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John staggered back a few feet and braced his hands on the slatted walls. Hang it all. He’d gone and decked a lawman. A burst of anger flared in his chest. None of this nonsense would have happened if the fool deputy had declared himself a lawman right out. The drunken man had never once identified himself. Pacing the narrow enclosure, John considered his options. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he knew well enough this situation had gone from bad to worse.
His stomach grumbled. Time enough tomorrow for facing the consequences. As hungry as he was, the girls must be ravenous. Sorting out the details when they were all exhausted and near starved would only make matters worse.
He briefly considered waking the deputy before he caught another whiff of the alcohol. Moira and her charges were too vulnerable for a man who was bound to wake up mean. Keeping his gaze averted, John slid shut the stall door and dropped the T-bar into place.
He motioned toward Moira. “Let’s get this show on the road.”
With no other choice but to move forward, John gathered his five horses and had them saddled and ready in short order. Growing wearier by the moment, the girls groggily followed his orders, stifling yawns behind patched-elbow sleeves. Their eyes blinked slower and slower.
While the horses stamped and snorted, he quickly emptied his men’s saddlebags into a burlap sack. When that task was completed, he cinched a rope around the top and placed the belongings with the livery owner for safekeeping.
The elderly man jerked upright from his half doze and accepted the parcel. “Your men ain’t gonna be too happy when they come back and find their mounts gone.”
John braced his knuckles against the doorframe. “They can keep their gear and the pay they earned this far. The horses are mine. They’re well aware of that.”
“You don’t have to convince me.” The livery owner kicked back in his chair and closed his eyes.
John set his jaw. He’d been second-guessed his whole life by his own family, he wasn’t paying a bunch of two-bit cowhands for the privilege.
As the girls clustered in the moonlit corral, John took stock of their attire. Each of the younger girls wore warm coats buttoned to their throats. Not Moira. She wore only her thin cotton dress with its too-short hem—a dress more suited for a sultry summer evening than a crisp fall night. How had she wound up crawling out the window of a brothel? Why had the deputy stashed the girls in such an unlikely place? Snippets of girls’ conversation rattled around his brain.
I was doing fine on my own until I was caught...
I got sloppy...
I only wanted an apple...
He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too weary for the answer. Too cowardly to face what his questions might uncover. Tomorrow would come soon enough. He’d get his answers then. None of them appeared injured, at least not physically, which meant any questions he had could wait. A good night’s sleep would make the reckoning that much easier.
Moira blinked at his lengthy silence.
John tilted his head and considered Miss O’Mara. The more time he spent with her, the more he realized she wasn’t like the girls back at home at all. She didn’t fill the silence with chatter. She hadn’t asked for anything. Not food or help or even money. Certainly money would solve their most pressing problems. The fact remained, she hadn’t asked and he wouldn’t offer. He’d accepted responsibility only for their safety, at least for this evening. A guarantee he planned on keeping.
A light mist gathered on Moira’s eyelashes, sparkling like tears in the moonlight. A delicate shiver fluttered down her arms. He realized she’d been holding herself rigidly, hiding her discomfort.
Feeling like a first-rate heel for letting her suffer in the chill night air, John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to her. “Take this.”
She caught the material against her chest with a shake of her head. “I mustn’t,” she protested, but he couldn’t help but note how she clutched the material, her knuckles whitening. “Thank you.”
“I’ve got a slicker in my saddlebags.” Her obvious gratitude roughened his voice. “That’ll be good enough.”
She should have been chastising him, not thanking him. His mother had taught him better. No matter the surroundings or the circumstances, he’d been raised a gentleman.
Moira glanced up shyly, staring at him through the delicate fringe of her eyelashes. She fingered the charred hole in his pocket and a mischievous grin lit her face. “Are you certain you trust me with your best coat?”
Heartened by her teasing, he replied, “Just don’t set it on fire. Again.”
For a moment her guard slipped. She smiled at him, a wide grin that plumped her cheeks and lit her eyes. His heart sputtered, an irregular beat as though it was searching for a new rhythm. Miss O’Mara was beautiful, though not from the perfection of her features. Her lips were too full, her nose too pert for classic beauty—yet her smile was captivating and her eyes tipped and exotic. Her brilliant red hair shimmered in the moonlight, a ruckus of curls tumbling over her shoulders, torn free from its moorings by the night’s activities. She was perfect in her imperfection, and his addled brain grappled with his unexpected fascination.
Worrying that he’d give himself away at any moment, John tore his gaze away and cleared his throat. “We should, uh, the night’s not getting any younger and neither am I.”
Her expression faltered at his abrupt dismissal. As she turned he reached out his arm, then let it drop. It was better she didn’t see him as her rescuer. A misty haze of desolation surrounded her, unsettling his judgment. She’d seen more of the world than was meant for one so young. More of the darkness.
John shook his thoughts back to the task at hand.
Having studied the girls while they saddled the horses, he had a fair idea of their experience. All of his mounts were trained and relatively well mannered. He’d broken them himself. He’d always kept his own horses on the ranch, all of them raised from foals and trained by his own hand. A gentle touch resulted in the best mounts, a theory mocked by many of the ranch hands. He ignored their jeers because his results spoke for themselves. His horses were sought out from Illinois to Nevada. Through his brother Jack’s contacts, he’d even provided trained mounts for the Texas Rangers.
As with all animals, each of them had a personality, and he matched the girls accordingly.
“Mount up,” he ordered, watching them from the corner of his eye.
Tony, the most experienced of the group, effectively scurried into the saddle. John swung up behind Hazel and found the other three standing uncertainly beside their horses.
“Mount up,” he ordered again.
Sarah shifted and spread her hands. “Um. I don’t think I can.”
John paused and assessed the problem. The stirrup hit at her shoulder. Between the height of the saddle and her confining skirts, she was stuck. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Because I don’t usually ride out of a livery at midnight with a bunch of girls, that’s why, he reminded himself. Men, he understood. He’d been raised on a ranch full of men. Women, not so much.
“I’ll help.” John swung off his mount. He touched Hazel’s leg and met her questioning brown eyes. “Wait here and don’t wiggle too much.”
The little girl patted the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Bullhead.”
“How come?”
“Because he’s bullheaded.”
“I don’t like that,” Hazel scowled. “I’ll call him Prince instead. I like that better.” She leaned forward and one of the horse’s ears swiveled in her direction. “You like that better, too, don’t you?”
The horse nickered, as though in approval. Hazel grinned triumphantly. “See? He likes his new name much better, don’t you, Prince?”
Another nicker. John rolled his eyes. “Whatever strikes your fancy.”
Not like the name was going to stick. She could call the horse Pretty Britches for all he cared. By tomorrow evening, he’d have Bullhead back.
A half smile at Hazel’s antics plastered on his face, he gave Darcy and Sarah a leg up, then paused before Moira. She’d reluctantly donned his coat, and the sleeves hung well below her fingertips. Her scent teased his senses and he searched for the elusive source. It was floral, and familiar, inspiring a sense of peace and well-being. He pictured a summer’s day, white moths fluttering above a field of bluebells, a gentle breeze whispering through the grass.
Peonies. That’s what had struck a chord. She smelled like peonies.
He lifted her hand and turned back the cuff, then repeated his action on the other side.
Keeping her eyes narrowed, she remained stubbornly quiet during his ministrations. John recalled what he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He reached out and Moira started. He stilled immediately, then moved more slowly, approaching her as he might a frightened animal—gradually, gently. She was as skittish as a newborn calf. Cautiously reaching into the pocket of his coat, he lifted his hand and revealed the rag doll he’d found earlier.
Moira’s face lit up. “That’s Hazel’s doll! Where did you find it?”
“In the mud beneath the window.”
She took the doll from him, cradling the soft material in her cupped hands. She glanced in the direction of Hazel and Bullhead—newly christened as Prince. The little girl murmured softly, petting its neck. Fascinated with the horse, she certainly wasn’t missing her lost doll.
Moira thoughtfully stroked the braided yarn, absently fingering the hand-sewn stitches. Her fingers moved reverently, lovingly, as though the fabric was silk instead of muslin.
Her rapt interest gave him pause. “Did you have a doll like that growing up?”
He didn’t know what had inspired his question, this wasn’t exactly the time or place for casual conversation.
She shook her head, her face melancholy. “No. I never had anything as fine as this.”
John choked off a laugh, certain she was fooling around. When her expression remained somber, he cleared his throat. “You should keep it safe. Until we’re back at camp.”
“She needs a bit of washing, that’s all. A little scrubbing and she’ll be good as new.”
“Of course.” He floundered. “She’ll be as bright as a brass button.”
Lost in a world he didn’t understand, Moira carefully wrapped the doll in a faded red handkerchief and gingerly replaced the bundle in the pocket of his jacket. For a moment the ground tilted on its axis and the world turned topsy-turvy. With Moira, the feelings sputtering in his chest were foreign, tossing him out of his element. This wide-eyed sprite carried a mixed bag of reactions. One minute she was chastising him, the next moment she was teary-eyed over a battered rag doll.
John shook his head. He’d never understand women. Not if he lived to be one hundred and ten years old.
“You ready?” he asked.
She nodded, then swiveled her head left and right, uncertain. She’d said she was a rider. She’d lied. Near as he could tell, she wasn’t sure which side to mount on—a basic skill of horsemanship. In deference to her novice ability, he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her, surprised by her diminutive weight.
She was slight and delicate, vulnerable and threatening all at the same time. As she sheepishly attempted to cover her ankles, he averted his gaze. The self-conscious action sparked a burst of sorrow in his chest. Someone as proud and brave as Moira deserved a wardrobe full of new dresses that dusted the ground, like a well-heeled lady.
Quelling his wayward emotions, he turned away. To his enormous relief, the livery owner scuffled into the corral, splintering the tense moment.
The older man gestured toward the stables. “What am I supposed to do with that fellow in the stall?”
“Let him out when he wakes up,” John called over his shoulder. “You don’t know anything.”
“True enough,” the man replied. “True enough.”
Moira adjusted her feet in the stirrups and stared down at John. She must have discovered the starch in her spine while his back had been turned. She sat up straighter, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “You better not double-cross us, mister.”
The obvious rebuke in her voice triggered a long-forgotten memory. Years ago at a family wedding he’d joked with Ruth Ann, his on-again, off-again sweetheart, about getting married. She’d looked him straight in the eye, her disappointment in him painfully clear. “You’re too easygoing. I need someone who can take care of me.”
Ruth Ann had married his best friend instead. They had five kids and a pecan farm not far from the Elder ranch.
John had set out to prove himself, and so far he’d come up short. He couldn’t even take care of a herd of cows, let alone this vulnerable woman with her sorrowful, wounded eyes.
“I won’t double-cross you,” he replied evenly.
Moira’s fears weren’t unwarranted, just misdirected. He wasn’t a hero. There was no one riding to the rescue and the sooner he separated from this bunch the better. Before they found out they’d placed their fragile hopes on the wrong man.
There was something else going on here, and he wasn’t the man to sort it out.
Chapter Three (#ulink_5ca71257-3636-5a66-905c-1492e8e6aac4)
A short time later Moira swung off her horse and pain lanced up her legs. She winced, hobbling a short distance. She’d ridden a handful of times before and understood the rudimentary skills, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d let on.
She’d thought she’d fooled John Elder. The sympathy in his perceptive eyes had exposed her mistake. He’d known she was a fraud, and he’d been too polite to voice his observation. She’d paid the price for her bravado. With each step, her untried muscles screamed in protest. She unwittingly sank deeper into John Elder’s coat and inhaled its comforting scent.
Over the years she’d come to associate two smells with men—cloying, headache-inducing cologne and the pungent scent of exertion. John’s coat smelled different, a combination of animal, man and smoldering wood. The unfamiliar mixture was strange and soothing. Despite the cool night, warmth spread through her limbs.
Shadows dotted the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight. Restless cattle lowed at their arrival and Moira shivered. The glow of a fire marked the center of the camp. A wagon and three oatmeal-colored canvas tents were pitched in an arc around the cheery flames. The orderly sight was reassuring.
When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left the Giffords with little more than the clothes on her back. The gentleman who’d delivered their milk took pity on her and talked his brother-in-law into giving her a job. The brother-in-law owned a hotel and she cooked and cleaned for her room and board. She’d even kept in touch with the delivery boy from the grocer, and he’d promised to tell her if Tommy returned to the Giffords.
She’d never have considered it possible, but she’d traveled the West in style up until now. Moving from train depot to train depot, staying among people, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization, keeping her adventures urbane. Everything beyond the trampled town streets was wild and untapped.
While she drank in her new surroundings, John gathered the girls into a tight circle and spoke, “These cattle aren’t easily spooked, but they’re not used to your voices or your scents. They don’t know you’re a bunch of harmless girls. No loud noises or sudden moves. Stay within fifteen feet of the fire at all times. Once an animal that size stampedes, there’s no stopping.”
Hazel fiddled with the drooping rickrack on her hem. “Can we pet them?”
“Not now,” the cowboy replied without a hint of impatience. “Maybe in the morning. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe.”
Safe. Moira hugged her arms around her chest. They weren’t safe. They’d simply turned down the flame. That didn’t mean they were any better off than they were before. Well, except the odds were better and the doors weren’t locked. They could run if they chose.
John whistled softly and a blur of white and brown padded into view. Moira took an involuntary step backward. A large gold-and-white collie appeared. The dog took its place at John’s heel and tilted its head. The cowboy absently patted the animal’s ears.
The four girls immediately rushed forward.
“He’s so cute!”
“What kind of dog is he?”
“Can he sleep with us tonight?”
John held up his hands. “Easy there. This is a working dog. He’s not real friendly.”
Moira craned her neck for a better view. The “working” dog had rolled onto its back. Its pink tongue lolled out the side of its snout while four paws gently sawed the air.
Darcy snickered. “He looks pretty friendly to me.”
Though the dog appeared harmless, Moira kept her distance. She’d been bitten once and the experience had left her wary. Dogs were unpredictable and temperamental. Best not to get too close.
Hazel rubbed her hand along the puff of fur of the dog’s belly. “What’s her name?”
“His name is Dog.”
“He’s far too handsome for such a plain name,” Sarah declared, rubbing one furry ear between her thumb and forefinger. “I think we should call him Champion.”
“Or Spot,” Hazel added.
Darcy shook her head. “That’s stupid. Why would we call him Spot? He doesn’t have a single spot on him.”
The cowboy pressed two fingers against his temple. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s already got a name.”
