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It likely stemmed from the fact that he had sprawled on top of her earlier, she mused. She had become fiercely aware that he was one hundred percent male. During their downhill tumble, Josie had found herself riding his muscular thigh, and her breasts had been mashed against his broad chest. It had been unnerving … and titillating. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t think about that!
She quickly turned her attention to the authoritative air that surrounded him like an invisible cloak. His demeanor reminded her of Captain Holbrook’s commanding manner, which seemed odd for a wandering horse trader.
Her thoughts trailed off and she shivered, becoming aware of the evening chill settling around her. She wished she’d worn her jacket. It would have provided warmth, not to mention extra padding during her fall and wild tumble. Even now, her hip throbbed and her wrist ached from being hyperextended.
“You should buy one of the other horses I have for sale,” he repeated belatedly. “Not Outlaw. He belongs to me.”
She was disappointed he hadn’t tossed out an inappropriate, off-color remark in response to her previous comment. Then she would feel justified in lashing out at him again. It would assure her that she had every reason to dislike him and would be well advised to maintain a cautious distance.
“No, thanks. I’m sticking with Rooster. He’ll get me where I want to go the day of the race.” She hoped.
“Or see you buried,” Sol mumbled as he leaned out to grab the lead rope on the other horses.
“Muriel said something to that effect, but I intend to prove you both wrong,” Josie insisted. She glanced curiously at him. “Are you going to make the land run?”
“Haven’t decided yet. I’m not one to stay in the same place for long. Born under a wandering star, you might say.”
Which meant he and Josie held opposing objectives in life. She dreamed of putting down roots and having a home of her own. She’d endured seven years of feeling unwanted, though she had stayed in a grand house where most women would delight in living. She had been overly anxious to escape that tormenting place. Nowadays, a sod house or crude dugout seemed like a welcoming palace to her.
“You can drop by my homestead after the run and see how well I’m managing without a man’s help or intrusion,” she invited. “Unlike you, Tremain, I want a place to call my own.”
He studied her for a long, contemplative moment. His penetrating green eyes bored into her, as if searching out hidden secrets.
“So … Miz Josephine, where do you hail from?” he asked as they rode toward the tent community that had become her temporary home.
“Iowa. My mother died when I was ten. Three years later, Papa married a wealthy, influential widow who could improve his social standing.” Josie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Although Papa inherited property from my mother’s family, he had no interest whatsoever in ranching. Eventually he sold it for extra money, after his new wife pressured him into it. Needless to say, my brother and I were hugely disappointed.”
“You had constant conflicts with your stepmother,” Sol said perceptively.
“Yes. She would have preferred if Papa didn’t bring Noah and me into her grand house,” Josie confided, and wondered why she was discussing her personal life with a stranger. Ordinarily, she kept her feelings to herself. She figured everyone had their own problems, and didn’t want to hear about hers.
“It was her house, after all,” she continued, surprising herself again. “She had a daughter and son by her first marriage, and she did her best to make my brother and me feel unwelcome and unaccepted in her circle of highsociety acquaintances.”
“Her home, her money, her friends,” he said with a knowing smile. “She didn’t want to run the risk of you outshining her children. She sounds anything but delightful.”
“Needless to say, I leaped at the chance to join Noah and his then-fiancée, Celia, when they came south to make the Run of ’89. They married after they claimed their adjoining homesteads.”
“But you didn’t claim property nearby?” he asked curiously.
“Couldn’t. The Homestead Act states a single woman of legal age can stake land in a run, but I wasn’t yet twenty-one at the time. Since Celia was, they could combine their property after they filed their individual claims. I helped them set up their farm, which is east of El Reno, and I lived with them until recently.”
“And now it’s your turn to follow your dreams.”
“Exactly. I couldn’t make the Run of ’91, which opened land to the east of their homestead, either.”
“Oh? Why’s that?” he asked interestedly.
“Because I couldn’t work the fields and erect buildings for barns, hog sheds and chicken coops by myself,” she explained. “At the time, I didn’t have the funds to hire workers, either. But I can raise cattle, train horses and build fences on the soon-to-be-opened range land.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it.
He grinned and glanced meaningfully at Rooster. The horse had been tossing his head and sidestepping every chance he got.
“Yes, I can see how well trained this devil is. But you can claim twice as much land if you accept a marriage proposal and wed after the run, like your scheming sister-in-law did,” he pointed out.
“She isn’t a schemer, and that was different,” Josie said defensively. “Celia loves Noah and he loves her. And don’t think my prospective suitors haven’t mentioned repeatedly the advantage of claiming more land for a ranch. But I’m not like my father. He married both times for position and prestige, the second even more than the first. I lost all respect for him when he practically deserted my brother and me to seek acceptance in society’s highest circles.”
Josie inhaled a calming breath, determined not to let hurtful feelings from her past upset her. She had a new life now and her always-critical stepmother was miles away.
“I had you and Miz Wilson pegged as clever opportunists.” He inclined his raven head. “I was wrong to believe the worst without hearing the facts. I apologize.”
“What about you, Tremain? What is your story …?”
Her voice trailed off when she saw Muriel trotting her dapple-gray mare over the hill—with none other than Captain Holbrook riding beside her. What the devil was her friend doing with him? And why were they out here?
Josie stared apprehensively at Tremain, wondering if he planned to accuse her of trespassing, as he’d threatened earlier. But he simply glanced at her, shrugged a broad shoulder and gazed curiously at the approaching twosome.
Dear Lord! Josie thought suddenly. Had Muriel taken her rash suggestion of proposing to the man she disliked as a tactic to fend off unwanted suitors? Muriel and she hadn’t had time to hammer out the details of such a drastic plan yet. Perhaps Muriel had acted impulsively and persuaded Holbrook to become her temporary fiancé.
Josie tossed Solomon Tremain a speculative glance. Maybe she should follow her own advice. The aimless horse trader would make a perfect pretend fiancé. He wouldn’t hang around after the run, and other potential suitors would be too busy establishing their own ranches to notice. She would be left alone to set up her homestead.
“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked warily.
Josie flashed a wide grin and didn’t reply, just turned her attention to the approaching riders—and wondered how Tremain would react if she proposed to him….
Chapter Three
Sol frowned after Josie shifted her speculative gaze from him to the approaching riders. He dearly wanted to know why the intelligent blonde had been staring at him with her lustrous blue eyes narrowed in thought. It made him nervous, reminding him of prisoners that were mentally plotting their escape.
Sol had an unblemished reputation of not losing prisoners. He brought them in alive or dead. Their choice. However, dealing with the feisty female was another matter entirely. She was up to something; he’d stake his reputation on it. He wanted to interrogate her privately, but Grant and her friend drew their horses to a halt in front of them.
“Thank God!” Muriel gushed as she looked Josie over carefully. “You are all right, aren’t you? I was afraid that demon stallion might have left you in a broken heap on the ground.” Her accusing gaze settled on Rooster.
The animal tossed his head proudly and ignored her.
Josie flashed a blinding smile that would have knocked Sol’s knees out from under him if he’d been standing. Her face came alive and her radiant expression nearly stole his breath. He glanced at Grant to see if he had experienced the same stunned reaction, but the commander’s focus was trained on the attractive brunette.
“I’m perfectly fine, as you can see,” Josie assured her friend. “You’re okay, too, I hope.”
Muriel nodded reassuringly. “I finally regained control of my mare while she sloshed through the shallows in the river. But I was so worried about you that I headed straight for the garrison for assistance.” She angled her head toward Holbrook. “Thankfully, I didn’t have to ride very far before we crossed paths south of the fort.”
No doubt Grant had been on his way to their rendezvous site at Shallow Springs, Sol mused.
“I asked the commander for permission to cross the border to ensure your safety,” Muriel added. “He came along in case you were injured and I needed help transporting you to camp.”
Sol scrutinized the two women closely. Especially Josie. It seemed that Muriel had answered an unspoken question, because her friend relaxed in the saddle. Whatever passed between the two women was meant to exclude Sol and Grant.
Here was yet another example of a puzzling reaction Sol didn’t understand. But then, he had spent considerably more time with men than women, so he couldn’t read their behavior quite as easily.
“I had no intention of crossing the boundary line,” Josie assured Grant. “But the gunshots in camp frightened Rooster, and away he went without a care about what’s off-limits and what’s not.”
“A rabbit bounding out of the grass and hopping across the prairie would set off Rooster,” Sol commented as he stared at the horse, which refused to stand still. If it was possible for a stallion to strut, Rooster could pull it off, he decided. “Give me two days with that cantankerous animal so I can teach him discipline.”
Josie rolled her eyes, then glanced at her friend. “Muriel, this is Solomon Tremain.”
She smiled cordially. “You’re the horse trader. I remember seeing you in town. And this is Captain—”
“We’ve met,” Grant interrupted. “I checked Tremain’s special license this morning. He’s legal, but he’s making a killing off his livestock.”
“The horses aren’t stolen, are they?” Josie asked, so innocently that Sol knew instantly that she was up to no good. “Heavens, I’d hate to think the man who saved me from fatal disaster was a thief.”
Sol managed to maintain his trademark deadpan expression, but he inwardly fumed when Josie batted her eyes at him. What the hell was she doing? Fifteen minutes ago, she’d bitten his head off and insisted she didn’t need rescuing. Now she was hailing him as a hero for saving her. He was beginning to think there were two women housed in that luscious body of hers—a witch and an angel—and you could never know which one would show up at any given moment. She sure as hell had him buffaloed.
“I’m not a thief,” Sol insisted, while Muriel stared at him and Grant bit back a wry smile. “I’m half Cheyenne, and my people are offering their well-trained herds of horses for sale to the invading whites. We might as well make money off this outrageous theft of our land. Not to mention another peace treaty broken by the white government.”
Sol shut his mouth so fast he nearly bit off the end of his tongue. Why had he blurted that out? He waited for Josie’s and Muriel’s reactions to his mixed heritage, and told himself he didn’t care what they thought.
To his surprise, neither woman recoiled in repulsion, just stared at him for a few moments before nodding in acceptance of his announcement.
“That explains it,” Josie said eventually.
“Explains what?” Sol demanded, a little too defensively.
She grinned at him, which made him nervous, because he couldn’t figure her out … and it aggravated him that he wanted to be able to.
“That’s why you dislike me,” she continued, still smiling. “You resent my intrusion on Cheyenne-Arapaho land, and you’re also taking your dislike out on my horse.”
Sol snorted. “I find fault with that stallion because he is a disaster waiting to happen. Do yourself a favor and buy one of my horses. You’ll be safe instead of risking your neck on that unpredictable misfit.”
“You two will have to continue your debate elsewhere,” Grant interjected. “You are on the wrong side of the boundary line and I have a meeting to attend.” He glanced at Muriel. “Can you and your friend return to camp without an escort?”
“We’ll be fine,” she assured him crisply. “I already told you that in most instances we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”
“But you should ignore the gunshots you’ll hear coming from camp when we return,” Josie suggested flippantly. “I plan to shoot the men who fired their pistols, spooked our horses and sent them racing out of control. I expect Muriel will stab those inconsiderate hooligans with her knife a few times for good measure, too.”
Grant glanced at Sol after the women trotted off, with Rooster still tossing his head. “She’s kidding, right?”
How was he supposed to know? Sol couldn’t figure Josie out. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He frowned when he noticed Grant was watching Muriel intently. “I thought you didn’t like the brunette.”
The commander swung his head toward Sol. “I don’t. Personally, I think she delights in all that male attention, despite her claim that she isn’t interested in accepting a marriage proposal before the race for land.”
“Why do you care one way or the other?”
“Didn’t say I did,” Grant muttered defensively.
Sol let the matter drop, since the man appeared to be highly sensitive about the brunette, regardless of his insistence to the contrary.
“Did you find out anything about the gunslingers we spotted in town?” he asked as he led the way to their secluded rendezvous site near Shallow Springs.
Grant nodded soberly. “The gunmen met up with a Texas rancher named Carlton Bradley at the Oasis, a local brothel. Later, I saw Bradley chatting with several hopeful settlers at one of the tent communities while I was making my rounds.”
“Which camp?” Sol questioned as he walked Outlaw into a copse of willows near the rippling springs.
“I think he’s camped just north of the one where Josie and Muriel are staying.”
Sol nodded pensively. “I need to find out what Bradley and his small army are up to. Robbery, maybe. He might be trying to familiarize himself with the settlers’ routines. There are a lot of people about, carrying their life savings to make improvements on the land—if they manage to stake a claim without getting killed during the race.”
“I talked to Sam Colby, the city marshal, this afternoon,” Grant commented. “He mentioned that robberies were occurring with alarming regularity. Bradley and his thugs might be stealing all the money they can get their hands on before hightailing it back to Texas.”
“The same sort of things happened in the two previous land runs,” Sol reported, then frowned curiously. “What does this Bradley character look like?”
“He’s about your height, with reddish-brown hair, a false smile, gray eyes and a square face.” Grant rattled the description off. “I think he is as fond of females as he is of money. I see him flirting constantly with married and single women alike.”
“Maybe we should sic Josie on him,” Sol said drily. “I just met that firebrand, but I think she could put Bradley in his place in nothing flat.”
“We’ll send Muriel with her. She has tried to put me in my place on several occasions,” the commander mumbled. “And I don’t fling insulting innuendos the way Bradley reportedly does.”
“If you come across anyone else that arouses your suspicion, let me know.” Sol glanced back at his colleague as he reined Outlaw away from the springs. “By the way, my cousin spotted two squatters tucked in a ravine about eight miles northwest of the fort. Both men were heavily armed with pistols and rifles.”
“I’ll take out a patrol to confront them tonight,” Grant promised. “After we overtake them, they can camp out in the stockade with the rest of their conniving kind.”
“Good place for the bastards. You may have to expand the size of the stockade before this damn race for land takes place,” Sol muttered before he rode off.
The moment Josie and Muriel reached the tent community, four would-be fiancés approached, eagerly offering to unsaddle their horses. One of the men thrust a tattered jacket at Muriel to repair. The eager suitor followed her like a puppy when she hiked off to fetch her sewing kit.
“If you don’t mind, I need my privacy,” Josie told the three who lagged behind.
The men bobbed their heads and backed away, much to her relief. She was not in the mood to be polite or listen to more flattery. She just wanted peace and quiet while she brushed down Rooster and staked out Bess, Muriel’s mare, to graze.
Privacy was difficult to obtain these days, though. The area was jumping with people who anticipated the day of the run. More competition, Josie thought, disgruntled, as she groomed the stallion. She smiled, noting this was the only time he stood still. He liked the personal attention.
When weariness settled over her, depressing thoughts closed in. Josie wondered what she would do if she couldn’t find a piece of property with a good water source and natural protection from inclement weather. What if she failed to stake a claim at all?
She’d heard in town that at least twenty-five thousand people were expected to make the wild run for free land. She knew some of them were settlers that had been unsuccessful in staking claims during the first two such events.
What if she and Muriel ended up with nothing?
Rooster pricked his ears and shifted sideways suddenly. Josie snapped to attention when she heard rustling in the underbrush. Now what? she thought in annoyance.
To her dismay, a scruffy cowboy, who looked part Spanish, staggered from the bushes. His shaggy black hair scraped the collar of his dingy shirt. His wide-set black eyes were at half-mast. He had a six-shooter strapped to each hip and he carried a near-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. Josie swore the hombre must have ingested most of the liquor, then used several drops as cologne, because offensive smells oozed from every pore.
“Well, well, well,” the stocky cowboy drawled. “If it ain’t Button-Eye Malloy all alone for once. I’ve had you in my sights for a week, honey.”
“The answer is no,” she said, out of patience with all men everywhere. “I’m not interested in marrying you. Go away.”
“Marry?” He snickered, exposing a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Hell, honey, I don’t wanna wed you. Just bed you.” He discarded the bottle and advanced toward her.
Josie had found herself in similar situations on several occasions. Drunks with lust on their minds were more dangerous than overeager suitors. “Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry,” she warned, scooping up a fallen branch to use as an improvised club.
The unkempt hooligan just kept coming. Josie stepped around Rooster, using the horse as a shield. To her frustration, the ruffian swatted the stallion’s rump. The flighty horse bolted sideways, knocking Josie flat on her back. She let out a yelp and tried to regain her feet before the ruffian sprawled atop her, but he overpowered her and trapped her beneath him.
She was reminded instantly of having Tremain fall on her, but this was not the same. She had felt a fierce physical attraction to the ruggedly handsome horse trader. She felt nothing but disgust and repulsion for this lusty drunkard.
He clamped a beefy hand around her leg, jerking it sideways to make room for himself between her thighs. Josie tried to whack him over the head with the tree branch, but he blocked the blow with his elbow.
“Get off me!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.
“Not till you give me a kiss,” he growled. His shaggy head moved steadily toward hers.
Furious, Josie bucked beneath him and turned her face away. He grabbed a hank of her hair and yanked hard. She screeched in pain and outrage, and clobbered him on the shoulder with her makeshift club. Unfortunately, the blow only served to make him vindictive.
“You wanna play rough, do you, bitch?” he sneered. “Your choice—”
To Josie’s surprise, her attacker suddenly levitated off the ground, flew through the air, then landed again with a grunt and a thud. She glanced up to see Solomon Tremain looming over her, looking like Satan arriving from the gates of hell. His eyes were narrowed slits of green flame and his facial expression was as hard as a tombstone. His menacing growl would have scared the living daylights out of anyone sober enough to realize Tremain was not a man to challenge if you valued your life.
“Get yer own woman,” the drunkard spat as he climbed onto all fours. “I found her first!”
“Might be the last thing you ever do,” Tremain snarled ferociously. Then he swooped down on her attacker.
Panting for breath, Josie braced herself on her elbows and watched the horse trader clutch the front of the hooligan’s shirt. He hauled him roughly to his feet and knocked the stuffing out of the brute, who hit the ground again—hard. The brain-scrambling blow caused his dark eyes to roll around like a pair of dice.
She watched in satisfaction as the ruffian shook his head to gather his wits, then gasped in alarm when he made a grab for one of the pistols on his hips.
“Watch out!” she called to her rescuer.
She wasted her breath. Tremain had lightning-quick reflexes and had already sprung into action. He shoved his boot heel against the man’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and making him howl in pain. Tremain confiscated both pistols, then stepped on the hooligan’s neck to discourage him from trying to gain his feet.
For a horse trader, Tremain was downright impressive when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Josie wondered if it was his Cheyenne training that prepared him to react so quickly and effectively. Probably, she decided. She could use a few lessons in self-defense from him. Clearly, she wasn’t as good at fending off attackers as she’d thought.
“Do you have something you’d like to say to the lady?” Tremain asked in a low, vicious tone as he towered over the downed man like a seething thundercloud of doom.
“No, and you can go to hell,” the man choked out.
“Already been there. Now it’s your turn to see what it’s like.”
Josie pushed herself into a sitting position to massage her aching back, which had slammed into the ground one too many times in the past two hours.
“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Tremain asked, without taking his fierce glare—or his booted foot—off her tormentor.
“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But thanks for asking.” She rolled to her hands and knees, favoring the wrist she’d hurt earlier that evening, and then rose slowly to her feet.
Her rescuer grabbed the drunkard and hoisted him off the ground. The man swayed as Tremain shook him, as if to clear his whiskey-saturated senses. Josie knew it wouldn’t help. She had pounded her attacker with her makeshift club, but he had consumed a pint of whiskey, and the blows hadn’t fazed him.
“Come with me,” the horse trader demanded sharply. “You need to sober up, and a bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”
With satisfaction, Josie watched Tremain shove her assailant into the creek. The hombre landed with a splash and came up cursing the air black-and-blue.