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Praise for Stacey Kayne:
MUSTANG WILD
‘Fast-paced and well written,
MUSTANG WILD was a delight to devour…
Highly romantic, with just the right touch of humour,
MUSTANG WILD is one for the keeper shelf.
Stacey Kayne has penned a treasure…’
—Cataromance
‘This strong debut is a tale of one woman’s struggle to
overcome a father’s deceit before she can find peace,
forgiveness and passion with the man meant for her.
Each character carries his or her own weight, adding
depth and humour to this honestly written story.’
—RT Book Reviews
MAVERICK WILD
‘Excitement, mystery and delight fill the pages of
MAVERICK WILD, Stacey Kayne’s latest historical
treasure. Kayne can weave a story that will capture
you and not let go. She has demonstrated herself to be
a talented force in the world of western romance.’
—Cataromance
‘Kayne carries off a warm-hearted Americana
western with…feisty characters, a loving family
atmosphere, small-town troubles and the
gritty reality of life in the Wild West.’
—RT Book Reviews
“Don’t go,” he whispered against her ear, the vibrations rekindling the wild tingles in all the places he’d touched. He leaned in, touching his lips to hers in the lightest caress. His arm tightened over her ribs.
Damnation!
She shoved his arm away and scrambled for the end of the bed. She stumbled over the trunk and fell to the cold floor. She sprang up, tugging her wool nightshirt closed as she bumped against her table, wobbling the lit oil lamp. Light shifted over shadows and the naked man sprawled in her bed.
She inched toward the stove, grabbed up her now dry clothes, then backed toward the door. How long had she slept?
The heated swirls he’d conjured rose up, stealing her breath.
He’d kissed her, in ways she’d never imagined a man would kiss a woman. Her teeth clamped down on her trembling lower lip. The memory of his mouth on her breast, his tongue moving against hers, added to the violent stir of her pulse. His touch had been tender, his kisses…overwhelming.
Stacey Kayne has always been a daydreamer. If the comments on her elementary school report cards are any indication, it’s a craft she mastered early on. Having a passion for history and a flair for storytelling, she strives to weave fact and fiction into a wild ride that can capture the heart. Stacey lives on a ranch near the Sierra Nevada with her high school sweetheart turned husband of eighteen years and their two sons. Visit her website at www.staceykayne.com.
Recent novels by the same author:
MUSTANG WILD
MAVERICK WILD
www.millsandboon.co.uk
MILLS & BOON
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Dedicated to my critique partners,
Sheila Raye, who’s always there for emergency brainstorming,
Marlene Urso, for her speed-of-light proofreading,
and Carla Capshaw, whose insight is always an inspiration!
Special Thanks to:
My husband—Happy 20th Anniversary!
Tanner and Ethan for always being there
to help their mom out.
My mom and mom-in-law
for their never-ending support.
My pals at Writers at Play.
Lucy, my fabulous editor,
for her faith and understanding.
My readers—I hope you enjoy this final addition
to my WILD series!
Prologue
Southwest Wyoming Territory—1875
“There’s nowhere to run, Margaret Grace. I’m going to find you.”
He was too close. Desperate to escape her brother’s rage, Maggie’s fingers dug into the dirt as she struggled through the thick brush. Thorns scraped across her cheeks, snagging her braids, ripping at her dress.
“Thirteen is a bit too old for hide-and-seek,” Nathan called out, his taunting voice sounding merely a foot away.
Maggie froze. She tried to control her jagged breaths and the tears burning for release. Her face and belly throbbed from his heavy fists crashing down on her. Their daddy hadn’t been dead a full hour, and her brother had lost his mind. He’d exploded from the house in a rage, their father’s will in his hand.
He’d gone after her like a man deranged.
A twig snapped behind her. Maggie held her breath as his shadow moved over the dense scrub, blocking out bits of sunlight breaking through the twisted branches as he walked past. The crunch of his footsteps faded deeper into the woods. Her heart thundered as she waited. She had to make it back to the ranch before him.
She scrambled from the bush, biting back a scream as thorns ripped at her skin. Shaking, she hurried back down the hillside. Through a maze of tall timber she could see her home below and those who’d gathered in the yard—stable hands, housekeepers, the nanny who’d raised her.
Why didn’t they come for her? She had screamed for help. All of them had looked on with horrified expressions, shrinking away as Nathan struck her again and again, forcing her to run for the woods to get away from him.
“There you are.”
Maggie swung around. Fear gripped her chest, stealing her breath as her older brother towered over her. A wedge of black hair covered one eye. The other sparked with anger. Their father’s will was still crushed in his grasp, her blood marring the pages.
Until today, no one had ever struck her. At twenty-two, Nathan was now her legal guardian.
“Look at you, Margaret Grace.” He shook his head as though he weren’t the one responsible for her tattered state. “What would your daddy think of his precious little girl crawling through the dirt in her fancy pink clothes?”
A smile curved his lips, and tears blurred Maggie’s vision. He’d never liked her, but she never guessed her brother harbored such hatred. “What have I ever done to you?” she cried.
“You were born. My life was perfect before you came along. You killed my mother and have been nothing but a drain on my inheritance. And now I’m supposed to waste what’s left of my money on some finishing school and a dowry so you can be pawned off on some aristocratic fool?”
“I don’t have to go. I won’t go!”
“It’s in the will!” he shouted, waving the crumpled pages. “His lawyer has a copy. I’m his only son, the rightful heir! All this talks about is preparations made for you, Margaret Grace!” He swung his fist.
Pain exploded through her cheek. A scream ripped from her lungs as she hit the ground. She curled up, defending herself as best she could.
When the next blow didn’t come, she opened her eyes and saw a pair of Indian boots just inches from her nose. Her gaze traveled up a giant wearing a thick fur coat. A full beard covered most of his face, but didn’t hide three long scars twisting through his cheek.
Maggie gasped and scrambled back until she bumped into something. Fingers twisting into her hair, popping strands at the root, reminding her she faced a greater threat—her own brother.
“Who are you?” Nathan demanded.
The beastly man stared at her a moment before he glanced at her brother. “Trapper.”
“You’re trespassing on my property.”
“I come to trade.”
The trapper looked directly at her. Maggie shivered, his vacant brown eyes increasing her fear. She was scraped, bruised and bloody, one of her braids had unraveled, yet he stared as though her brother held a dog by a leash.
“You want her?” Nathan asked, laughter in his voice.
The trapper’s shoulder shifted and a bound clump of fur landed on the ground beside her. “Give you six beaver pelts. Fair trade.”
Maggie gasped in horror. She couldn’t be sold! “Nathan.” She tried to stand, shaking her head despite the pain in her scalp. Her brother wrenched his hold. Pain pierced her scalp, forcing her back onto her knees with a sharp cry.
“You live around here?” he asked.
“No,” the trapper answered, his gaze fixed on her. “I follow the rivers.”
“You can’t sell me!” she shouted. “I’m your sister!”
He released her hair. Pain exploded across her back as he kicked her into the dirt. “Take her.”
Long, grimy fingers reached for her. Maggie screamed as she was hoisted up and tossed over the giant’s shoulder.
“No! Nathan!”
She kicked and screamed as the trapper carried her deeper into the woods. Her thrashing didn’t slow his strides. He broke from the trees and ran across a wide clearing. Reaching the other side, he stopped and swung her forward, pinning her against the rough bark of a tree.
Fear choked her. Her breaths came in short gasps.
“Hush your mouth, lest you want to die,” he said in a harsh whisper.
She stared at the jagged scars rippling across his cheek and into his thick beard.
“I seen lots of death, little miss. That man has killin’ in his eyes.”
He lowered her to the ground and steadied her. “You want to live?”
Tears burned hot against her cheeks as she nodded.
“Then you bes’ move fast and keep quiet. He may not be finished with us yet.”
Her mind reeled as he tucked her against his side, his gaze scanning the ground he’d just covered.
He was afraid. Afraid her brother would come after them.
“Goddamn cowards on that ranch,” he murmured. “Even wolves defend their young. Goes to show why I don’t trust my back to no one.”
Maggie gazed up at his tawny, withered face and the matted brown hair poking out from beneath his battered hat. He smelled bad and was old, but not so old that his hair had grayed like her daddy’s.
“I done my good deeds in this life,” he muttered, taking a step back. Fisted hands twice the size of her brother’s slammed onto his hips. His angry dark eyes narrowed.
Maggie stumbled back, beyond his reach.
“I got a mule a half mile from here. We’re headed north. You can go my way or find your own way. It ain’t my worry.”
Find her own way? “I—I’m only thirteen.”
“Only two ages in this world that matter. Either you old enough to survive or you ain’t.” He held his hand out to her.
Maggie stared at his large, filthy palm then glanced at her own scraped hands. Twigs and leaves clung to dirty pink satin and the frazzled black hair draped over her shoulders. She was suddenly aware of the ache in her swollen lips, the burning in her eyes.
Her daddy was dead. Her brother had tried to kill her.
“You old enough, Margaret Grace?”
Only Nathan called her by her first and middle name.
“My name is Maggie,” she said, taking the trapper’s hand.
“I’m Ira.”
Low murmurs carried across the meadow, drawing his gaze. Ira’s fingers tightened over hers, tugging her after him.
“Run, Maggie.”
Chapter One
Central Wyoming Territory—Fall, 1889
She moved with the caution of a doe caught grazing in an open meadow. Her dirt-stained fingers quickly secured a rope behind her saddle, binding her supplies as she discreetly watched the men filing out of the newly constructed town hall.
Following a roomful of grumbling cattlemen out onto the boardwalk, Garret Daines spotted the woman they called Mad Mag the moment he stepped into the crisp evening air. Her mangy bearskin coat and battered brown hat was hard to miss in the fading light of an otherwise deserted street. Murmurs of recognition and surprise rumbled through the crowd of men.
Garret had seen the mountain recluse in a town only one other time in the eight years he’d lived in these Wyoming hills, some years back in a settlement further north. The bushel of tangled black hair beneath her hat suggested she could still benefit from a lesson or two in hygiene. Known for having a temperament on the far side of crazy, Mad Mag tended to avoid folks altogether. She obviously hadn’t expected all the cattlemen within fifty miles to spill out onto the streets of Bitterroot Springs at five o’clock in the evening. He glanced around at the men watching her with an equal measure of curiosity and caution.
“What’s the plan?” Duce asked, clapping a hand on Garret’s shoulder as he stepped beside him.
Garret glanced over at his business partner, the man’s wide grin striking him as a pure wonder. The past two hours of heated debates and near brawls, two of which had included Garret, left an ache in his shoulders, the frustration winding inside him still burning for release. In the fourteen years he’d been riding with Duce the wiry cowpuncher had never known a sour mood.
He doesn’t handle the account books, he silently retorted. Duce had signed on as his partner in name only, refusing to take a cut or responsibility for a business he hadn’t funded. At the age of forty-two, Duce still lived for Saturday nights and blowing his paycheck on weekend benders. In the past six years of running his cattle ranch, Garret had come to envy Duce’s carefree attitude and figured the past few winters had closed the wide gap in their ages.
Garret felt old. Nothing like a failed marriage and Old Man Winter cramming his boot up your behind to age a man.
He glanced out at a pink-streaked sky. “Sun’s about down. Might as well spend the night.”
Duce gave a nod. He raked his fingers through his bushy red hair glowing bright beneath a streetlamp then tugged on his hat. “Think I’ll head over to the Gilded Lady. Winter snow will be piling up soon and my girls are bound to miss me. Care to come along?”
“Not in the mood.” He shook his head, a weary sigh breaking from his chest. “I feel like I’ve just been ambushed by seven cattle barons.”
Duce chuckled.
Garret didn’t share his humor. To secure his place in the stockyards come spring he’d signed over a small fortune to the wealthy bandits of the newly appointed Cattlemen’s Association. They’d seemed rather disappointed in his ability to meet their demands. He wasn’t about to be pushed off his land. He’d faired better than many of his colleagues, men who’d lost all their stock in the freeze a couple of winters back, a blizzard that had damn near wiped out the cattle trade across the state. Now the railroad and invading cattle barons circled like vultures, ready to pick off the smaller ranches struggling to make ends meet.
“I’ll settle for a pint of whiskey and passing out in a hotel room.”
“You can do that over at the Gilded Lady,” Duce persisted. “What you need is a night in the saddle with some wild women. Ain’t no reason for you not to.” He moved closer as they stepped into the street. “Amanda’s not coming back, you know?”
Garret rolled his shoulders against the surge of anger and resentment tightening his muscles. “I sure as hell hope not.” Staring at that outrageous cattlemen contract reminded him of the divorce papers he’d finally signed last spring—cutting his marital ties to a woman he’d not seen in nearly three years. A wife walking out on a marriage left a man with no small amount of humiliation. He didn’t see the need to announce his divorce.
Life sure hadn’t gone the way he’d planned. Having acquired his ranch at the age of sixteen and marrying at nineteen, he truly thought he’d be settled in with his own family by now, not contemplating a night at a brothel. Damned if he could figure out what he’d done wrong. One thing he did know: he was through chasing women. If he was to have another wife, she’d have to run him to ground first.
“You can slug me for saying so,” said Duce, “but you’re lucky to be rid of that one. All that pretty was wasted on a woman who don’t do nothin’ but sniffle and pout ’cause you’re too busy to sit and stare at her all damn day.”
The truth didn’t keep Garret’s chest from burning at the thought of Amanda Billings standing on his sister’s front porch bound and bustled in the fanciest gear he’d ever seen. The daughter of a Southern banker, she was a true belle, her soft-spoken voice never reaching much above a whisper, her long, lithe body and graceful movements mesmerizing. The fact that she’d looked twice at his weather-beaten hide had lit his fire, and he’d sure as hell lit hers.
Passion hadn’t been enough to hold her. After eight months of marriage Amanda had her fill of him and Wyoming winters—a winter like nothing he’d ever seen. He wasn’t new to tragedy or hardship. Raised on cattle trails by his older sister, he’d survived raids, floods, droughts and damn near being washed out of a Colorado Canyon—none of it had prepared him for watching his livelihood go to hell in a frozen handcart.
Murmurs buzzed from the men around him as Mad Mag guided her horse along the main strip. The top of her hat was barely visible beyond the large bay she led by the reins. A fine horse, its golden coat gleaming in the low light. His gaze stopped on the Morgan brand singed into the animal’s haunch—the brand of his sister’s ranch. He glanced again at the horse’s golden coat, black socks, the burst of white on the horse’s dark frock—Star.
“Is that Star?” he said to Duce as they stopped beside their own mounts.
“Yep,” he answered, not bothering to shift his gaze toward the woman and her horse. “Chance sold his mare to the trapper, Ira Danvers just before you bought your ranch and we moved onto the Lazy J.”
That was six years back and he and Chance Morgan hadn’t been on good speaking terms, Chance having stolen his girl right out from under his nose. Still, he found it hard to believe Chance would sell his prized mare to someone like Ira Danvers. Garret had never actually met the mountain man, but had heard he was far less sociable than his woman.
“How can filth like that own a Morgan horse?”
Garret glanced back at the newest member of the Cattlemen’s Association standing on the landing of the town hall, his expression filled with disgust. Strafford, the newly elected mayor of Bitterroot Springs, gripped the sides of his shiny blue jacket and stepped onto the walk, his group of ranch hands moving with him like a clutch of chickens scurrying after a peacock.
“Folks call her Mad Mag,” said one of his men. “Ain’t ever seen her in town before.”
“Mad Mag?” Strafford’s gaze narrowed. He stepped off the boardwalk into the dusty road. “You there? Come back here.”
The woman increased her strides and urged the mare to move faster.
“Uh…Boss?” his man called after him. “I wouldn’t—”
“Hey!” Strafford shouted. “I’m talking to you!”
“He’s barkin’ up the wrong tree with that one,” Duce murmured.
Mad Mag turned into the alley beside the mercantile. Strafford hurried after her.
“Someone might ought to fetch the sheriff,” suggested one of the men.
“Who wants to bet Mayor Strafford just got a new mare?”
The large group erupted with laughter.
Anger snapped at Garret’s nerves. He’d disliked the overdressed rancher the moment he’d met the man. Nathan Strafford had moved into these hills with the greasy finesse of a snake-oil salesman, forcing out the smaller ranchers while pouring his money into this town. He’d funded a new school and the first courthouse in Bitterroot Springs, which had gotten him elected as the new town mayor.
Garret started across the road, damned if he’d stand by while that arrogant jackass took advantage of some poor deranged woman.
“Garret?”
Leaving Duce to chase after him, he rounded the building. Mag was near the far end of the alley, Strafford closing in on her.
“We got new laws in this town,” Strafford announced, his long arm reaching for her. He grabbed a fistful of fur.
Mag spun to face him, the rifle in her hands forcing him to take a backward step. “Back off,” she growled.
Strafford’s six-plus frame towered over the small woman. “What business do you have in my town?” he demanded. “Aside from reeking up the streets and stealing our horses?”
The woman’s cold, throaty laughter echoed through the hallow shadows of the narrow alley. “Oh, that’s rich. You calling me a thief.”
Strafford leaned closer to her. “Mag—?”
The butt of her rifle connected with Strafford’s gut, ending his words in a hard cough. He doubled over. She swung again, her rifle cracking against his skull, sending him staggering back. Another swift blow to the brow, and Strafford hit the ground like a fallen timber.
Damn. Her reputation wasn’t just rumors. She stood over Strafford, the barrel of her rifle pressed to his chest. She trembled. Jagged puffs of breath lifted the tangled black hair covering most of her face. Her finger flexed over the trigger.
If she shot Strafford, provoked or not, she’d hang before sundown.
“He’s not worth it,” Garret whispered, slowly moving in beside her while keeping an eye on that rifle.
Rage shaking her, Maggie couldn’t think of a single reason why she shouldn’t put a hole through Nathan’s black heart. He had no right to touch her—no right to be in this part of Wyoming!
His town? Her gaze raked over his fancy suit. Bile burned in her throat. Did this town know the vile measures he used to acquire his wealth? It was past time for Nathan to be stomped back down to the devil.
She startled at a light pressure on her shoulder. Her gaze snapped to the long fingers touching her fur coat. She glanced up at wide shoulders creating a clear line on the pink horizon.
“Careful,” he said. “Sheriff’s coming.”
Pale blond hair glowed white against the sunset, instantly identifying the man beside her.
Garret Daines. Recognition broke across her senses like a crack of lightning, shattering her tattered nerves. She’d spotted Daines and his cow dog often enough in the hills around her mountain, but never so close. He appeared rather like the Vikings she’d learned about during her studies as a young girl, his pale hair wavering in the cool breeze, the span of his chest blocking out the world. A colorful sky outlined his profile, defining the sharp lines and intriguing contours of his face.
“Ma’am, you’d better git.” The hand on her shoulder urged her aside, jarring her from a mental stupor. Not that he noticed. His hard gaze never strayed from the murmur of voices growing louder by the second. He glanced to his right and his friend moved in beside him, completely blocking her from view of the approaching mob.
“What’s going on?” a man shouted.
“What happened to Mayor Strafford?” called another.
“Not much that I could see,” said Daines. “Ol’ Strafford didn’t mind his footing. Tripped over his own boots and bumped his head.”