Much Ado About Mavericks (2 page)

Without waiting for an answer, Ben jumped off the stage.

“Make way for the driver,” he shouted at the women.  Pudge was a big man, an unconscious big man, and it took every ounce of Ben’s strength to haul his dead weight inside the stagecoach.  Ben wasn’t sure
whether the bandits would return
and he had no time to waste on gentleness.

“Give him some water and put pressure on that wound.” 

The girl shrank away from the pale, bleeding man, but her mother had no such qualms.  “I was a nurse back in
Chicago
.  Get us out of here and don’t worry about the patient.”

“You might take a look at the guard, then, once we get down the road a few miles.  He’s in rough shape, too.”

An hour later, they pulled into
Huston
.  Both the guard and the driver still held onto
a
thread of life as a few local men carried them into the building. 

The saloon owner dropped the glass he was
drying
.  “Good Lord, it’s Pudge and Gordy.  Put Pudge in my room and Gordy in the men’s hall.”

“They’re hurt bad, but we’d all be dead if it weren’t for Mr. Lawrence!” the young Miss Perkins announced.

“It’s true,” her mother affirmed.  “We’d be in serious trouble if Mr. Lawrence hadn’t scared off those robbers.”  She shuddered.  “And to think, we rode all day with one of them.”

“Rastin.”  Ben asked the locals, “Know him?”

After a bit of murmuring and frowning, the saloon owner said, “Nope, don’t know anyone called that.  Don’t mean we don’t know him, though.  Might’ve
used
a phony name.”  He slapped Ben on the shoulder.  “I’ll buy you a drink.  Being a hero is thirsty work.”

*   *   *   *   *

The next afternoon
—
Henderson
Flats,
Idaho
Territory

Ben adjusted his derby, twirled his sword cane, and worked up the courage to disembark.  As a
scrawny
boy,
a string bean with feet and ears,
he’d been ridiculed and teased.  He could only hope the townspeople would give him a little more respect now that he was a
Boston
attorney of high repute.

The stagecoach passed several new buildings that hadn’t been built when he’d left for Harvard thirteen years before, but
the older
buildings looked just the same.  Not that he cared.  His goal was to settle his father’s estate and get back to
Boston
as soon as possible.

As he stepped off the stagecoach, it lurched and pitched him
off the step, into mid-air, and he landed
face first on the ground
, a cloud of dust bursting around him
.  So much for coming home with dignity.

“Are ya hurt, mister?” 

Ben stiffened at the woman’s cool but practical tone.  He blew the dirt from his mouth and pushed himself to his knees.
  The dust settled, the sight before him nearly took his breath away again.
  A Colt revolver, strapped onto the most shapely
britches
he’d ever seen, glinted in the hot, afternoon sun.  He glanced upward to a green flannel shirt covering some nicely rounded feminine curves, then to the beguiling cornflower eyes beneath a sweat-stained Stetson.  His mouth would have been dry even if it weren’t full of dirt. 

“Never been better, ma’am.”

She tilted her head and raised her
perfectly arched
left eyebrow.  “You must be Skeeter.”

Damn!  Even strangers knew the nickname his father had foisted upon him.  And here he was, flat on the ground.  In front of a beauty, too.  Jumping to his feet, he straightened his shoulders.  “My name is Ben, ma’am.”

She flashed a smile that nearly melted his bones—a sensuous smile.  “I ain’t no ma’am.  Let’s get that straight right now.”

He snatched up his dusty derby, puzzled why such a beautiful woman would wear men’s clothing.  He swatted the dirt off his hat and put it on.

Smiling again, she showed another glimpse of her square, white teeth.  “Your ma and them ain’t here—that there lawyer feller’s out at the ranch.”  She turned and spat on the ground.  “Looks like you’re stuck with me, Skeeter.  I’m here to fetch you home.”

What a fine piece of work stood before him—a Greek goddess who could spit, a red-headed Aphrodite with sidearms.  His cravat seemed awfully tight. 

She bent over, giving him an even better look at two of her finer points, and picked up his sword-cane.  “Skeeter?”

He remembered to tip his hat to her and took the cane.  “No, ma’am.  I’m
Ben
Lawrence
.”  He’d been called by his rightful name back east, and he’d be damned if he’d let them call him Skeeter in Henderson Flats.  He didn’t know a thing about her, but he had no doubt she’d heard all about awkward little Skeeter.

But Skeeter no longer existed.  The cattle baron’s son who could neither shoot nor rope had become one of the most powerful attorneys in
Boston
.  She might as well get used to the idea.

“Skeeter!”  Grabbing his arm, she jerked him toward her.  He glanced down and noted a glint of surprise in her eyes.  Just inches from his bootheels, the heavy trunk hit the ground beside him. 

A suffocating cloud of dust billowed around them.  She shoved him aside, then jumped back.  “Your mama would have my hide if I let you get killed before she got to see you!”

He realized that she’d just spared him in the nick of time from getting cold-cocked by his own trunk.  What a way to get saved.

“I’ll get this thing out of the road.”  Grasping the leather handle on one end of the heavy trunk, he dragged it toward the boardwalk.  After a few yards, the trunk lightened.  He glanced around and saw that the woman had picked up the other end as if it weighed no more than a feather.  They placed it on the planks, and she brushed her hands together.

“Thanks,” he said as he straightened to his full height.  He stood well over six feet, but she looked him nearly in the eye.  Imagine that, a woman equal to him—
in
height, anyway.  He dismissed the thought.

“W
e’d best get you to the ranch.  I’ll bring the buckboard and load up your trunk.”  She walked away, calling over her shoulder, “You might as well buy us a couple of sarsaparillas.  Our whistles’ll need wettin’ before we get to the ranch.”

Ben reined in his temper.  Demanding women irked him, even in the best of times.  “You can bring the buckboard over, but I’ll load the damned trunk myself.”  
Never would he
let a woman do a man’s work.

He strode into Hiatt’s Mercantile, chiding himself for cursing in front of a lady, but he’d meant what he’d said. 

Old Lady Hiatt, always industrious, polished the countertop.  She glanced up and stopped cold still.  “Well, if it ain’t little Skeeter Lawrence!  Glad to see you home.”  She put the rag down and moved from behind the counter, her chubby arms open wide.  “Gimme a squench.” 

While he couldn’t claim to be overfond of his nickname, he’d always been fond of her, so he gave her a hug and a kiss on her soft, wrinkled cheek.  “Glad to see you.”

She pushed him to arm’s length and looked him up and down.  “Gracious, boy, you done growed two heads taller since Ezra sent you back East to that fancy school.”  Nodding slowly, she patted his shoulders.  “Filled out right nice, too.”

Ben smiled at her and stood just a little straighter.  She’d always been kind, in a gruff sort of way.  “How’s Mr. Hiatt?”

“Marshal Hiatt.  He’s lazy as ever.”

“Congratulations to him.  I’ll bet he’s a good lawman.”  Ben hugged her again.  “But you know as well as I do that there’s not a soul around that can out-work your husband.  Best foreman in the country.”

“You seen Jake O’Keefe yet?”

Ben shook his head.  “No, but I know that Pa named Jake my foreman and that I’m stuck with him for a year.”

She raised an eyebrow and cocked her head.  “Best in the territory.”  She picked up the polishing cloth.  “Can I get you anything?”

“A couple of sarsaparillas, please.”

She took a couple of mugs out of the icebox, dried them, and filled them.  “Ten cents.”

Ben paid and grasped both mug handles with one hand.  “Nice to see you again,” he said as he left.  He strode into the billowing alkali dust kicked up by the wagon passing in front of the store. 

The red-headed woman pulled the horses to a stop.  She handled the reins as well as any man; nevertheless, he planned to drive to the ranch whether she liked it or not.  She jumped down and headed for the trunk, but Ben ran to it first.  Shoving the mugs into her hands, he picked up the trunk and heaved it into the wagon.  He’d be double-damned if he’d let a woman load his trunk for him, even if she was nearly as tall as he.

She saluted him with one mug, drank the entire contents, and wiped her mouth on her sleeve.  “We best be getting to the Bar EL.  They’re expecting us.”

He could hardly wait to see his mother and sister, even if his stomach soured every time he thought about his childhood home
.  But he had to take care of the family and ranch now that his father had died.  Worse, he had to contend with Jake O’Keefe because Pa thought his own son too incompetent to hire good people, even after four years at Harvard and nine years of practicing law.

The soda was refreshing and he took his time while she waited, not patiently, shifting her weight from left to right, then tossing a few pebbles.

“I think we should reintroduce ourselves.”  He placed the mug on the boardwalk and offered his hand.  “How do you do?  I’m Benjamin Lawrence, visiting from
Boston
.”

“Janelle
Kat
hryn.”  She grabbed his hand and shook it vigorously.  “I’m surely pleased to meet you.”

He tested his shoulder to see if it still functioned after her hearty handshake.  Then, just to knock her off guard, he took her hand and kissed the back of it with grandiose gallantry.  “My pleasure, Miss Janelle.”

*   *   *   *   *

Jumpin’ juniper berries!  Jake snatched her scorching hand away from Skeeter’s lips.  His well-placed little smacker burned hotter than a branding iron in August.  Only better, but she sure as shootin’ wouldn’t admit it to a soul.  Ever.  Of course, she had no intention of washing her hand for a month either.  That hot kiss sent goosebumps clean down to her toes.

She sucked in a deep breath and cleared her throat.  “Let’s go.”  She hopped onto the wagon and picked up the reins.

Ben leapt onto the seat and took the reins from her.  “I’ll drive.”

His thigh rubbed hers.  She didn’t know how he could think right if he tingled anything like she did.  But, he probably didn’t.  She inched away from him as the buckboard moved out of town.  She focused on the sagebrush—at least it didn’t knock her plumb senseless.  He was too damned good-looking in a dandified sort of way.  Taller than she was, too, by a few inches.  Few men were.  She stood even with Whip, who, although bent with years of hard work, was taller than the rest of the men.

It ate at her that Skeeter muddled her mind so, and she had no idea what got into her to tell him her real name.  She’d better set him straight. 

“Just so’s you know, I ain’t no simpering female.  Folks around here call me Jake.  Jake O’Keefe.  I expect you ought to call me that, too.”

She nearly laughed at his horrified expression. 

“Jake O’Keefe?  My foreman?”

Just what she needed—a greenhorn who didn’t think she could do a man’s work.  Well hell, she’d already proven herself better than any hand in the territory, and she wasn’t about to do it again—especially to a feller they called
Skeeter
.  “Yup.  And just so’s you know, Harley Blacker hired me on with the Flying B, so as soon as I show you the ropes, I’ll be leaving the Bar EL.”

He set his lips firm like he was cogitating.  She didn’t know what there was to think about—she’d laid out the deal square enough.

Finally, he said, “All right then, Jake, just so you know, my name is Ben.  Benjamin Lawrence.  I expect to be called that.”  His jaw tensed and his cheek twitched just a might.  “And I’d appreciate it if you’d stay on the Bar EL, at least until I get the family affairs settled.  I’ll be going back to
Boston
as soon as I can.”

“Got a woman?”  Jake could’ve slapped her own fool face.  Why the hell would she care?  But that tickly feeling deep inside seemed to make her lose all her brains.

“I have a law practice there.  And friends.”  He pulled on the right reins and flicked the left side, turning the team onto the
Lawrence
road.  “A lady friend, too.”

Probably some frilly-assed, sappy female who batted her eyelashes at him and giggled at any harebrained thing he said.  Men seemed to like such silly critters, although, for the life of her, she couldn’t see why.  “Well, I ain’t staying, so you’d better be on the lookout for a new foreman.  Fred’s probably your man—he’s been sourer than five-day-old pissed-in milk since the old man chose me over him.”