West Winds of Wyoming (2 page)

“Breakfast. I done the best I could for the scared little rabbit,” the driver said. When Maude prepared to climb in for the child, Nell stopped her with a touch to her arm. “I’d like to try, Mrs. Miller. Do you mind?”

At first, she thought the shop owner would object, but then Maude drew back to make room. The child’s dirty face, messy hair, and frightened eyes reminded Nell of her own childhood. Just her and Seth, no parents in sight. “Hello, Maddie,” she said softly. “You’ve arrived in Logan Meadows. This is where Brenna Lane lives. Is she your aunt?” Another bolt of lightning ripped through the sky, lighting the dark interior of the coach.

The little girl—Maddie—swallowed and fear skittered across her face. She clutched her doll tight to her chest.

“Never you mind about that right now. I bet you’re worn out from this rickety old coach.” Worried about the growing storm, Nell inched in a little farther and stopped. “That sure is a pretty doll you have.” She smiled even though the child couldn’t see her. “I used to have one just like her when I was your age.”

Are dreaming and owning two different things?

“Let’s you and me go over to the Silky Hen and have a cup of hot cocoa. Then Hannah will fry you up some fat chicken drumsticks. Afterwards we’ll march right over to Brenna Lane’s house.”

The child appeared uncertain. After a moment she nodded, lowering her legs to the floor, and reached out. When their fingers touched, another flash of unease moved through Nell, a warning of a coming storm that had nothing to do with the weather.

CHAPTER ONE

About six months later, September 1882

T
ristan Charles Axelrose guided his mare under the wooden sign spanning the width of the narrow, wagon-tracked road.
COTTON RANCH.
This was the place. The outfit the sheriff of Logan Meadows had informed him was looking to hire. A good twenty-minute ride from town, across some of the prettiest country he’d seen in a while. The land was sparse of humans but thick with wildlife, foliage and trees.

He studied the homestead as he covered the distance, letting go a sigh at finally reaching his destination after all these months. The heaviness of his six-shooter pressed reassuringly on his thigh, but the guilt that was never far from his mind pricked his conscience. He rode into the deserted ranch yard, scattering a handful of chickens, and dismounted, hunger and anxiety twisting his gut. He gave his horse one short drink from the watering trough, walked a slow circle, then stopped.

A large barn dwarfed the rustic-looking ranch house. A sturdy, well-used round pen, as well as several good-sized corrals, filled a half acre of land, and several more outbuildings dotted the area. A few green plants in the back, halfway hidden by the house, must be a vegetable garden. Far beyond, in a pasture on the hill, a herd of horses grazed on blowing brown grass.

“Hello?” he hollered. “Anyone home?”

The creaking of the barn’s loft door as it swung wide in the wind was the only answer.

“Hello,” he called again, then waited. He didn’t want to get shot for trespassing.

In its day, this ranch must have been a beautiful sight. He’d hoped to find employment closer to town, but he was fortunate to have heard about this possibility before someone else did. With any luck, the ranch hand job would still be open. What kind of people were Seth Cotton and his sister, Nell Page? Would they tolerate him bedding his tired mount down in their barn without permission? Or would they shoot first and ask questions later?

Five minutes ticked by. A tumbleweed half as tall as himself skittered across the dirt yard and wedged itself against the windmill between the porch and the barn.

Hell.
He couldn’t let his mare stand out here any longer. He’d ridden eight hours straight on this last leg and Georgia needed tending. The sight of her drooped head made his decision for him. He gave her one more short drink from the long, wooden water trough and started for the barn.

After pulling one of the double doors open, he stepped in cautiously and looked around. Stalls had been mucked recently and were bedded with clean straw. Three horses, interested in the newcomers, watched with pricked ears.

He flipped his reins through a hitching ring and had lifted his stirrup over his saddle when the low metallic click of a gun being cocked stopped him short.

“Drop your gun and turn around.”

Habit kept him rooted. He didn’t give up his gun to anyone.

“You deaf, mister?”

Indecision warred inside.

“Your choice. Prepare to meet your maker.”

It was a woman’s voice, but the hard, no-nonsense tone made him reconsider. Without turning, he unbuckled his gun belt and lowered it to the ground.

“Now turn around.”

Palms up and forward, he turned. He didn’t know what he’d been expecting, but it sure wasn’t
her
. Just outside the doorway of the barn stood a woman dressed in men’s clothing. With the sun to her back he couldn’t see her face, but her tall, assertive stance told him she knew how to handle the gun she held, and would, without blinking an eye.

“What’re you doing in my barn?” she asked.

“Waiting on you.”

“Why?”

“Sheriff Preston sent me out. Said you were looking to hire. When I rode in, no one was home and my horse is worn out. Didn’t think you’d mind me tending to her.”

“Why should I believe you? You could have made that up, easy enough.”

“I guess I could—but I didn’t. In town there was a large, wolf-like dog sleeping in front of the sheriff’s office when I arrived. I had to step over him to get inside. The building had a few charcoaled boards from a fire.”

She shifted, her right side now obscure in the shadow of the barn door, her gun trained at his chest. Her face, what he could see of it, was red from the wind. That mess of curly blond hair and her lanky body were a lot to take in.

“That would be Thom Donovan’s dog, Ivan.” Her eyes darted to his horse and her features softened. She pulled a deep breath, then let the air out slowly. “What’s your name?”

He’d already made his decision and he couldn’t go back now.

“Well?”

If he wasn’t going to be looking over his shoulder every day of his life, he’d best stick to his plan. Give the name he’d provided to the sheriff of Logan Meadows, the one he’d used to join the Union Army when he was just a kid so his pa couldn’t find him and drag him home. “Charlie Rose.”

“Rose?” Her brows arched. “You must get some teasing over that.”

His pa had taught him rising to the bait was like sprinkling whiskey on flames, so he ignored her comment and gestured to his horse. “Do you mind?”

“Go on.” She motioned with the barrel of her gun. Then she stepped closer and picked up his gun belt off the ground. Her actions said one thing, her eyes revealed another. She was frightened of him, but her gaze never wavered.

He unbuckled the back cinch and let it swing. Next, he undid the breast collar and drew the supple leather through Georgia’s front legs, hooking the equipment over the saddle horn. Unlacing the front cinch, he glanced back at the woman to find her watching him. As he tucked the long leather cinch strap into the keep on the pommel he said, “You can relax, Mrs. Page. You have my gun.”

He lifted the saddle and pad together from Georgia’s sweaty back. Collecting the far stirrup and gear with his free hand, he draped them over the seat. Facing Nell Page, he waited for her to tell him where to put it.

“In there.” She pointed. “You have any experience with cattle?” she asked as he strode toward the dark room.

“Yeah,” he called as he set his rig on the saddle rack.

“How about young horses?”

Returning, he rested his hand on Georgia’s hip. “Some. More than most.”

She eased over to the sidewall. “How’s Sheriff Preston doing?”

Another test.

“Said Logan Meadows is a quiet place when I asked about settling. His deputy came in, an Irishman. Both were helpful in directing me out here. Said you had a brother named Seth.”

That seemed to satisfy her. She slowly holstered her gun and came forward. She ran her hand down Georgia’s left front leg. The mare was a replacement mount he’d bartered for en route here.

“Your mare’s been used hard.” Her tone was accusing.

It was a truth that didn’t sit well with him, either. He’d been impatient to reach Logan Meadows, being months overdue.

She stepped back a few feet. “Well, go ahead and use anything you need in the tack room, then bed her down in a stall and feed her.”

“I appreciate that. Will your brother be back soon?”

Her eyes narrowed instantly. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

Not sure what to make of Nell Page’s strange answer or suspicious nature, Charlie—it was simpler if he thought of himself that way—went back in the tack room and found a soft cloth. In a slow, circular motion, he rubbed Georgia’s coat firmly as the woman watched.

“Why do you want to know?” she asked finally.

“It’s important to me that I get the job.”
More than you know.

“Well, relax. You’re hired.”

“Just like that?”

“Just like that.”

A slight smile played around the corners of her mouth for the first time since he’d arrived, as if under different circumstances perhaps she might be used to teasing. He wouldn’t have believed it after the cold reception she’d just given him.

She turned, then stopped and looked back. “When you’re finished, you can throw your things in the bunkhouse and come inside. I’ll rustle something up for supper.”

At the mention of food, a small pain jabbed his empty stomach. His brief time in town hadn’t given him a chance to eat a real meal, just a strip of jerky and a biscuit in the bar where he’d washed away the trail dust. A job was what he’d needed most, to enable him to settle in Logan Meadows. And now he had it. “Where’s the bunkhouse?”

She tossed him a dry laugh as she strode out the door. “You’re in it, Charlie Rose. Pick any stall that’s empty.”

Nell kicked the dirt and straw from the bottom of her boots before crossing the threshold. After lighting several lanterns in the shadowy interior, she rattled around the cluttered kitchen, now a bit puzzled about what to fix for supper since the new hand would be partaking. She clunked a skillet down on the top of the stove before opening the heavy iron door. Wadding up some old newspaper, she shoved it in and went in search of a match.

The image of the stranger in the barn brought a surge of anxiety to Nell’s stomach, strong enough to slow her steps. Last week there’d been another stranger, another night, another inquiry. Up until
that
day she’d never been fearful of anything. Never worried about staying out at the ranch alone. Never had to check her back trail. She’d never feared anything—
or any person
. Her gun, and her fighting skills, made her as confident as any man.

Maybe not so true anymore.

If she were honest, she hadn’t had a good night’s sleep since the stranger with the hollow eyes had ridden into her yard. She’d heard him coming and went to the window, hoping it was Seth. The man dismounted but stayed by his horse, looking around.

Nell’s feet had suddenly felt like boulders, and her mouth felt full of sand. She’d never had a visceral reaction to anyone like she’d had to that man. If the stranger hadn’t already seen her, she might have pretended she wasn’t home and hope he’d just ride on. But he had seen her in the window, and she’d been forced to go out to the porch. She’d dried her hands and quickly buckled her gun belt around her hips before stepping outside.

The height of the veranda had given her a small advantage. But even ten feet away she could see the obscurity lurking in the back of the stranger’s eyes. Something odd. Something deadly. She shivered now, remembering how her heart had thumped painfully in her breast.

“Howdy,” he drawled, his voice deep and slow . . . and something else. “Can you spare a meal?”

“Nope. The pantry’s bare.” The lie slipped out easily, confidently, even though her insides were quaking.

His nondescript face couldn’t cover his displeasure. “You here alone?”