Buch lesen: «The Cowboy's Reluctant Bride»

Chapter One

Indian Territory, 1873

The next person who set foot on her property would meet the bad end of a bullet. Tightening her grip on the pistol, Ivy Jennings Powell paced from one side of her large front room to the other. She had been waiting, watching since she’d found one of her horses dead three days ago.

Lightning cracked the March air like a whip. Thunder rumbled. Outside her snug frame home that served as a stage stop, the storm howled.

When lightning struck again, it illuminated the massive oaks and pines swaying in the wind. After a short drumroll of thunder, the weather calmed somewhat. A steady rain drove against her roof and the rush of the wind quieted, though she could still hear the lashing of trees. A thud sounded on her front porch and her gaze shot to the window, its isinglass shade pulled down. She tried to identify the noise. An animal?

If so, it wasn’t one of hers. They were all shut up tight in the barn or the chicken coop. From the center of the long table against the opposite wall, a lamp spread soft amber light through the room.

Since the death of her husband a year and a half ago, Ivy had been alone in this southeastern corner of Indian Territory. She and the neighbors scattered miles apart lived just over the border from Texas and Arkansas.

A movement at the window had her going still in the middle of the room. Was that indistinct shape the silhouette of a man? After the past three and a half months, Ivy half expected it. She had wired her brother, Smith, about her troubles, but he hadn’t replied yet, and she didn’t think he would arrive unannounced. His home, Mimosa Springs, was a two-day ride west.

Today’s stagecoach and its passengers had come and gone. The Choctaw people who lived around her were a peaceful lot, and there had never been any trouble between them and whites.

The doorknob rattled, and Ivy’s mouth went dry. Even so, she marched to the locked door and yelled, “Who’s there?”

A muffled masculine voice answered. With the crashing of the storm, Ivy couldn’t understand a word.

Thumbing down the hammer on her revolver, she unlatched the door. Before she could swing it open, the wind nearly jerked it out of her hand. She aimed her gun at the visitor, barely aware of the door slamming against the wall.

A giant of a man stood there, hands in the air. In the wind-whipped shadows, she could see only the impression of a hard jaw and glittering eyes beneath the hat pulled low on his head.

Lightning slashed across the sky of churning gunmetal clouds, illuminating a scar on the man’s neck.

“Are you going to pull a gun on me every time we meet up?”

Ivy tensed. She knew that voice. It was deep and gravelly and put a flutter in her stomach. Just like it had the first time she’d seen him in her brother’s barn three months ago. That meeting had been at gunpoint, too.

The man towered over her, water dribbling from the brim of his hat onto the porch. The clouds moved, and she peered through the shadows. “Gideon Black?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He slowly lowered his hands.

“What are you doing here?”

“Smith sent me.” He had done prison time with Ivy’s brother. And after his release, he had accepted Smith’s offer of work and arrived at the Diamond J just before Christmas. Ivy had met him when she returned home after learning her presumed-dead brother was alive and back in Mimosa Springs.

Gideon Black had sparked an unwelcome response in her back then. He still did.

The rain ebbed to a steady shower, though the wind still tangled her skirts around her legs. He had to be soaked to the bone. Releasing the hammer, she stepped back so he could enter. “Come inside.”

“Miz Powell, I’ve been riding for two days and I ain’t—” He stopped, then started again. “I haven’t washed up.”

“I’d say you just had a pretty good washing,” she said wryly, pushing some loose strands of hair out of her face. “I’ll get some toweling.”

She was halfway across the front room before she realized Gideon Black hadn’t followed her inside. She turned, noticing that his frame took up the entire doorway. Hat in hand, he frowned down at his mud-caked boots with a helpless look on his face. Was he worried about making a mess?

“Mr. Black, it’s all right.”

His gaze flicked over her. For a brief moment, his expression was...hungry. Then his features were unreadable.

She gave an encouraging smile. “Come in. The mud will dry, and when it does, I’ll sweep it up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He finally stepped inside.

She went to the spare room reserved for stage passengers to rest or wash up. Why hadn’t Smith come? Or their father? At Christmas, her brother had demanded that Ivy notify him if the anonymous poems and drawings she’d been receiving became suspicious or more frequent. They had. They had also turned threatening. At least to her way of thinking. Other things had happened, too. One of the horses had been killed, and her dog was missing.

From the wardrobe, she grabbed several towels, returning to find that Gideon had removed his poncho. He leaned against the door frame, taking off his boots. He put them upside down on the boot tree, just inside the door.

Something about this big man in his stocking feet put a funny ache in her chest.

He shook the rain off his hat then backed inside and shut the door. His shoulders were as wide as a wagon brace. He hung his hat on a peg near the door.

Ivy’s gaze trailed over him. Short dark hair sleeked against his head, a few strands curling against his bronzed nape. His shirt was damp and the fabric clung to his muscular back and arms, revealing clearly defined shoulders and biceps. Buff-colored trousers molded a tight backside and powerful thighs. The pants were mostly dry, probably coated with tallow for weather like this.

He turned to face her, and her gaze snapped to his and held. There was a heat in his blue eyes that burned right through her.

Then his attention shifted, moving down her body.

She tensed. What was he looking at?

“Miz Powell, do you think you could put that Colt down?”

“Oh. Yes.” She wished he wouldn’t call her by her married name. She slid the gun into her skirt pocket.

She handed over two towels because of his size. He stayed near the door, rubbing his hair and face with the cloth. Biceps knotted at the motion, hinting at a raw, leashed power. She’d forgotten just how big he was.

With her own towel, she patted at her damp hair. She’d forgotten about his scars, too. The whisker stubble couldn’t hide the long, thin mark that ran along his left jawline or the thicker one that appeared to completely circle his strong, corded neck. She wondered if he had others.

When they had first met, she had noticed the scars right off, but they weren’t what held her attention. It was his eyes. A clear piercing blue. And hard. He had a hard mouth, too. The man appeared to be hard all over. A flush warmed her cheeks.

The storm settled into a steady rain, pinging against the side windows. The damp heat of their bodies filled the room. She caught a heady draft of man and leather. Gideon’s broad chest rose and fell in a regular rhythm, but Ivy’s pulse was still haywire.

Through his near-transparent shirt, she could see the dark hair on his chest, the way it veed down the center of his abdomen. Suddenly, she was aware of her breathing. And his. It was unnerving. Unwelcome.

She frowned as he reached into his back pocket and took out a square of leather.

He opened the pouch and withdrew a piece of paper, holding it out to her. “From your brother.”

She took it, trying to ignore the jolt that traveled up her arm when their fingers brushed. A muscle flexed hard in his jaw.

The paper was dry, and she realized the pouch was deer hide. She quickly scanned the note. “This is the wire I sent to Smith after finding my horse dead.”

“Yes. I brought it so you’d know he really sent me.”

The thought that he would lie had never crossed her mind, but it should have. Ivy knew better than anyone that people lied.

Her heart rate finally leveled out. “So my brother isn’t coming.”

“No, ma’am.” Gideon frowned. “Didn’t he say so when he wired you back?”

“I haven’t gotten anything from him.”

“He sent you a telegram. I was there when he did.”

The missing telegram was just the latest in a sequence of odd happenings. In the past three months, a telegraph office, a hotel and a lumber mill had opened in her growing town. “I’ll check with the telegraph office the next time I’m in Paladin or ask the stage driver when he returns. He might know what happened to it.”

Refolding the paper, she handed it back to Gideon, mindful not to touch him this time.

He seemed to move just as carefully. “When Smith found out about the horse, he wanted to come, but he couldn’t.”

“Because of spring calving?”

“Partly.” Gideon returned the message to his leather pouch and slid it into his back pocket. “And he just had surgery on his leg. He isn’t getting around too well yet.”

“Surgery?”

“Doc Miller reset his leg. He straightened it out some.”

While in prison, Smith’s leg had been badly broken in several places. Ivy was glad to hear her brother might be getting some relief from the pain he endured daily. She understood about her brother, but it wasn’t like Emmett Jennings to stay behind. “What about my father?”

“He wanted to come.”

Alarm flickered. “He’s not ill?”

“No, ma’am, but he is getting up in years. Smith feels your pa’s reflexes aren’t what they used to be. His hearing is going, too.”

From her trip home at Christmas, Ivy knew that to be true.

The large man in front of her shifted from one foot to the other. “Smith doesn’t feel either of them are able-bodied enough to protect you.”

Judging by the deepness of Gideon’s chest and the ridges of muscle that corded his abdomen, her visitor looked able-bodied enough for all kinds of things. She wondered if his arms were as steely and strong as they looked.

Irritated at herself for noticing so much about him, she cleared her throat.

“Knowing my brother, I don’t imagine he sent you all this way just to tell me something he could’ve put in a wire.”

“No, ma’am. He wants me to stay and find out who’s behind your trouble.”

She could figure that out for herself, but she knew her brother wanted to protect her, whether she liked the idea or not. “I’m not being threatened. Just my animals.”

“Even so, I’ll be stayin’, ma’am.” He took a step toward her, his features stony, forbidding in the amber light. “Till your brother says different.”

Ivy had done just fine on her own since Tom’s death, and she didn’t need a man around. She’d only sent word to Smith about this latest incident because she had promised she would.

She licked her lips, ignoring the way her visitor’s gaze went to her mouth. “Nothing has happened since I sent the wire.”

“But you’re spooked.”

“Not really.”

His eyes narrowed. “You thought I was here to harm you.”

“Maybe I overreacted.”

“You said your horse was dead, ma’am.”

“Yes.”

“That’s a message of some kind.”

She agreed, but the thought of him staying rattled her.

“It can’t hurt to have another person here,” he said.

While that was true, he wasn’t just another person. The idea of his being so close made her shiver, and if she were honest, part of that was due to excitement, not dread.

She needed some space from him right now.

“You’d probably like to change out of that wet shirt. And I’m sure you’d like to get some rest.”

He studied her as if trying to determine if she were attempting to get rid of him. Which she was.

He nodded. “In the morning, you can tell me everything that’s happened.”

She could protest, or she could graciously accept the protection her brother had sent. “All right. You can stay in one of the guest rooms.”

“The barn will be better. That way, I’ll be in a good position to see or hear anything suspicious.”

She hoped relief didn’t show on her face. “There’s a bunk out there, and the roof is sound. Let me get you some bedding.”

A few moments later, she returned with a sheet and quilt. It was likely cool outside now. He could use whichever covering he wanted.

As badly as Ivy wanted him to go on, her mother had drummed manners into her. “Have you eaten supper?”

“Your ma sent plenty of food along with me.”

“That’s good. Breakfast will be at six, dinner at noon and supper at six.”

“Are you expecting the stage?”

“It came today. It won’t be back for a few days.”

He nodded, then after an awkward pause, turned for the door. “Good night, Miz Powell—”

“Please!” she burst out. “Just...call me Ivy.”

“All right,” he said slowly, a curious look on his face.

Well, he could wonder all he liked. “Thank you.”

Who knew how long he would stay? The man was clearly doggedly loyal to Smith.

Gideon stopped to tug on his boots.

She opened the door, glad to see the rain had let up a bit. “I know you saved Smith’s life and I know he’s grateful, as am I. But why do you feel you owe him so much?”

“He gave me a chance.” Boots on, he straightened, his voice raspy. “A lot of folks wouldn’t.”

“Still, he’s asking a lot of you. A two-day ride for an unknown length of time.” She gave a light laugh. “You’re going to be very busy helping your friends if you have a lot of them.”

“I don’t.”

The hollowness in his blue eyes told her he wasn’t being flippant. She felt a sharp tug on her heart.

He paused in the doorway, looking down at her with an inscrutable expression. “I won’t cause you any extra work and I’ll help around here with whatever you need, but I ain’t—” He broke off, looking self-conscious. “I’m not leaving, either.”

“As long as you’re here, no liquor. I don’t hold with drinking.”

“That won’t be a problem, Miz Pow— Ma’am.”

She barely had time to nod before he put his hat on his head then jogged toward the barn. She stared through the haze of rain until he opened the door and drew his big black horse inside. Lifting a hand toward her, he shut them both inside.

Ivy closed the door, her chest tight, her nerves tingling.

Her visitor wasn’t bent on harming her or her animals, but he made her feel things she hadn’t wanted to ever feel again. Man-woman things.

She would figure out who was causing problems on her farm. The sooner she did, the sooner she could send Gideon Black packing.

* * *

She didn’t want him here. Not that it seemed to matter much to his brain.

Gideon couldn’t get the woman out of his head. Just like the first time he’d met Ivy Powell, the sight of her last night had put a hitch in his breathing. And again this morning.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen. Her features were strong yet undeniably feminine. A stubborn jaw set off by a pair of plump pink lips, delicate winged eyebrows over shrewd midnight eyes. Lush breasts, gently flared hips.

He’d woken up hard and hurting, and he didn’t want to spend another night like that. Hell, he didn’t want to spend another night here period, but he had promised to find out what, if anything, was going on. The sooner he did that, the sooner he could get back to the Diamond J.

No thunderclouds in sight today. It was bright and sunny. After a breakfast of ham and the best biscuits he’d ever had, Gideon helped Ivy with the chores—milking the cows, gathering the eggs, checking the shoes on her herd of horses.

Now he stood beside her in what had been her husband’s office. The room with its front-facing window easily accommodated a standing desk and leather chair as well as a waist-high cabinet holding a lamp.

The back of the desk was raised with a set of pigeonholes across its top for filing. The lower part of the desk had drawers down both sides and one in the middle, which Ivy opened.

Her pale blue skirts brushed against his leg. Sunlight streamed in from the window behind them, gilding her raven-dark hair. Again, she wore a single braid, which revealed her elegant neck. And there was no escaping her soft magnolia scent, potent enough to knot his gut. Her skin was as fine-grained as satin. Gideon bet it felt like satin, too. Her lashes and eyes were as dark as her hair, setting off her refined features. And her mouth...

Beside him, she shifted, jerking his attention to the paper in her hand.

“Here’s the last one.” She handed him a drawing similar to several she’d already shown him.

Blood humming, he took the paper. This illustration of her house and farm was even more detailed than the others. The first sketches left on her porch had shown the property from the front in broad charcoal strokes—the trees around the sprawling white frame house, the edge of a long chicken coop that ran parallel to the east side of the structure, the corral and barn on the west side.

In each successive drawing, the view moved closer to the house. The likeness grew more detailed. The etchings had progressed from pleasing to almost...obsessive.

In this latest one, Ivy’s bedroom was shown in stark detail from the large bed near the window to the half-open wardrobe that revealed a few dresses down to the star pattern of the quilt on her bed.

“Is this an accurate picture of your bedroom?”

“Yes, right down to the quilt,” she answered tersely.

Gideon wondered how long the “artist” had been at her window. Had Ivy been in her room at the time? Anger flared that someone had gotten so close to her private space.

Beside him, she drew in a shaky breath. “What do you think?”

Her bedroom was located on the west side of the house, which gave Gideon pause. Why the change from the front view? “Do you know anyone who draws this well?”

“No.” She looked surprised. “It never crossed my mind to wonder. Do you think someone I know is doing this?”

“Could be.” The worried expression on her face bothered him, but there was no help for it. “What else has happened?”

“My chickens are disappearing.”

“That could be due to coyotes or wolves.”

“Yes, but if an animal were responsible, I think I would’ve found at least a feather or some blood in the henhouse. There’s been nothing.”

“You think a person took your birds?”

“It’s possible.” Her mouth tightened. “I wish I knew what this person wanted.”

Gideon turned around to look out the window across the grass of her yard to the red mud and puddles of the road beyond. “Have you thought about getting a dog?”

“I had one. Tug.” Ivy eased up beside him, bringing that damn scent with her, causing his nerves to twang. “He disappeared a couple of days ago.”

Needing to escape the barely there touch of her body against his, he stepped toward the door. “Let’s walk.”

He waited for her to precede him, then followed her through the front room and outside. They moved down the porch steps, angled toward the barn. Her braid hung to the middle of her back, drawing his eye to her small frame, the sharp tuck of her waist before her hips flared slightly.

Coming up beside her, he took in the corral and barn. The fence that ran around the property could use a fresh coat of whitewash, but everything was in good shape.

Gideon moved toward the back of the barn, shortening his stride so Ivy could keep up. “Is it possible your dog ran off?”

“I don’t think so. Tug roams during the day, but always returns at night.”

“Maybe he found a lady friend.”

“Maybe, but even if so, something else has happened or he would’ve come back.”

White clouds floated against a pale blue sky. As they reached the barn, red mud squished around Gideon’s boots. Ivy picked up her skirts and tiptoed through the muck. A bit of petticoat flashed beneath the hem of her practical blue day dress.

Shifting his gaze from her, he studied the fence that ran from the side of the house and around back to encompass the outbuildings. He spotted a couple of rotten wood slats, but no other signs of disrepair.

Beyond the back fence, several Holsteins milled about, grazing on alfalfa. Gideon had already seen the black-and-white-spotted animals this morning.

He and Ivy stepped through the back door of the barn and moved inside. The door at the other end was also open, and a fresh breeze blew through the sturdy watertight structure. Oats and bits of hay scattered across the dirt floor. The odors of animal flesh and earth hung on the air.

Gideon had been here earlier checking the horses’ shoes. “Where’s the horse you found?”

“I towed him to a gully using another horse.”

“Could you show me?”

She led him past the house and through the back gate around the cows. Alfalfa blanketed the field in green as far as he could see. As they walked down a slight hill, he spied the glitter of a fast-running creek cutting through a grove of pecan trees. Beyond was a line of thick timber, just like the woods in front of Ivy’s house that ran along the road that was part of the old military trace between Fort Towson and Fort Jesup in Louisiana.

Someday, he was going to have a place like this.

Realizing he’d quickened his pace, Gideon slowed, waiting for Ivy. She reached him, breathing hard, her cheeks flushed. He had a sudden image of other things that might make her breathe hard against him.

Inhaling her scent mixed with spring air, his gaze involuntarily went to her mouth. He wanted to know how she tasted and... He bit back a curse.

He hadn’t had a woman since he’d gotten out of prison. A visit was long overdue.

He didn’t understand this fascination with Ivy, this infernal awareness. Yes, she was beautiful, but his experience with another one like her had cost him five years of his life. Then, as now, he’d been trying to protect a woman, and it had left marks.

Deep, soul-scarring marks. He had no intention of getting more.

He glanced away from the rapid flutter of her pulse in the hollow of her throat. Reminding himself that he was there for her brother, he asked, “Do you own this land?”

“Yes.”

Gideon knew Tom Powell had died about a year and a half ago. “What about your late husband?”

“What about him?” She cut him a sharp look.

“Smith said he was killed when he was thrown from a wagon.”

She nodded, lips pressed tightly together. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“How do you get along with his family?”

“Fine, though I rarely see them. Tom’s grandmother is his only living relative. She’s in Chicago. Why?”

“Just trying to figure out if anyone would want your business.”

She shook her head. “She has no interest in that or in living here.”

“I’m also trying to decide if anyone has a grudge against you.”

“I don’t think so.”

“What about suitors?”

She stopped, staring blankly at him for a moment. Then a look of horror crossed her features. “No one is courting me! No one is even interested.”

Gideon found that hard to believe. “Did your husband leave any debts unsettled?”

“No.” She shifted her gaze to the pasture.

Several yards away, Gideon saw a gully, its red mud walls carved out of the pasture’s earth. Overhead, ravens circled with a raucous call.

Beside him, Ivy muttered something under her breath, wrestling with her blue skirts now damp from the wet grass.

Gideon slowed. “How does your arrangement with the stage line work?”

“The mayor of Paladin has a contract with them, and he sublets the farm from me to use as a stage stop. He pays me a monthly stipend for the food I provide the passengers and for the horses I board for the stage line.”

“Does the stage change teams every time it stops?”

“Usually, not always.”

“How many of those horses in your corral belong to them?”

“Ten. The other three are mine.”

Her answers were short, brisk. Because she didn’t like that he was asking questions? Or because she could sense how she affected him?

Beneath the scents of grass and earth, he caught her musky floral fragrance, and it pulled his muscles taut. He put a little space between them. “Do you have any passengers who come through regularly?”

“A couple.”

“Have any of them ever made threats? Been unhappy with anything?”

“No.”

She lived out here alone. She’d received the poems and drawings. Her dog was gone, some of her chickens had disappeared and she’d found a dead horse, which he had yet to see. All those things had spooked her enough to prompt the wire to her brother.

They reached the edge of the gully, which looked to be six to seven feet deep. A sour, overwhelming stench reached them, and Gideon pulled his bandanna over his nose, noticing that Ivy pressed a handkerchief over hers.

The horse lay at the bottom in several inches of muddy water. The animal was stiff, its brownish-red hide chewed from neck to rump. The black tips on its ears, mane and tail identified it as a bay.

Beside him, Ivy made a soft, distressed noise, but when he glanced over, she was composed, calm, albeit pale.

“Wait here,” he said. “I want to take a closer look.”

She nodded, staying where she was as he carefully maneuvered his way down the slippery mud walls. Birds and other varmints had picked away at the horse’s flesh.

Gideon could see now that the bay was a gelding. There were no broken legs, no broken bones anywhere that he could find. After thoroughly examining the animal, he returned to study its chest. The long gash from the base of the bay’s neck to the top of his chest looked to have been caused by a knife. A large knife.

He made his way back up the slick slope, struggling to keep his footing a few times. Finally, he stood beside her, the knees of his trousers covered with red mud. He took off his hat and drew his arm across his sweat-dampened forehead.

Feeling her gaze on him, he glanced over.

She shifted her attention to the dead horse. “Who could do something like this? And why?”

“I don’t know.”

She exhaled heavily, clearly vexed.

“What will happen when the stage line finds out about their dead animal?” he asked.

“I don’t know. It’s possible they won’t trust me with other animals or even their business.”

“There was nothing in the contract about things like this?”

“My husband signed it, and I’ve never read the whole thing,” she said tiredly. “It’s somewhere in his desk. I’ll look for it when we return to the house.”