To Tame A Texan

Lynnie kept her hat low over her eyes and didn't say anything. Most of the men were taking a chaw of tobacco or rolling a cigarette. Lynnie seemed to be the only one not smoking.

Ace ambled up to her, his expression still quizzical. “You ain't smokin' or chawin'?”

Lynnie kept her head low. “I—I forgot my makin's.”

“Here.” Ace handed her his little sack of tobacco.

“Much obliged.” She took it and the little paper he handed her. Her hands trembled as she tried to roll it.

“Lordy, kid, you're wastin' tobacco,” Ace grumbled, took the makings from her, and expertly rolled a cigarette.

Lynnie took it, stuck it in her mouth. Maybe he wouldn't have a light.

But Ace struck a match across the seat of his pants and lit it for her. Even as he did so, he stared hard. “I swear I know you from somewhere, kid.”

“Uh, don't think so.” She fought off a fit of coughing as she inhaled the acrid smoke. To her, it tasted like burning hay.

“What's your name?”

“Ly—Lee. Lee Smith.” She didn't look up at him.

“Okay, Lee, we'll take a leak and then we'll mount up and see how far we can get before sundown.”

“What?” She looked around in horror, realizing some of the cowboys around her had their pants unbuttoned. She'd never seen a full-grown man with his plumbing on display for everyone to see. “I—I already went.” She stumbled toward her horse in confusion and stubbed out her cigarette against her saddle. She made sure it was extinguished before she dropped it in the dirt. A prairie fire would be the devil of a thing to deal with. Red dust choked her and she was having a difficult time seeing without her spectacles, but she was afraid to wear them, certain Ace would recognize her. Oh, this was going to be a long, long trip, and it had barely gotten started. The worst of it was going to be dealing with Ace Durango, who thought he was God's gift to women.

She grinned to herself and began to plan revenge.

 

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Table of Contents

You are about to meet Ace Durango, the tough, half-breed heir to the Durango Texas ranching empire and now the trail boss of a big cattle drive up the Chisholm Trail to Dodge City, Kansas. This handsome, charming rascal can handle his cards, his liquor, and his women. Well, most women. With Lynnie McBride, he doesn't even want to try. To put it bluntly, he can't stand the lady!

The feeling is more than mutual. The prim schoolteacher and suffragette finds Ace about as appealing as a buzzard. She's appalled by this untamed Texas brute, but she's desperate to get to Dodge City for a Women's Rights meeting. Which means Lynnie's determined to come along on this cattle drive, whether Ace wants her or not.

Trust me, this may be a l-o-n-g, l-o-n-g trip....

 

“Ace is in jail again.” Cimarron paused to deliver the news in the doorway of the ranch's library.

“Not again!” Her husband muttered a curse in Spanish and got up from his comfortable leather sofa before the huge fireplace, unceremoniously dumping the small brown Chihuahua dog from his lap onto the floor. “I don't know what I'm going to do about our son.”

“Now, darling, don't get riled.” Cimarron gestured in a soothing manner as she watched her half-Cheyenne husband. He was almost fifty, but still as handsome as the day she had met him during the Civil War, although now his black hair was streaked with gray. Don Diego de Durango III had a temper like a firecracker, although never with her.

“Riled? Riled?” His voice rose as he paced before the fire. The Chihuahua, Tequila, moved to stay out from under the master's boots. Smoke from Trace's cigarillo billowed like a dragon's breath. “We've spoiled him, that's what. Who brought the news?”

“Comanch.”

At the sound of his name, the half-grown boy stuck his head around the library door.

“Comanch!” Trace roared, “I sent you two down to Mexico to buy some blooded horses from my cousins. How in the hell did my son end up in jail?”

The half-breed cowhand twisted his Stetson in his hands. “Well, sir, we got just across the border and Ace wanted to do a little more New Year's celebratin'—”

“New Year's?” Trace Durango threw his hands up in despair. “New Year's? It's late January, for Christ's sake! He's as irresponsible as any saddle tramp. All he does is play cards, drink, and chase women.”

“Now, darlin',” Cimarron said, brushing back a wisp of graying blond hair, “Ace is a pretty good cowboy—”

“When we can keep his mind on horses and cattle,” Trace snapped and tossed his cigarillo into the fire. “Would I be wrong to presume there was a woman involved in all this?”

Comanch looked at Cimarron helplessly and twisted his hat into a shapeless mass. “Uh, no, sir.”

Cimarron saw the expression in her husband's dark eyes and moved to calm things. “Well, now, darlin', you know how the ladies love his easy-going charm—”

“Aha! I knew it! Comanch, what happened?”

“She—she was real purty, sir, and kinda wild—the one that caused the trouble.”

“Does my irresponsible son pick any other kind? On the other hand, what nice, respectable girl would risk her reputation with the rascal?” He sighed and sank back down on the leather sofa. The Chihuahua promptly jumped into his lap, and he stroked it absently.

“It wasn't perzactly Ace's fault, sir,” Comanche said.

Trace snorted.

“No, really. Some
vaquero
took offense at her sittin' on the arm of Ace's chair in a card game and tried to slap her around. Now, you know no Texan would stand still for that. Ace threw him across the bar, broke the big mirror, and then everybody started throwin' punches.”

“You see?” Cimarron came into the library as she defended her son's reputation. “That just shows he's gallant. Ace would always rush to the rescue of a lady.”

Trace snorted again. “I doubt she was a lady. Real ladies never attracted our errant son.” He reached for another cigarillo. “Comanch, you can go back to the bunkhouse.”

“Yes, sir.” The half-grown boy fled.

“Double damnation, darlin',” Cimarron sighed, “you scared the poor boy to death. Anyway . . .” She smiled at her husband, remembering. “Your son's not any wilder than you were at that age.”

“You're trying to change the subject.” Trace seemed to shift uncomfortably at the truth of her words. He looked up at the big portrait of her that had hung over the fireplace for more than twenty years, and for a long moment, neither of them spoke, remembering all the good times and the bad that had brought them together. “But when I was that age, I was already taking charge of the ranch for my father.”

She looked out the window at the blustery winter day and felt sadness. The grand old patriarch of the Triple D had only been gone a year.
Tres,
pronounced “trace,” meant three in Spanish, and her husband was the third in the line of Durango ranching. Their son was the fourth—if he lived long enough to take over their empire. “Your only son will make you proud yet,” Cimarron said.

“Ha! If we could keep him out of jail.” He gestured for her to come sit beside him.

“He just needs to find a respectable girl.” Cimarron sat down and snuggled up to him. She didn't mention that she already had one in mind.

“His reputation is so bad, no respectable girl would be seen with him. I've got half a mind to let him rot in that Mexican jail.”

“Oh, now, darlin', you don't mean that.” She kissed his cheek.

“Well, I might. Teach the young scoundrel a lesson.” His expression changed, and he looked at her. “You've already done it, haven't you?”

Cimarron bit her lip. “Well, you know how Ace likes his comfort.”

“Spoiled, that's what he is. Why, when I was that age, I thought nothing of sleeping out on the prairie or eating by a campfire. He ought to have to live like a real old-time cowboy—toughen him up.”

“Yes, dear.” She nuzzled his neck, glad to have the subject changed.

He turned his face and kissed her, the kiss deepening. “Wait a minute. You're deliberately distracting me.”

“What?” She blinked, keeping her eyes wide with innocence.

“Cimarron Durango, you know what I'm talking about. You've already sent someone with the bail money?”

She laid her head on his chest. “Well, I reckoned the food would be bad in that jail....”

“We both know Ace would seduce the sheriff's daughter into bringing him the best food from her father's house and providing other comforts, too.”

She knew it might be all too true. Ace was not only a rascal; he was a devil with the ladies. “Maybe he's learned his lesson.”

“Ha! When hell freezes over, maybe,” Trace said. “Who'd you send?”

“Pedro. He said the sheriff was his second cousin's brother-in-law.”

He put his arm around her and laughed quietly, his anger fading. “Darlin', you are a wonder. Everybody else around here trembles when I raise my voice—everyone but you and Tequila.”

The little dog wagged his tail, and his red ribbon of tongue licked his master's hand.

“That's because we both know you better than anyone.” She looked up at him and put her arms around his neck.

“I'm just worried that Ace will never grow up to handle the responsibilities that go with his share of this ranch. Now, his sister could handle it. However, I've got my doubts about our wayward son. . . .”

“He just needs to find the right girl,” Cimarron said again. Yes, she already had a girl in mind. She started to tell her husband, decided he would roar with laughter at her choice. “In spite of his shady reputation, every young lady in Texas has set her cap for him.”

“They all want to be mistress of the biggest, richest spread in the Texas hill country,” Trace said.

“Ace would have women chasing after him even if he were poor.”

“Isn't that the truth? He's an untamable rogue.”

“But a charming one.” Cimarron snuggled closer. “All we've got to do is find a girl who can tame our Texan.”

“Not possible,” Trace said. “One thing for certain: the rascal is beholden to you on this deal. I would have left him in jail.”

Cimarron smiled, thinking about her plan. “Ace always pays his debts, and you're right; he owes me now.”

His hand went to unbutton her bodice. “You know, it's a cold afternoon, and there's no one around. I can think of better uses for this big couch.”

She looked up into his dark, smoldering eyes. “I can, too.” She reached to kiss him.

Two days later, a rumpled, sheepish Ace steeled his courage and ambled into the dining room, Stetson in hand. His head was pounding, but he forced a smile. “Hello, folks. I'm much obliged for you gettin'me out of jail.”

“Honey, are you all right?” Ma jumped to her feet to embrace him. He kissed the top of her blond hair. “Oh, you've got a black eye.”

“Doesn't hurt.” He reached to touch it with one big hand.

His father glared at him. “Don't thank me; thank your ma. Enough's enough. I would have left you there.”

“Oh, Trace, you don't mean that.” She hugged her tall son again.

Ace favored her with that crooked smile he knew women found so irresistible. “Lordy, Dad, I was tryin' to mind my own business—”

“Your business was to go down to our cousin's
rancho
and bring back some horses.” Dad glowered darkly at him over his coffee cup.

Ace grinned good-naturedly “I only meant to play a hand or two, but there was this girl—”

“Comanch told us,” Trace grumbled. “Pretty, was she?”

Ace sighed with remembrance. “Oh, my, was she! Just the kind I like: dark, wild, and hot.”

“I don't think I need to hear this,” Ma interrupted, and sat back down and gestured him to a chair. “Have some breakfast.”

He took a chair with easy grace and looked with disbelief at his father's half-eaten breakfast. The bacon was burned, the eggs half raw. “Old Juanita losin' her touch?”

“She's gone to visit her sister,” his mother whispered, “so Cookie is filling in for a few days.”

Ace groaned aloud. “That old goat has been poisonin' our cowboys for years; now he's startin' on the family.”

“I heerd that!” The bearded old man stuck his head out the kitchen door.

“If you didn't eavesdrop, you wouldn't hear so much,” Ace said.

“Listen, you young whippersnapper, I been cookin' on the Triple D ranch as long as you been born—”

“Now, now, Cookie,” Ma soothed, “I'm sure Ace is just out of sorts. Bring him some of your delicious cooking.”

The grizzled old man wiped the flour off his beard and smiled at Ma. Everyone knew how much he adored her. “All right, Ma'am, I'll feed him, but tell him to shut up about my cookin'.” He disappeared back through the door.

“Besides being a lousy cook, he's as cranky as a rattlesnake,” Ace said.

“Heerd that!” Cookie yelled.

Ma looked over at Dad, who took a sip of coffee and shrugged. Ace and Cookie had never gotten along in all these years. As a small boy, Ace had delighted in playing tricks on the old cowboy, who was a fixture on the Triple D spread, and Cookie called the young heir “the devil's spawn.”

“Don't forget a fresh pot of coffee, Cookie,” Ace yelled.

“You'll regret it.” His father took another sip and shuddered.

“I heerd that!” Cookie yelled from the kitchen.

Ace put his hand to his head and groaned. “I've still got a headache like a stampede run over me.”

“You get no sympathy here,” Dad snapped.

“Now, Trace, darling, he's learned his lesson. He's going to do better, aren't you, honey?”

Was he? He liked his lifestyle just fine . . . except ending up in jail or being chased by some girl's irate brother was sometimes a little too exciting. He gave Ma his most charming, lopsided grin, the one that turned all women to jelly.

“I'm sorry, Ma, for causin' so much trouble and bein' a bad boy.” He knew all women loved bad boys. Women were reformers deep at heart, and they all saw him as a perfect candidate to civilize. “I'll owe you forever for gettin' me out....”

“In that case, I'm going to call in my marker now,” his mother said and smiled sweetly.

“Anything for you, Ma.” Ace grinned.

Dad looked up, evidently mystified.

Old Cookie limped into the room, reeking of vanilla, and slammed a plate down in front of Ace. “Here's your breakfast, you young pup, you, and I don't want to hear no complaints.”

Ace looked at the burnt eggs and almost-raw steak. He poked at the meat with his fork dubiously. “I seen steers hurt worse than this get well.”

“Oh, shut up!” Cookie ran his hand through his flour-dusty beard. “You don't deserve no respect. You're not a real man like your daddy—just a saloon-crawlin' boy.”

It was true. He'd never live up to his father's reputation, so he didn't try. “Don't I get some coffee?”

Cookie snorted and returned to the kitchen, leaving the faint scent of vanilla on the air.