Frontier Woman (5 page)

The fingers of one hand threaded into the wolf’s fur and worked their way against the grain all the way to his head. Then the slender fingers smoothed down the black-tipped silver fur they’d ruffled, stopping occasionally to scratch at the sources of greatest sensitivity on the animal’s hide.

“You should be doing that to a man.”

Cricket looked up at the thief, and their eyes caught. He was looking at her again like he had at the pond, with that indefinable expression. A frown furrowed her brow. What was he thinking? He looked almost . . .

“Are you hungry?”

The thief laughed harshly.

“What’s so funny?”

The stranger smiled enigmatically but said nothing.

“Well, you can starve for all I care. That is, if you don’t hang first, mister . . . mister . . . whoever you are.”

“Jarrett Creed.”

“Well, Mister Creed—”

“Creed is fine.”

“Creed, I—”

“I like the way you say my name. Say it again.”

His voice caressed her. Flustered, Cricket hesitated, only to find herself assailed at that moment by another cramp. Surrendering to the pain, she raised the silver flask to her lips.

“Don’t you think you’ve had enough of that belly-wash?”

Cricket grimaced. She wasn’t any more willing to explain the situation now than she had been on the ride home. She settled for saying, “As a matter of fact, I haven’t,” and scooted down farther until her head nestled in Rogue’s fur. She lifted her head to take another deep swallow, recapped the flask, laid her head back down on the wolf, and closed her eyes.

“Listen, Brava,” Creed began. “You better . . . Hey, are you awake?” When the girl’s eyes didn’t open, Jarrett Creed shook his head in disgust.

She dressed like a Tennessee mountain man.

She drank like a trooper in Sam Houston’s army.

She wrestled like an Indian with his honor at stake.

And she swore like a bullwhacker stuck in mud.

In fact, there wasn’t one feminine thing about her. So how could he find her so desirable? He took another look at the buckskin-clad figure. The almond-shaped gray eyes that had flashed fire at him were closed now. Her eyelashes were a black fringe on honey-colored skin that was smudged with dirt from their fight and blood from the delivery of the foal.

In sleep, she didn’t hold her aquiline nose quite so arrogantly, but the high, proud cheekbones remained, exaggerating the almost gaunt thinness of her face. Her smooth brow was crowned with a simple leather band, and a thick braid of rich, auburn hair fell across her shoulder and trailed into the straw.

He was confused by the emotions rushing through him. He simply couldn’t believe he was physically attracted to the unfeminine female lying across from him in the straw. Why, he even admired the girl a little. Actually, it had been something of a feat for her to wrestle down a man, even if she did have the element of surprise on her side. And what about that quick draw with his Paterson, despite the fact she was drunk as a fiddler? Then there was the calm, experienced way she’d handled that foaling mare. And how could he forget the sensuous way her hands had moved through that wolf’s fur? Oh, there were things he admired about her, all right. But there were things about her that bothered him as well.

On the Texas frontier a woman was often expected to do more than simple tasks like spinning cloth, hoeing a garden, or chopping wood. She might have to help with the plowing and planting, or she might have to take up arms and protect her home from whatever threat came her way. But she remained a woman, bearing her children, obeying her man, and clinging to the petticoat rituals of her sex. The behavior he’d seen from Cricket Stewart had gone far beyond those bounds. She didn’t fit the feminine mold at all, and Creed wanted to know the reason why.

Creed tensed when the barn door opened, his nerves on edge because he was trussed up like an animal fit for butchering. The muscle in his jaw ached where he had it clamped down. Whoever was at the door was taking his own sweet time coming in, he thought irritably. Slowly, he moved to ready himself for what defense he could make. He hadn’t lived as long as he had in this violent land by being careless. Creed pulled his moccasined foot up where he could reach it and fingered the outline of the sharp knife concealed in the lining.

If his late-night visitor wasn’t friendly, he was going to find himself in for quite a surprise.

Chapter 3

CRICKET?”

Creed breathed a heartfelt sigh of relief at the sound of the feminine voice that had come out of the darkness. He quickly tucked his knife back into its hiding place, as the voice was followed shortly by the gangly girl who’d rescued Cricket earlier in the day.

“Cricket?” she repeated.

Cricket’s snuffling snore filled the quiet barn.

“She’s asleep,” Creed said.

“Oh, my.” After a cursory check of her sister, Bay hung the lantern on a hook at the end of the stall. “I really came to see you, anyway.”

Creed’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why?”

“I brought some food for you and some water to clean your wounds.”

Creed had already noticed the basket and towel over her arm and the tin of water she carried. “Your name’s Bay?”

The girl nodded.

“Do you always clean up after your sister, Bay?”

“I help when I can,” she replied.

“I suppose I’m at least as deserving of your attention as the last stray pups she carted home.”

“You don’t seem quite as hungry as the wolves were,” she answered with a timid smile.

Creed was tempted to smile back but didn’t.

Bay placed the basket of food on the ground near him, then settled the tin of water in the straw and dampened the towel and wrung it out. She stood before him with the cloth in her hand and gestured toward the dried blood where Cricket’s nails had clawed his face.

“May I?”

“By all means. Help yourself.”

The girl carefully cleansed the blood from his cheek and the dust and sweat from his brow. Creed examined her closely as she worked, noting the deep, violet eyes and the bright coppery-red hair that curled naturally around her milky-white skin. She’d changed out of her buckskins and wore a green print muslin dress protected by a sturdy osnaburg apron. The puffy-sleeved dress, which fit snugly through the bodice and waist, showed the promise of the woman she’d become. He should have been attracted to her, but felt no stirring in his loins like that fostered by the smoky-eyed lass in pants, snoring away in the straw across from him.

The girl’s hands were cool and competent when she pulled up the buckskin sleeves of his shirt to reach the gashes the wolves had torn in his arms. She clucked her tongue at one particularly deep slash. “That probably won’t need stitches if you’re careful for a few days.”

“Then you don’t think I’m going to hang tomorrow morning?”

The girl looked uncomfortable. “Did you steal Rip’s mares?”

“It sure looks that way, doesn’t it?”

The girl ignored the only conclusion to be drawn from his statement and said instead, “Finding you at the pond was quite a shock.”

“I gathered that from some of the language your sister used. I’ve heard bullwhackers who spoke more delicately to strangers.”

“Oh, my. Don’t blame Cricket. Half the time she doesn’t even realize she’s saying those things. The summer she was fourteen she helped a teamster who’d lost his arm in the War for Independence drive his load of cotton to Galveston. She enjoyed it so much she’s been helping him out ever since.”

“She apparently learned a lot more on those trips than how to drive a team of oxen,” Creed said.

Bay ignored his gibe as she unwrapped the basket of food she’d brought. “I’ll have to feed you, since your hands are tied.”

“I seem to have lost my appetite,” he replied. “Just tell your father when he comes home that Jarrett Creed wants to talk to him.”

“Was my father expecting you?” Bay asked, startled.

“Just tell him I’m here.”

Bay nodded her agreement to the abrupt command.

“Is your sister going to spend the night here in the barn?”

Bay glanced over to where Cricket lay curled in a ball, her cheek resting on Rogue’s massive chest. “Rip will come and pick her up when he gets home and bring her into the house. He usually does.”

“Usually? You mean she gets drunk like this all the time?”

“Not all the time,” Bay hurried to explain. “Only when she has the . . . only some of the time,” she finished lamely.

Bay quickly collected the items she’d brought with her from the house, including the lantern that provided the only light in the barn. She looked worriedly from Creed to Cricket and back. “Good night, Mister Creed.”

“Creed.”

“Good night, Creed.” Bay headed for the barn door, leaving Cricket and Creed alone in the darkness.

Creed hadn’t thought he’d be able to sleep with all the turbulent thoughts racing through his head, but a blaze of light from the doorway of the barn woke him from his restless slumber just before he heard bootsteps crackle in the straw.

Creed had never seen Rip Stewart before, yet he felt certain that was who held the lantern that lit Cricket’s sleeping form. Creed lay a bit outside the yellow aureole and decided to remain quiet in the shadows a moment in order to observe the mammoth man before making his presence known. Rip’s hair lay in curls over both brow and collar, and his blunt features looked sinister, rather than soft, in the candlelight.

Creed knew all about Rip Stewart. He had a reputation for being a notorious bully, stubborn and opinionated. He was also clever, or maybe cunning was a better word for a man who’d started with nothing and now controlled the flatboat trade on the Brazos River, the only way for the Texas planters to send their cotton to market in Galveston. He was known to be a bit of a scoundrel, albeit a likable one. And Rip Stewart loved his children.

Creed couldn’t say what made him so sure of the last, unless it was the look reflected in Rip’s eyes when he beheld his daughter. After hanging the lantern on the hook at the end of the stall, Rip bent down on one knee next to Cricket and reached over to smooth away a piece of straw that clung to her cheek. He spoke a word of reassurance to the wolf, which had raised its head and growled low when he touched Cricket. Then he gently turned Cricket and reached under her shoulders and knees, lifting her into his arms and holding her embraced to his chest. He bent forward as though he might kiss her brow, but paused abruptly before completing the gesture.

With a speed fast as hummingbird wings, Cricket was thrown back into the straw and a Colt Paterson appeared in Rip’s right hand. “Step forward where I can see you, or I’ll shoot.”

“Whoa! I’m tied up here.”

At the same moment Creed spoke, August came running from the back of the barn with another lantern. “What’s goin’ on?”

The additional light confirmed Creed’s trussed-up condition.

“Where’d he come from?” Rip asked August, pointing at Creed with his Paterson.

“Cricket brung ’im home. She brung home them five mares, too. Said this here fella stole ’em.”

“Well, well,” Rip said with a chuckle. “Well, young man, what do you have to say for yourself?”

“If you’ll untie me, I’ll explain everything,” Creed said. “Your daughter Cricket—”

“No, no, on second thought, I don’t think I’m ready for any long explanations right now. I’ve had a tiring ride home and it’s late. I’m sure your story will keep until tomorrow.”

“But I’m—”

“No buts,” Rip interrupted, waving his Paterson for emphasis. “August, if he makes too much noise, knock him out. I’ll send Cricket out to get him in the morning.”

Incredulous, Creed watched the large man reach down and grab the drunken girl by the arms. He pulled her limp form upright and then slung her headfirst over his shoulder. He grabbed the lantern he’d brought in with him and stalked from the barn with Cricket’s head bobbing against his huge back, her long auburn braid dangling almost to his knees. The half-wild wolf, whose sharp teeth had raked Creed’s arm and nipped his heels, followed them docilely out the door.

“A mouth open wide like that, catch a lotta flies in this here barn,” August said. “You jus’ get comfortable now, mister. It not be long ’fore mornin’. Cricket, she come get you first light.” August headed back to his room in the rear of the barn, leaving only quiet, velvet darkness behind him.

Creed shut his mouth and resignedly closed his eyes. Getting a word in edgewise around a Stewart was quite a chore. He should have suspected the father would be as bad as the daughter. When he finally got a chance to speak in the morning, you could bet he wasn’t going to start with any sociable preamble. He sighed disgustedly. He probably should have told the girl who he was in the first place, but he’d figured she was some brat out playing, and the fewer people who knew he was here . . .

The worst that would result from his error in judgment was that he’d spend the night tied up in the barn. Surely in the morning they’d give him a chance to explain before they strung him up. On the other hand, in light of his recent experience with Cricket and Rip, maybe not. He’d taken enough foolish chances with what had started out as a routine mission. It was time to deal himself a better hand. Creed brought his moccasined foot up to meet his tied hands and began to work the concealed knife free.

Dawn found Rip drinking coffee at the breakfast table with two of his three daughters. Cricket wasn’t one of them. Rip had noted Cricket’s absence this morning with a concerned frown. It was true that ordinarily her presence wouldn’t have been missed. While Sloan had duties as overseer, and Bay had been bookkeeper for Three Oaks the past year, Cricket had no specific duties on the plantation. Of course, that was easily explained because he was grooming Sloan and Bay to take their rightful places as heir and surety for Three Oaks, while Cricket was simply his pride and joy.

It was only recently he’d decided to provide Cricket with a role in life other than the prodigal son. Naturally, the plan he’d contrived to secure her future was far grander than that for either of his other two daughters. Yet Cricket’s latest drunken episode, together with the discussion he’d had yesterday with Señor Juan Carlos Guerrero, made him think perhaps it was time he began preparing her for what was to come.

“Bay, go get your sister out of bed,” Rip ordered.

“I already tried,” Sloan interjected. “She was dead to the world and feeling no pain.”

“Wake her up anyway.”

“I’m going.” Bay grabbed her cup of coffee from the table, planning to pour some down Cricket’s throat. Before she got to the stairs she remembered her promise to the horse thief and turned back to Rip. “Cricket brought a man home with her yesterday. He’s tied up out in the barn.”

“Yes, I know.” Rip chuckled. “Caught her a horse thief. By God, we’ll have us a hanging today!”

Bay struggled to balance the coffee cup on the saucer, which teetered alarmingly in her hands at Rip’s announcement. “He said to tell you his name is Jarrett Creed and—”

“What?”

“His name is Jarrett Creed and—”

“I’ll be damned.” Rip burst into uncontrollable guffaws, slapping the cherrywood table so hard the delicate china rattled.

Bay looked to Sloan for an explanation of Rip’s jovial humor, but Sloan just shrugged and shook her head.

“This is rich. Well, I promised Jarrett Creed I’d send Cricket out to get him in the morning and send her I will.”

Rip rose from the table and passed Bay on his way up the stairs. She turned and followed hurriedly after him. Rip threw open Cricket’s door so it slammed against the ivy-papered wall.

The resounding bang brought Cricket, still fully dressed except for her moccasins, bolt upright in her maple four-poster bed. She clapped her hands to either side of her head to try to quiet the hundred Indian drums pounding inside.

“Rise and shine!” Rip said.

Cricket moaned loudly and fell back down in a prone position.

“You have a prisoner to free,” he said.

Cricket squinted one eye open. “To hang, you mean.”

“You heard me right the first time.”

Cricket dragged herself back upright. She grabbed her head again. She hated the monthly miseries. Her head and stomach were definitely on the warpath, and she felt godawful. If Rip wanted to fight over that horse thief, she was in a rotten enough mood to oblige him. “That Tennessee horse thief deserves to hang if ever a man did.”

“He’s no horse thief,” Rip replied with a grin.

“I caught him myself with your mares.”

“The man in the barn is Jarrett Creed,” Rip explained.

“I know his name,” Cricket retorted.

“
Texas Ranger
Jarrett Creed.”

“What?”

“I sent a letter to the captain of the Rangers in San Antonio when we started getting raided by the Comanches. Jack Hays promised to send a Ranger lieutenant named Jarrett Creed to see if he could help us out. Guess Creed must have come across the Comanches who stole our horses and taken them back,” Rip concluded.

“But he said . . . he never . . . he told me . . .” Cricket sputtered to a stop. A herd of mustangs was galloping through her skull, down her throat, and into her stomach. “Why that low-down, one-horned billy goat. He must have been laughing up his sleeve at me all day. Nobody laughs at me and gets away with it. I’ll fix his wagon, but good.”

“You won’t do anything of the kind,” Rip countered. “You’ll go out to the barn and release him, and
politely
invite him into the house for some breakfast.”