Deborah Camp

H
e sat his horse like a king overseeing his holdings. Peering through the spyglass at the solitary rider, Cassie Dalton noted the proud span of his shoulders, the straight back, and the ease with which he commanded his spirited mount. He was still too far away to make out his features under the brim of his hat, but she could see him turning his head, examining the land, taking inventory.

Probably another vulture coming to pay a call on the widow and steal her land out from under her
, Cassie thought, lowering the spyglass. Yesterday she’d had trouble chasing a couple of them off her land. At dusk two men had ridden up and invited themselves to supper. Cassie had tried to get rid of them without raising a ruckus, but she’d been scared. If one of her ranch hands hadn’t checked in on her, things might have gotten ugly.

The men had taken their leave, but she worried they
might be back and try to get the jump on her. For sure, they were up to no good.

She glanced down at the baby she cradled, no longer suckling, fast asleep. Her angel.

A young Mexican woman came out onto the porch, her steps mincing, her demeanor subservient. “Who is it?” she whispered, staring at the rider in the distance.

“Don’t know.” Cassie tucked the spyglass into her skirt pocket. “Take little Andy, Oleta, and go inside. I’ll handle this. Get me my hat and gloves.”

“Which hat?”

Cassie considered her choices for a moment. “The one with the red feather. My buckskin gloves will do.”

The girl brought the items to her. “There won’t be shooting, will there?” Oleta asked in a hushed voice, taking the sleeping baby into her arms.

“Only if he gives me trouble.” Cassie set the broad-brimmed hat onto her blond hair and pulled on the sturdy gloves. Even if he was trouble on horseback, she didn’t greet anybody without dressing proper. Ladies, even those owning ranches, had to keep the sun off their face and their hands as soft and white as a baby’s bottom. “I’m tired of cocky men who think they can bully, threaten, or flatter me enough to get my ranch.” She withdrew a Colt .45 from the folds of her skirt. “Stay inside until I tell you different.”

“Santa María!”
Oleta’s eyes rounded with worry. “T-Bone and Gabe probably saw him and are coming.”

“I doubt it. They’re mending fences out south, and King of the Prairie is riding in from the north.”

“Then there is no one to save us!”

“Go on inside,” Cassie said, trying on a smile to comfort the excitable girl. “Everything will be fine.”

Clutching Andy, Oleta went into the house, leaving Cassie to await the rider.

Cassie rolled her eyes and wondered if Oleta Rodriquez would ever quit being afraid of every shadow, every frown. She’d hired the sixteen-year-old three months ago in Abilene. Oleta lived with a drunken father and was desperate to get away from him. Cassie, who knew all about wanting to break out, run away, get shed of bad people and bad pasts, had taken pity on the girl. Besides, after her husband’s death six months ago, Cassie had needed someone to look after little Andy while she worked alongside her two remaining ranch hands.

Staring intently at the rider in the middle distance, she took comfort in the gun she held. Something about him caused the hairs on the back of her neck to quiver. Raising the spyglass again, she examined his horse. Not the usual cow pony. Nope. He was riding a coal-black, blazed-face stallion with white stockings. A high-stepping, sure-footed cutting horse, she surmised, observing the gait and stride. Bred for perfection and purpose. Such an animal would bring a hefty price, so the rider either could afford him or had stolen him.

But if he was thinking he could buy or steal her ranch, he would be disappointed or dead. She’d sooner sell her soul. She hadn’t endured A.J. Dalton’s mean mouth and stingy heart for two years to turn over her hard-earned inheritance to some flashy cowboy on a fancy horse.

No siree. She had big plans for the Square D. Once she sold part of her herd, she meant to fix up the house, which was falling down around her ears. A.J. had never allowed a penny to be spent on it, so windows stayed broken, shingles lay where they fell after a storm, wood
rotted, and only specks of paint remained on bleached boards.

She could see the stranger’s face now in the spyglass, and her breathing grew shallow. My, my, he was one handsome
hombre!
Sort of hard-looking… tough… but mighty pretty, all the same, with a wide, full mouth and a square, smooth-shaven jaw. His eyes were in shadow, but she could see that his nose was strong and straight. His clothes looked new—dark-blue shirt, leather vest, dark trousers, concha-studded chaps, boots with shiny spurs, dark-blue hat with an Indian bead band. A long rifle rested in a sling behind him and he wore a gun belt.

She tightened her hand on the Colt .45 and lowered the spyglass. He was close enough now that she didn’t need it, so she slipped it into her pocket. Fixing a scowl on her face, she stood, hiding her gun in the folds of the split skirt she wore when she worked with T-Bone and Gabe. She’d ridden back to the house to nurse the baby, but as soon as she finished with this uninvited prospector, she’d rejoin them to stretch barb wire and straighten fence posts.

She knew the moment he saw her because his head jerked and she actually sensed his gaze sharpening. A strange feeling sizzled through her. Not fear or anything unpleasant. In fact, she stepped down from the porch and into the sunlight to make it easy for him to get a good look at her.

He reined the snorting stallion to a canter. The saddle, she noticed, was fitting for the animal—hand-tooled leather and big silver conchas. Expensive rigging for a special horse.

He jerked on the reins, and the stallion reared up, then
set its front hooves back down and stood quivering a few yards from the porch. She could see the man’s eyes now. Sky-blue and inquisitive.

“You the housekeeper?” he asked, his gaze drifting over her, missing nothing.

“I’m the owner. State your business.” She made her voice hard-edged and matched him scowl for scowl.

One corner of his mouth kicked up. “Owner? The hell you say. Where’s old man Dalton?”

She bobbed her head to the west. “In the bone-yard. I buried him six months ago. You knew him?”

He looked toward the white fence that cordoned off the small burial plot. “I knew him.” A few moments passed before he yanked his attention back to her. “Where’d you get into your head that you—”

The baby cried inside the house and was hushed by Oleta. The man stared at the front door, and Cassie could sense his mind spinning, piecing together a puzzle.

“State your business,” she repeated. “If you’ve come to buy my land, you’re wasting my time and yours. It’s not for sale.”

“Your land.” He screwed up one eye.
“Your
land.” One side of his mouth inched up again. Any other time, she might have appreciated his lopsided smirk, but right now she didn’t much cotton to being laughed at.

“My land, stranger, and you’re trespassing on it.” She brought the gun out from the folds of her skirt.

He glanced at the weapon and shook his head at her as if she were a precocious child. Cassie’s blood began to boil. He crossed his wrists on the saddle horn and leveled those blue eyes on her.

“You’re not thinking clear, little lady. This place doesn’t belong to you. You’re squatting on it. There’s a
big difference. What did you do—keep house for him, doctor him while he was sick?”

“I did all of that and more,” she assured him.

“That’s right Christian of you, but you’re still a squatter and squatters have no rights.”

“Hold up—” she began hotly.

“No, you hold up.” He straightened in the saddle, making the leather creak, and surveyed the land around him. “I don’t mean to throw you off the place overnight. You can stay until you find yourself a room in town.”

“Oh, is that right?” Cassie said, sarcasm dripping from each word.

He nodded. “Was that your baby I heard squalling?”

She stiffened, her jaw firming to rock. “He’s a good baby and he’s mine.”

“You can find somewhere in town to stay, even with the baby. I imagine you can hire on as a housekeeper or—”

Save your breath and your advice,” she cut in. “I’m not leaving.”

He squared his impressive shoulders. “Look here, I’m trying to be fair.”

She laughed, amazed at his cockiness. “You take first prize in male arrogance. I can tell you think you’re mighty special, what with your pretty duds and prancing horse, but I’m losing patience with you, stranger.” She raised the gun, aiming for his head. “You get now while you’re still handsome and you’ve got all your parts. I’d sure hate to have to spoil your goods.”

Her threat didn’t seem to trouble him any. He twisted in the saddle and sized up the place. “Where are the hands?”

“They’re around,” she assured him.

“Is T-Bone still here, or did you run him off?”

She lowered the gun. “How do you know T-Bone?”

“What about Bob Millstone?”

“He’s gone to Texas. Left a year ago.”