went limp; her shoulders drooped.

  He slowly pried the gun from her loose fingers and set it behind him, out of her reach. “Christ. You scared the liver out of me.”

  She bowed her head. Shaking hands lifted to her brow. “The biscuits were burning,” she whispered. “Oh, God, I’m going to be sick . . .”

  Brett grabbed the first container within reach—which, unfortunately, was Wade Henry’s hat. He sat helplessly by as Annie purged the contents of her stomach, wanting to stroke her hair, rub her back . . . something. Yet he was afraid he’d make things worse if he touched her.

  What could have happened? Had she eaten something bad? But none of the others felt poorly. Had the heat gotten to her?

  Questions, questions, and no answers.

  Her shoulders finally went limp, and the retching stopped.

  Brett gently took her arm. “Come on, let’s get you some fresh air.”

  “Don’t . . . touch me.” She flung off his hand and scrambled toward the front of the wagon, out of his reach. “Don’t ever touch me.”

  The venom in her voice made Brett’s blood run cold. He lifted his palms in supplication. “Annie, I’m just trying to help.”

  She turned on him with fire in her eyes. “God dammit, Corrigan—can’t you get it through your thick head? I don’t want your help! I’ve survived this long without it and unfortunately, I’ll go on surviving. So stop treating me like some fragile flower, and
start treating me like you would any other member of this outfit.”

  Brett felt the color leave his face. Was that what she thought he was doing? Treating her like a fragile flower? And here he thought he was being a friend.

  Obviously Annie didn’t need one of those.

  He gave her a brittle smile. “As you wish.”

  When he climbed outside, he found the men waiting with their hats in their hands and worry in their eyes.

  “She okay, Ace?” Dogie asked.

  At that moment, Annie dropped out of the wagon, paused to glare at Brett, then raced through the mud toward the horses.

  “What did you say to her?” Henry demanded, accusation thick in his raspy voice.

  Brett watched Annie flee, wanting to go after her so bad his teeth ached. He replayed the incident in his mind, and still couldn’t see anything he’d done to make her react so wildly. “Nothing.”

  “You musta said something—she tore outta this wagon like a bat out of the church belfry.”

  “I didn’t say anything!” The volume and force of his denial echoed across the prairie and bounced back, slamming into Brett’s chest with such force it nearly knocked him backward. “Get the men rounded up. We’ve got horses to find. And for crying out loud, do something with those damned biscuits.”

  Rain fell throughout the day in a steady drizzle that matched everyone’s mood. Annie led the search party, keenly aware that Corrigan and the others traveled some distance behind her. Nausea continued to sit in her belly like liquid lead, the stench of burning biscuits as fresh in her nostrils now as it had been this morning—as fresh as it had been that morning four years ago. . . .

  “Annie, me and Bandit are going to round up the horses,” Koda said, setting two sets of saddlebags near the front door.

  “Don’t take too long,” she said, sliding a pan of biscuit dough into the oven. “Breakfast is almost ready.”

  Strong arms wrapped around her waist. Moist lips pressed against her neck. “I can think of something I’d rather be eating.”