Second Chance Cowboy (8 page)

Sabrina’s mouth dropped open in surprise and a small gasp escaped her throat.

“You’re the only woman in camp. If my men see you as I did last night, after weeks of being without a woman, one of them will lose his head. Then we’ll have trouble.”

It was the last straw. The air fairly exploded out of Sabrina’s body as her restraint fell away. “Do you think I was deliberately bathing in front of the light?”

The fire once again became the center of Sabrina’s focus as anger rolled from her body in unseen waves. She waited for Patrick’s retort, but strangely, he kept quiet.

When she spoke, her voice was distinctly clear, her diction precise and cold. “I do not
entertain
your men, Mr. Shand. I have tried very hard to fit in without being obtrusive. I only want to get my cattle to market without any extra attention or special considerations given to me because I’m a woman.”

Patrick grabbed her arm, hauling her to her feet. They stood within inches. His full lips were close, much too close. “Because you are a
woman,
you are given every consideration, whether you realize it or not. Don’t tempt my men.”

Before she could respond, his lips came down on hers. It was a savage kiss, an angry kiss mixed with passion and punishment. Just as quickly as it began, he broke it off and pushed her away. Sabrina took the back of her hand and swiped it across her mouth, wiping his kiss away.

“How long did you watch, Patrick? Why didn’t you stop me? Her chest was tight with suppressed tears. “It’s not the men I need to worry about; it’s you!” Before he could reply, she stalked away, leaving a stunned Patrick.

P
atrick raised
himself in his saddle, stretching his tired muscles. His body ached—and not just from muscular fatigue. No, it was more than physical. Sleep had been elusive the last few nights. Every time he shut his eyes, a blond-haired, blue-eyed vixen appeared in his dreams and informed him it was their leader she had to worry about.

Could she be right? Was he more concerned about the men or himself? The men had been told before she arrived that anyone who touched her would be shot. The reason didn’t matter; he’d kill them.

But what about himself? He ached to touch her. He wanted to feel her lips under his, feel her satin skin, and touch her soft breasts. When she was around, he felt like a tightly strung guitar. Touch the strings the wrong way and he’d snap.

He hadn’t meant to be so cruel the night he caught her reading and saw her bathing. He hadn’t meant to kiss her that night by the fire, but she drove him crazy. Al1 rational thought had fled when he saw her sitting around the campfire, and he had behaved like a madman.

Watching the silhouette of her luscious body on the canvass had almost pushed him over the edge. He knew she was innocent, but that shadow had stirred up all kinds of images, thoughts that made him hard. Hard enough that, since that night, he had taken to sleeping under her wagon. Knowing she slept above him, knowing he couldn’t touch her, couldn’t be with her. He wanted to protect her, but who would defend her from him?

Unless he got control of his emotions, this was going to be a long trip. Soon they would reach the Red River. When they crossed the river at Doan’s Crossing, they would be entering the Oklahoma territory. Indian territory.

If they were lucky, the worst that would happen was a greeting party, who would politely request cattle as payment for crossing their land.

Sabrina was bound to be seen. There was only one thing to do. She wasn’t going to like it. She probably would end up hating him more for it, but her safety depended on it. She would have to pretend to be his wife.

For days he had pondered what to do. And this was the only solution that had come to mind. Even that might not be enough, if some brave decided he wanted her.

On a small rise overlooking the valley below, he reined in his big roan. The cattle plodded down the trail like a slow winding train. A cloud of dust hovered over the cows like an unwelcome umbrella.

Patrick spotted Sabrina riding point with Tom. As much as he hated to admit it, she had guts. Real determination. There had been no complaining, no whining. She had worked hard, and even the men were starting to admire her for her efforts.

As long as he stayed away from her, she got along with everyone. It was only when he provoked her that her temper flared and she showed her claws. Maybe she was right. She should be worried more about him than the men. Maybe he was the most likely one to touch her, to break his own rules. But then again, he’d made the rules. He was the boss.

S
abrina guided
her sorrel mare closer to the bank of the Red River. Mesquite and cottonwood trees sparsely dotted the steep embankment. All week long, she had dreaded this crossing. Talk of water moccasins and quicksand had left her uneasy. She hated snakes and had never seen quicksand. Both sounded dreadful.

The russet-tinted river moved slower than the cattle, and didn’t look deep enough for the apprehension expressed in camp. Sandbars peeked through the brackish water, ebbing the flow, changing its course. Why all the fuss? The men had grumbled about this river for days, yet they had crossed streams deeper than this in the last few weeks. Maybe they were exaggerating the situation, treating her like a green kid or a dumb female.

The thud of a horse’s hooves stirred Sabrina from her reverie as she turned to watch Patrick’s gray dun canter into view.

Pulling on the reins, he skidded to a halt beside her. A scowl wrinkled his forehead as he informed her tersely, “I’ve been looking for you.”

The morning sun glistened behind him, casting his shadow across Sabrina. The air crackled with suppressed tension. The last week they had traded short, clipped sentences, just shy of snarling at each other. “You found me.”

Her pride still ached from their encounter over the chuck wagon, and that blasted kiss. That kiss had kept her awake at night. That kiss had made her ache for something she knew nothing about. That kiss made her want to reach out and glide her fingertips across his full lips now.

“Before we cross the river this morning, I want to talk to you.” His voice was deep and calm, yet he appeared nervous.

The smell of soap drifted to her nose and she noticed his cheeks were freshly shaven. Patrick shaved every morning—without his shirt, his pectoral muscles rippling with each stroke of the blade. It was an early morning ritual Sabrina had come to dread.

“I don’t want you crossing the river on horseback. I want you in the wagon with Buckets.”

“Why? This river looks easier than some of the streams we’ve crossed.”

His voice rose in command. “For your own safety, I want you in the wagon.”

Sabrina sighed. Would they ever get along? She had tried to be agreeable. She had tried to avoid him, but wherever she turned, he was there. Did he care for her, or was this just his overblown male attitude? So far, nothing out of the ordinary had happened, and the river looked tame enough for a child to swim.

Patrick sat on his horse, his back rigid, as he awaited her response. Part of her wanted to deny him, but she hated snakes, she was fed up with arguing, and the wagon would feel more secure. “I’ll ride with Buckets.”

A look of surprise crossed his face. “Good!”

He swallowed nervously and looked down at the river below them. “There’s one other thing we need to talk about.”

Sabrina scrutinized Patrick. Something in his voice made her raise her guard. This man had been a Texas Ranger and a bounty hunter. He had faced more gunslingers than she cared to remember. Why was he nervous? “What is it, Patrick?”

He cleared his throat “When we cross the river, we enter Indian territory.” Patrick stared at Sabrina. “From now on, to anyone outside our group, you’re my wife.”

Stunned, Sabrina asked, “What?”

Patrick pushed his hat away from his face and wiped his arm across his brow. “Your blonde hair is going to attract more braves than I want to think about.” He paused, clearly uncomfortable in what he was trying to say. “I don’t want anyone to know you’re unmarried.

“Should anyone ride up, pretend we’re married. A greeting party will probably catch up to us sometime in the next few days. When they arrive, I’ll tell them you’re my wife, and
please,
keep that blonde hair hidden.” Sabrina frowned. He wanted them to pretend to be man and wife? With their past history? A smile flitted across her face.

“What’s funny?” Patrick asked.

A giggle escaped her lips. “Don’t you think it’s ironic that we were almost married and now I’m pretending to be your wife?”

Sabrina’s chuckles filled the air. She laughed from the bottom of her heart releasing the tension—and the anger. It was too funny. He wanted her to make believe she was his wife! They would have been married for over two years and possibly could have had a baby by now if she hadn’t broken their engagement.

Patrick jerked on the reins of his horse and the horse whinnied in protest. The scowl on his face left no question. He was furious. “I fail to see the humor in this situation.”

“Think about it. We’re pretending to be what we almost were.” Sabrina continued laughing until tears begin to stream down her face.

Patrick fairly spit the words out.
“You
broke off the engagement.
You
didn’t believe in me. Yet
you’re
laughing.” Patrick’s eyebrows drew together in a frown. “I was damn lucky I found out before I married you that you didn’t believe in me. There’s nothing funny about a woman who doesn’t believe in her man.”

He spurred his mount forward and left Sabrina chuckling to herself as she watched him ride away. After all this time he still had a burr under his saddle regarding their engagement. Well, he wasn’t the only one! So did she, by God! And they weren’t finished. Not yet!

Sitting in the chuck wagon beside Buckets, Sabrina watched Patrick lead the first of the cattle into the muddy river. The steer bawled, but moved forward slowly as Patrick prodded it none too gently, pushing it into the red swirling water toward the other side. Sabrina let out a sigh of relief as the first steers made it safely across and up the steep bank. The narrow river soon filled with a nice string of cattle stretched from bank to bank, reluctantly crossing the river.

“We’d better get across ourselves if I’m going to fix lunch for this group.” Buckets clucked to the mules, and the wagon slowly rolled down the steep bank to the river below. Buckets had chosen to cross the wagon upstream from the rest of the cattle, but still in sight of the drive.

Up close, the river moved at a faster pace than was obvious from above. The mules brayed a raucous complaint. Reluctantly, they stepped into the cold water, kicking up their hooves, splashing water as they pulled the wagon into the river. Sabrina looked down into the red clay water and watched it rise toward the bottom of the wagon.

Stretched midway across the river was a sandbar, and the mules towed the wagon toward that small piece of land. The wagon rocked back and forth with the motion of the mules and water. Pots and pans clanged and Buckets talked soothingly to the animals, encouraging them onward.

A shout and the sound of gunfire drew Sabrina’s attention from the mules. She watched in terror as masked men rode from all directions, waving their guns, shooting at the cattle. Where was Patrick? The longhorns bawled in fright and jammed up in the middle of the river. Gunshots rang out and were returned by the masked bandits. It was difficult to distinguish good guy from bad guy amidst the smoke and confusion.

Cursing, Buckets bellowed at her, “Get inside the wagon! Hand me my rifle.”

Outrage filled Sabrina. These men were attacking her cattle! The only thing she had in this world to save her ranch.

She jumped in the back of the chuck wagon and threw a rifle at Buckets. He reached out and caught the gun. Tying the reins to the wagon brake, he put the rifle to his shoulder and fired at one of the masked men on horseback. Sabrina stuck her head out of the wagon just in time to see the man fall into the swirling, muddy water. Without a second thought, she picked up another rifle and put it to her shoulder. Carefully, she took aim and fired. Another masked man went into the river.

“That’a girl! Hit them bastards.” Buckets laughed, a nervous cackling sound, then fired again. Bullets whirred around them, striking the wood frame of the wagon inches from Sabrina’s face. Fear clutched her heart.

Sabrina reloaded the rifle and fired again and again. In horror, she watched young Tom take a bullet in the shoulder. Slumped over his horse, wounded, he kept on fighting.

The cattle bellowed with fright. Gunfire surrounded them and they ran in circles, bunching together. Their long horns clashed together, making a clanging accompaniment to their fright.

After two more of the road agents had been hit, the masked men rode off, leaving behind the smell of gunpowder and death. Several of the cowhands chased them, but returned minutes later empty-handed. They had helped to defeat the ruffians and Sabrina felt good. She had killed at least one man, and Tom had been injured.

The whole thing lasted maybe ten minutes, but the destruction and confusion they created would probably take the rest of the day to unravel. Cattle were running in different directions on the banks of the river, and the men set to gathering them, heading them back across the river.

“Oh, God! Look, Buckets.” In the river, cattle were stacked on top of each other like cowhides being shipped to market. The water churned with their horns as they fought each other, trying to get to shore.

Buckets swore. “They’ve panicked.”

Patrick’s gray dun suddenly appeared, swimming out to where the cattle were packed together. Sabrina gasped as she watched Patrick jump from his horse onto the back of a steer. Her heart lurched inside her chest

“What’s he doing?” Sabrina wailed.

“Trying to get himself killed,” Buckets responded.

Crawling on top of one of the longhorns, Patrick grabbed him by the horns and spurred him toward the shore, riding his back. Slowly the steer found his footing and lumbered on toward the bank of the river. The beast didn’t seem to mind that Patrick was on its back, and the other cattle followed Patrick’s mount toward the bank of the river. When they reached the shore, Patrick quickly jumped off, out of the way of the other cattle. Once again, the cattle strung out across the water looking like one long bobbing set of horns.

Sabrina collapsed onto the seat, suddenly feeling drained. It was midmorning, and the day already seemed a week long. Glancing down at the swirling river, she noticed that the water level seemed to have risen. “Buckets, does the river seem closer to you?”

Buckets glanced down. The sandbar they were sitting on was barely covered by water. “Damn. Why the hell did I stop here?”

He grabbed the reins and clucked at the mules, but they brayed in alarm. Struggling in the thick gooey sand, they didn’t budge!

Like a lightning bolt, it dawned on Sabrina. She cried out in alarm. “Quicksand. Oh God! We’re stuck in quicksand.”

“You’re damn right. I should have known better.” Sabrina looked down the river toward the crossing cattle. None of the men could be seen. She scanned the bank for Patrick, but was unable to locate him. Panic filled her voice, “Where is everybody?”

“They’re out gathering our herd after them rascals scattered it.” Bucket reached back in the chuck wagon and pulled out the rifle.

Sabrina watched as he loaded three bullets into the gun’s chamber. “I’m going to give the emergency signal.”

Buckets reached again for another rifle and handed it to Sabrina. “Just in case our other friends show up!”

Slowly he pointed the rifle into the air and fired off three shots. Then they sat and waited, watching the greedy sand cover the axles of the wagon, touching the chests of the mules. Time was quickly running out.

P
atrick walked away
from the edge of the river. He was wet and cold from his ride. What a morning! Now he understood why trail drivers charged so much money. Every mile was full of danger, every cent earned the hard way.

They’d been lucky this morning. Very few cattle had been hurt or lost, and the only man who had gotten shot was Tom. As soon as Buckets fixed him up, he’d be okay.

He was thankful Sabrina had not fought him and had ridden across with Buckets. Patrick had been surprised she’d agreed so easily with him about riding in the chuck wagon. She’d taken the news of pretending to be his wife fairly well . . . only her laughter had hurt.

With the years behind them, you would think the pain would have gone away, softened, but moments like this morning brought it all back with frightening clarity. She still had the ability to hurt him. Why couldn’t he be immune to her?

Tom rode up beside him, interrupting his thoughts of Sabrina. The boy was growing up fast. By the time he returned home, he would be a man with a man’s experience behind him.

“How are you holding up, boy?” Patrick asked gently. The boy’s complexion was white, and blood slowly oozed from the bullet wound in his shoulder.

“I’m okay, Mr. Shand.” He took a deep breath and let it out painfully. “I can’t seem to find Buckets. Have you seen him?”

Patrick’s heart skipped a beat. Where was the chuck wagon? He had seen them heading upstream from the drive to cross the river; he’d warned Buckets about staying in sight. Anxiously, he gazed the countryside, hoping they had made it across before the gunfight. The empty prairie met his gaze.

“Hang on, boy, I’ll find them for you. You stay here.” Anxiety filled his voice.

Climbing back on his horse, he headed away from the river. What could have happened to them? Fear began to form in the pit of his stomach. If anything happened to Sabrina, it would be his fault. He had dictated her into the chuck wagon, away from the dangers of the river.

A shot rang out, drawing Patrick’s attention back to the river. Were the gunmen attacking again? Just as quickly it was followed by a second and a third shot. A distress signal! Could that be Sabrina and Buckets? Patrick raced his horse back to the river’s edge.

Sitting on a sandbar in the middle of the river was the chuck wagon. Both Buckets and Sabrina were sitting in the wagon as if they’d stopped for a picnic in the middle of the river. What the hell were they firing that gun for, drawing attention to themselves?

He cursed as their dilemma hit him like a two-by-four. Quicksand! The sticky stuff was chest-high on the mules, and the axles of the wagon were no longer showing. Unless he wanted to find a new wagon and buy two more mules, he’d better hurry; they were sinking fast.