River's Edge (Unlikely Gentlemen, Book 1) (3 page)

“Have we done so poorly?” River frowned, crossing her arms, challenging her foreman to dispute the prosperity of the ranch. During the eight years she’d been in charge, they’d increased their property, repaired the barn, bought a purebred bull upgrading their stock, and kept a bunk house full of men satisfied with their pay and their treatment.

“Ah, hell, River, we both know the spread’s in fine shape. It’s your life I’m worried about.” He frowned. “You don’t have one.”

“I like my life, thank you.” After supper, she retreated to the kitchen to reflect on Amos’s words as she washed dishes.

CHAPTER FOUR

Their paths intersect…

Before Amos left the house, he followed her to the kitchen, bearing a tin of salve delivered with gruff orders. “Use it. You’re beginning to look like a gypsy.”

“Thank you, Amos.” Rather enjoying the notion of being one of the wandering Romany, she carried the medicine upstairs with her, planning on working by lamplight before she quit for the night.

The ointment led her to the mirror first.

“I’ll have you know, I’m not thirty yet. I’m only twenty-nine.” She studied herself as she smoothed on the cream. The mirror showed her the usual face only this time her cheeks were wind-reddened from her careening ride back to the house. She squinted noticing the fine lines edging her eyes and for a moment panic touched her.
Amos is right. I’m getting old.

She didn’t feel old. As a matter of fact, her willow tree encounter had left her giddy with high spirits. After wickedly spying on her new neighbor, she’d fled the cowboy who’d offered no threat. Running up the slope like a deer, she’d retrieved her bicycle, speeding toward home, giggling all the way, and trying to keep from wetting her drawers.

Thankfully, since he didn’t finish climbing the tree, he’ll never know his neighbor was the woman sitting in the willow.
She pressed her hands to her blushing cheeks, momentary angst forgotten as her eyes sparkled with laughter at the memory.

Perhaps I should take him this ointment and offer to apply it for him.
Even thinking about such an action made her squirm. Her hands, rubbing the salve in, touching his back, his muscles…the possibilities left her breathless.

Her brow wrinkled when she remembered Amos’s description of Edge Grayson—a hired assassin. She tried to imagine the cowboy she’d sketched being a killer. Before she could forget the tiniest detail, River set to work with sketchpad and pencils.

The night was half gone when she stepped back, wiping smudges from her hands as she examined the likeness. Before her sketch joined others in her private gallery where no eyes but her own would ever see it, she admired the scandalous, totally indecent picture.

“It’s a shame I can’t display this.” A low, slow heat fluttered in her belly as she studied her drawing of Edge Grayson.
She’d captured the rippling muscles and labored over the dark pelt on his chest. Fine hairs trailed down his abdomen leading to curls at his groin, his legs were sinuous and strong, his thighs thick pillars and his manhood…

“Mr. Grayson, you’re by far the most interesting subject I’ve ever sketched.” River shivered, staring at the proud flesh jutting between the cowboy’s legs. Remembering his hand pumping up and down on his engorged shaft, her lips parted, her eyes drifted half-shut and her groan became a husky sound of longing.

At some point during the early struggles on the ranch when she might have welcomed the help or companionship of a husband, none was forthcoming. Now, neither lonely, afraid, nor poverty stricken, she saw no incentive to marry. But witnessing the naked cowboy stroking himself had aroused her carnal interest. Heat pulsed in her core.

She pulled out her picture book of Greek statues and leafed to the nude figures captured in marble and stone. Compared to how she’d drawn the cowboy’s manhood, the genitalia of the statues all seemed to be very small. She assured herself that the only reason she wished to see the cowboy’s penis again was to check for accuracy in her depiction, but thinking about the physical aspects of the man agitated her.

She gave up on sleep and descended to the kitchen to make coffee. Dawn came quickly, followed by the housekeeper. Sarah took over the kitchen and, as if River had been waiting for some silent signal, she gathered her art gear and left the house, ostensibly undecided about what she’d sketch.

But, as if already trained with a route etched into its mechanics, her bicycle rolled toward the bluff above the willow tree. She arrived, parked and gazed at the fence below where no cowboy worked today. Disappointment flooded her senses, and until then, she hadn’t admitted how greatly she wanted to see him again.

Disinterested in capturing the image of rabbits, deer or fox, she remounted, preparing to leave when the sound of hammering caught her attention. A satisfied smile curved her lips as she turned the Rover, pushing it along the top of the hill. Following rougher terrain, she kept her gaze trained on the fence beyond the river.

“Found you.” Even from the additional distance, she recognized him. Today he’d kept his shirt on, but she was no less entranced by his appearance. Ready for her own work, she shook out a blanket, took out sketchpad, canteen, and pencils, and began laboring over her drawing. She didn’t stop until he left at noon.

She had no problem finding him each day. Following the path of the broken down fence and the sound of his hammering, she crept as close as she could. More often than not, she just watched, waiting to sketch until she reached home. By the end of the week, she had a rosy burn on her nose and a collection of bug bites and scratches, but she’d also assembled an impressive stack of preliminary drawings.

Friday, she denied herself the joy of watching the real man, instead, staying in her studio and surrounding herself with rough sketches of Edge Grayson. In thrall with her subject, she lost track of everything but capturing the essence of a cowboy at work. At the end of the day, she felt almost ready to begin transferring images to canvas. Reluctantly, she stopped to eat supper, listening with only half of her mind as Amos filled her in on ranch business.

“Clement Tolbert says he’s talked business with you, but he’s not moving his livestock to water on Monday unless Emmett Price is gone. Emmett says he’s found another property but he’s claiming he needs more time.”

“How long?” River buttered a roll, trying to ignore the issue she’d precipitated, preferring thoughts about mixing colors to achieve the right silvered gray of the old fence.

“I offered him a month, him having to move his herd and all.”

She shrugged, accepting the scheme as long as Emmett moved his animals off Prescott land. Amos set his cup carefully in its saucer and fumbled with the napkin at his neck.

Uneasily she studied him. He’d favored his arm during the meal, eating almost exclusively left handed. Without giving him warning, she pushed back her chair and circled the table to where he sat.

“Let me see your arm,” she ordered him.

Amos gave her a wry glance. “I’m fine.”

River didn’t argue, gently rolling up his sleeve before he protested further. She winced at the dark bruises mottling the old man’s skin.

“I want him gone, Amos but not at your expense. Don’t talk to him again.”

“I objected when he said he isn’t paying rent while he takes his time moving off our land,” Amos muttered grimly.

“I’ll go to Isaca tomorrow to see the sheriff. Hank won’t want to do anything, but if I lodge a complaint, eventually he’ll go out and talk sense to Emmett.”

“You taking a buggy?” Amos asked, frowning at her.

“No. I’ll ride my Rover and get there just as fast.”

“It’s not safe you riding off the ranch on your own. I’ll have one of the boys ride in with you.”

“Not necessary.” She waved away the suggestion. In spite of her recent willow tree pencil defense, she really did carry a gun and would welcome the opportunity to shoot Emmett Price with it. She didn’t need a ranch hand hovering over her. Besides, she might want to detour on her way home and with a crew member along, she couldn’t.

The injury Amos had incurred made her confrontation with Emmett now seem inevitable. She mulled over her options as she tried to organize her drawings. Painting was impossible. She felt brittle, almost frightened, which made her angry because fear was exactly what Emmett Price wanted.

She finally quit fiddling with her sketches and climbed into bed, taking comfort in the image of a naked Edge Grayson, lulling herself to sleep by calculating the brush strokes she’d use painting his magnificent body.

River crouched in her green retreat, staring at the figure dappled in shades of gold. She frowned, disappointed. He wore clothes.

She thought herself hidden, but he turned looking upward, piercing the screen of foliage as if it didn’t exist. He walked inside the curtain of willow leaves, and with head tilted back, smiled up at her.

“Jump, I’ll catch you.”

No hesitation, she’d only been waiting for him to ask. She launched herself and landed in his outstretched arms.

For all the feelings of discord she‘d carried to bed with her, River woke the next morning flooded with feelings of well being. Memory of the detailed dream causing her good mood, evaporated quickly, leaving only a tantalizing snippet; the feeling of safety in Edge Grayson’s arms.

*

It seemed to Edge, after what he thought of as the willow tree incident, things started changing fast and not for the better—at least, not right off. Reluctant to run into the woman again, or commit trespass on his neighbor, he moved to another section of fence during the rest of the week, staying on his own side.

From time to time, he felt the gaze of someone watching. At first, he packed up quick and skedaddled. But whoever stared at his labors—and he suspected it was the tree spy—he couldn’t confront her without trespassing, so he kept his shirt on, his shotgun nearby, and he ignored the feeling of watching eyes.

By Friday, he’d made real progress on his fence, finding the rhythm of sawing and hammering. Parts of the rails were rotten and he’d had to cut new ones as he worked his way down the fence line. The sun was overhead when he stopped, admiring his handwork after he’d pounded nails in the last board he had ready.

Debating whether to move his operation to a spot out of the sun where he could cut his fence rails, Edge retrieved his canteen and thought about the cool shade of the willow tree as he tipped his head back and drank deep.

He was still standing by Sandy, wiping sweat from his brow as three riders approached from the other side of the river. Not wanting his horse to get caught in crossfire, he left his handguns in the saddlebag and moved. When the trio pulled up in front of him, he stood holding his shotgun. The big man who rode in the middle didn’t waste time introducing himself.

“Grayson, sign this paper, load up your gear, and get out.” He jerked the reins, sawing on the bit in his horse’s mouth. The animal snorted, dancing sideways, flecks of blood mixing with white foam at the corner of lips cut by metal.

“What’s it say?” Edge studied the rider with interest. A lot of men thought mistreating an animal made them look tough. He wasn’t impressed with mean.

“It says I’m buying your land from you for a dollar.” Bully boy jerked the bit again before tossing four coins to the ground. “Consider that—and me letting you live—your payment.”

The man on the left had a rifle pointed at Edge, but he was nervously palming the grip not the trigger. The cowboy on the right had his hand resting on his holster, another mistake. The speaker leaned toward Edge, as if to hand the document over.

“Let me see.” Edge stepped forward as if to get the document, pulling the big mouth’s gun from his holster instead of taking the paper. Then he stepped back.

“Here’s the problem,” he told them, holding his shotgun pointed at the two sidekicks with one hand and the purloined Colt .45. aimed steadily at its owner. “My land’s not for sale. I haven’t christened it yet, though. Unless you want me to use your blood, drop your guns.”

The two men flanking the big mouth emptied their holsters fast, making quick work of showing their empty hands. After his suggestion, none of the three were interested in discussing the transaction further. Edge threw the guns into the water, making an impressive
plunk
when each landed.

“Goddammit, you’ll be sorry—” Red-faced and minus his weapons, the leader stuck the paper in his shirt and started to turn his horse.

“Wait up.” Keeping his Remington trained on the trio, Edge scooped up the coins and carried them to the closest man. “Hold out your hand,” he ordered, slapping the quarters in the man’s open palm. “Now get off my land.”

They didn’t linger, but the day was ruined. He’d never gotten to introductions, but he figured there weren’t so many big-mouthed fools in the area that they wouldn’t meet again. Until he had things settled, it seemed a hell of a lot safer splitting rails at the barn and hauling them where needed, than working on open range.

“Horse shit,” he muttered, gathering his equipment when they’d gone.

Since he needed two-penny nails, he decided to make a trip to the Isaca General Store the next day and stop at the sheriff’s office while he was in town. He’d only been to town once before, and in keeping with his low profile and short wad of money, he didn’t aim to cause a fuss. He just wanted to make the sheriff aware of his recent visitors.

He woke early, pulled on his pants and did chores, then dropped his drawers and climbed into the water trough. It wasn’t a true tub, but it worked. After washing the worst of the dirt off and scraping the rough whiskers from his jaws, he climbed out, wiped dry and pulled on old but clean clothes.

Not wanting to scare any of the locals, he packed his guns out of sight in his saddlebags. The Remington shotgun didn’t seem too threatening to him, so he carried it sheathed and strapped to his back, easy enough to reach if he needed it fast.