Wed To The Montana Cowboy

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“Surely not!” Shocked, her mouth sagged open. A shiver trembled through her, scalp to toe.

“Creeping across the branch over your head.”

She ought to say something in self-defense but she couldn’t imagine what.

“Hold on tight. That’s one angry predator.”

He cracked a whip in the air several inches over the team’s heads. The wagon jolted and she clutched the coffee bag to keep from tumbling backward.

The horses raced down the path. She glanced back.

The cougar followed for a short distance then turned back, probably to tend to her cowering baby.

Screech, his cage tucked between a bag of flour and a crate, fell off his perch, squawking in a panicked flash of green feathers.

* * *

Huddled beside the campfire and staring silently at the flames, Miss Moreland seemed to be contrite.

He couldn’t be sure, though. From what he had seen of her so far, contrition would not be something that came naturally.

Could be she was too cold to say anything. Possibly the shivering kept whatever was on her mind locked in her head.

The blamed woman had objected to removing her clothing and letting it dry by the fire like any sensible person would do, even though he had offered his oiled canvas to cover her.

It had taken his comment about her lips turning blue for her to do the smart thing and dry her clothes, the outer ones, anyway.

She wasn’t unintelligent as far as he could tell, which had to mean she was stubborn.

That might not be a bad thing. She’d need some stubborn to make it in Montana since she seemed to be lacking in good sense.

Even little children knew to give a wide berth to a cougar cub.

He’d do his duty and see Miss Moreland safely to Hershal. After that it would be up to the old man to make sure she survived.

A wildcat’s cry cut the dusk.

Miss Moreland glanced at him across the fire, her eyes widening in fear. At least he hoped it was fear.

“That won’t be your cat, Miss Moreland.”

She breathed out a short huff of relief. That, and the way her shoulders slumped, made him want to comfort her.

Of all the things he wanted to be feeling, sympathy wasn’t one.

With a grunt to indicate his displeasure, he got up and crossed to her side of the fire. He sat down beside her.

“My last name is Lane,” she murmured.

Why was that? he couldn’t help but wonder. Couldn’t say that it didn’t make him uneasy. An unmarried lady ought to be carrying her family name of Moreland.

As it was, an unmarried woman coming to this part of the country all alone made him uneasy. No doubt, she wanted something from Hershal.

Moreland Ranch was a prime piece of property. With the railroad on the way, bringing settlers by the hundreds, the ranch would be sought after. With all the building that would be going on, the trees alone would be worth more than gold.

It was possible that Miss Lane had only good intentions, but it was his job to be suspect.

For three years Hershal had been writing, asking the girl to come to see him, and for three years she hadn’t. So why now when the ranch and its resources had become so valuable?

His boss paid him generously to look after the spread, making sure the cattle were cared for and the buildings well kept.

Years ago, when Lantree had felt like a ship lost at sea, Hershal had listened to his story, then offered him a home and a job. In doing that, he had given him back his self-respect.

He would protect the old man, be it from the greedy mayor of Coulson or the lovely Miss Lane.

“I can’t help but wonder why you don’t carry your family name.” He probably shouldn’t have stated that so boldly, but there it was. Let’s see if she gives an honest answer.

“It’s the name my aunt Eunice gave me.” She glanced at him with eyes the color of an ocean wave. Then she stared into the fire, silent for a long time.

Not dishonest, but vague.

“Why have you come here, Miss Lane?”

“To get to know my grandfather, of course.”

She continued to stare at the fire and apparently did not notice that the canvas wrapped about her gaped open at her chest.

Her under-things were fine, lacy and frilly...and sheer with the dampness. He was ashamed of himself for letting his gaze linger.

For all that he didn’t trust her, she was finely formed.

“Mr. Walker.” She looked at him suddenly, catching him peering where he had no right to.

Dark brows lowered over dark-lashed eyes. The campfire cast her high cheekbones in shades of pink. She yanked the canvas tight across her charms.

“I beg your pardon, Miss Lane.” He’d never considered himself a rude man and was humiliated to find that trait within him.

“If you are a man of honor, let me make one thing clear.” Until a moment ago he’d believed he was. “I do not wish to be courted. I am a spinster and accepting of my fate. I would not welcome any action that would dissuade me from that future.”

“Again, I do beg your pardon.” No wonder she thought he had wooing on his mind, the way he had been staring.

“I should warn you,” she said, ignoring his apology. “If you are not a man of honor, I do not take dalliances lightly. There is a man back in Kansas City who presumed that I did. I’m quite sure he is still being laughed at today.”

As pretty as Miss Lane was, she was stiff. He would believe that she had a heart as cold as winter if he hadn’t shared a bout of laughter with her and seen her concern for the cougar cub.

He couldn’t help but wonder how she would act with Hershal. He’d have to be on guard to make sure she didn’t wound his kind old heart.

“You can believe this or not, but until this moment, I have been respectful of women. I humbly ask for your forgiveness.”

“Forgiveness granted.” She smiled at him all of a sudden, brightly with her white teeth flashing. It nearly knocked him flat, which was something given that he was already sitting on the ground. “By George, that gives me one apology to your two.”

He laughed. How could he help it?

“I hope you don’t mind my saying so,” she said. “But your smile is ever so much nicer than your scowl.”

The fact was, she made him want to smile, and not for the first time.

But no matter how charming she might seem, he did not know her. He feared what she might be up to.

At least, with her being an avowed spinster, he didn’t need to worry about losing his heart to her...because he could not swear that, in spite of everything, it would not happen. From what he’d glimpsed, she had a body to make a man daydream.

Hell damn him as an idiot for letting his mind wander there. He was a confirmed bachelor as much as she was a confirmed spinster.

A woman needed a secure future where she could put down roots...children needed the same. It made his blood run cold thinking of the things that might happen to them. Children needed to live closer to town...to be near a competent doctor in case of an emergency. These days he was a far better cowboy than he was a doctor.

“Can you tell me what my grandfather is like?”

The quick change in the conversation made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want to tell her who the old man was. If he did, she could more easily make plans to do whatever it was she intended.

“He’s a cold man. Not really open to shows of affection.” He shook his head slowly. “Likes to keep to himself mostly. The cabin is small. Surely not up to a lady’s standards. Things could be uncomfortable for you.”

She nodded, as though she had expected as much.

“He didn’t seem cold in his letters.”

He felt ashamed all of a sudden. He could tell by the look in her eyes that she believed him. No hope for it now but to carry on.

“Is it possible that he is only reserved?” she said. “I’ve known folks like that. What seems cold only hides a warm heart.”

“That’s not him.”

“Surely he’s generous, though. He did send me the violin. It had to have been precious to him.”

“That’s not the reason he sent it.” He hated himself right now. “Your grandmother was always playing the thing, he told me. To him it was all a bunch of screeching—your bird ought to remind him of her playing. When she died he wanted to get rid of it, but didn’t feel right throwing it out. So he sent it to you.”

She bowed her head, covered her face with her hands, silent for a long time.

When she looked up her eyes were moist.

“That’s not what... Well, thank you for telling me... I believe my dress is dry. I’ll just step into the trees for a moment.”

She gathered the canvas about her and walked toward the darkness beyond the fire. She hesitated, then stepped beyond his sight.

Reaching for the Winchester that he always kept close at hand, he cocked his head, listening for danger over the shuffling of fabric.

It wasn’t easy to admit that it might not be the wild things that were the biggest threat to her, but that he was.

Clearly his lie about the violin had crushed her. He had heard her play and knew very well that she had a gift...a gift that had been passed down from Catherine Moreland.

Could be that she really did want to simply meet her granddaddy, make the old man’s life better.

The trouble was, at this point, he wasn’t ready to take that risk.

He would be watching her, morning and night. It would be a sorry day that he allowed anyone to harm Hershal Moreland.

* * *

Rebecca sat astride the bag of coffee beans with her knees bracing the sides. She tucked her violin under her chin then poised the bow over the strings.

After a day of the wagon jouncing over rocks and slamming into ruts along the narrow path, her stomach felt unsettled.

Poor Screech must have had half of his feathers bent with the jostling he had taken. As soon as they reached the safety of the cabin, she would make him a perch and let him out of his cage.

Mr. Lantree had estimated that, bears, cougars, storms and floods notwithstanding, they should arrive at her grandfather’s humble cabin before sunset.