Mustang Annie (21 page)

“Don't, Annie. We are not going to start ‘what if-ing' everything to death. We are going to take each moment as it comes, and live each day as if it's our last. And no matter what, there aren't going to be any regrets.”

He was right, she admitted. What happened tomorrow was out of her control, so there was no sense borrowing trouble, as Granddad would have said. “You should have given up on me long ago.”

“That's like asking me not to breathe. We belong together, Annie, like sunrise and sunset. Without you, I'm only half a man.”

“And without you, I am nothing.”

“Don't ever say that.” He turned her in his arms. “You are
not
nothing. You don't need me to validate you. You are a strong, brave, incredibly passionate woman, with more honor in your little finger than most people have in their entire body. And you deserve to love and be loved. Don't ever doubt that, don't ever feel guilty for it, and don't ever deny yourself.”

“But if anything happened to you—”

“Then you would go on. And you'd find happiness again.”

He stared unflinchingly at her, his piercing gray green eyes driving his truths home. In that instant, a band snapped around Annie's heart, and she suddenly understood herself in a way she never had before. In an effort to bury the wild, reckless side of her character, she'd wrapped her own existence so tightly around Sekoda's that she'd lost herself in the process. By demanding that she allow herself feel, to dream, to live, and to love, Brett was encouraging her not only to find her own identity again, but also to accept whatever she found. With him . . . and without him.

No greater gift had she ever been given.

She touched her fingers to his cheek, her heart so full of love that she wondered how it didn't burst. “I love you, Brett Corrigan.”

His eyes closed, and he swallowed roughly. When he opened them again, they looked suspiciously damp. She was amazed that three tiny words could have such an impact on such a powerful, imposing man.

He took her hand in his and stroked the band around her finger. “No regrets?” he asked gruffly.

“Only one,” she softly admitted. “I wish this was our first time.”

It took only an instant for her words to register, and when they did, his silvery-green eyes darkened with an emotion that sent shivers dancing along her spine. Need. Raw, naked, desperate need. “
Every
time between us will be a first time.”

He kept his gaze steady on hers as he loosened the black satin ribbon she'd tied around her collar. “For instance . . . tonight will be the first time we make love as husband and wife.” His mouth curved in a sensuous grin that promised a night of unforgettable delights.

Annie couldn't help but smile. He always had the right words to banish her worries. She'd been unforgivably unfair to him before, using him in a desperate bid to put past ghosts to rest. But no ghosts hovered between them any longer, and no secrets. There was just her and Brett and a night of unexplored love ahead of them, and she wouldn't let a second of it go to waste. “It will also be the first time we make love in a bed.”

His eyes darkened to slate. He clasped her face in his hands and guided her mouth to his. Annie's body responded to his kiss in ways that both thrilled and alarmed her. A liquid fire burned low in her belly, and her breasts swelled and grew heavy.

Then his lips left her mouth to roam down her neck, to the pulse at the base of her throat. Annie closed her eyes, let her head fall back, and moaned. Her hands clutched his arms as sensation rolled over her in waves. Tingling awareness, climbing need, dizzying desire . . .

She was dimly aware of him unbuttoning her blouse, highly aware of his breath against her breast. Then his tongue flicked over her erect nipple, and Annie cried out as her knees buckled.

Impatient for the feel of his bare skin, she pushed his coat off his wide shoulders. Buttons pinged as she ripped his vest, and then his shirt, open. She nearly strangled him trying to unknot his tie.

“Maybe you better let me do that,” Brett chuckled.

“Just do it quickly.”

He tore out the starched collar and tossed it to the floor, then made fast work of removing his tie. Annie pushed his shirt down his arms, only to whimper in frustration when the cuffs got caught on his wrists.

He spared her the trouble of trying to remove his trousers by shucking them off himself, and then . . . ahh . . . hot, smooth skin pressed against her. Annie swept her palms up the backs of his thighs, skimming over the dusting of hair to clutch his smooth, hard buttocks. Proof of his desire pressed long and thick against her belly. The thought of him inside her filled her with giddy anticipation, and she kissed him with savage need. Never before had she felt so weak and so powerful as she did in this moment, and when he gentled the kiss to taste her at his leisure, never had she felt so cherished and adored.

“Do you want me, Annie?” he whispered against her jaw.

“More than anything.”

“Then come and get me.” He stepped back and stood in all his naked glory just out of her reach.

Annie lowered her lashes to half-mast, and a saucy smile played on her lips. She took a bold, fearless step forward and ran her hand up his chest. “I've been bringing studs to their knees for a long time now, gambler. You sure you're up to the ride?”

He quirked one brow. “Is that a challenge?”

“Challenge, hell. It's a promise.”

After kissing her senseless yet again, Brett lifted her in his arms. The mattress cushioned her fall as he set her on the bed, then braced above her, his arms locked on either side of her. Sweat beaded on his brow, evidence of the effort of his restraint. She knew he was giving her this last chance to back out, because now, it was all or nothing.

And damn, she wanted it all.

She took his face in her hands and whispered against his mouth, “Make me yours, Brett.”

“With pleasure.”

And he did. With his hands, his mouth, his body . . . there wasn't a part of her he didn't claim. He pleasured her in ways Annie had never imagined, and more times than she ever believed possible; and each time, her spirit received its long-denied freedom to soar.

And Annie in turn gave him everything of herself—her body, her mind, her soul, her heart; no restrictions, no regrets.

Only when dawn had begun to glimmer outside their window did she collapse atop him, her cheek to his heartbeat, so limp and sated and so completely at peace that if they came for her at this very moment, she couldn't bring herself to care. At least she'd die a happy woman.

Brett drew her tight against him, and in her ear he whispered, “I love you, Annie.”

Her throat went tight.

He murmured, “Promise me that if I fall asleep, you won't run off again.”

It seemed odd yet infinitely touching that such a powerful, commanding man might harbor such vulnerability. “I promise.” She kissed the slick skin over his heart. “The only place I'll ever run is straight into your arms.”

Epilogue

One year later . . .

 

S
he'd gone after the horses.

The stables were filled to brimming with steeds of every age and color combination. Arabians, Mustangs, and mixed breeds grazed in harmony on the lush grasses of the Triple Ace. Sophie's Star hadn't escaped the prowess of the stallion and brought forth a colt the next spring, but Liberty Loo was fast becoming a favorite purebred mare for area Thoroughbreds.

The rancher at the Bar 7 in Nevada had accepted Brett's offer of a Triple Ace horse in exchange for dropping the charges against Annie for the one she'd stolen. Of all the horses on Corrigan land, he'd chosen the black stallion called Blue Fire.

And thanks to Jesse Justiss, she and Henry had received a Governor's pardon for testifying against Ike Savage, who would be spending the rest of his life in prison.

Brett had fired all his men the day they'd held him back on Annie's behalf, and she'd hired every one of them back directly after the wedding that put Mustang Annie to rest, and made her Annie Corrigan. Annie and the men all knew Brett had fired them to save his pride, when in fact he'd never respected them more for being willing to stand up for her—even if it meant standing up against him. He tried to pretend it drove him crazy that they took their orders from her, but one and all knew he was the worst of the lot.

Dogie bloomed into early manhood under Brett's guidance, and Annie feared for the young ladies' hearts when he realized the power of his own charms.

And as for herself . . . Annie caressed her swollen belly. It had come as quite a surprise to discover that she wasn't barren after all. In two months time, she hoped to bring into this world a little girl for Brett to cherish, as he cherished her.

Yes, she'd gone after the horses—but she'd found so much more. She'd found everything worth living for.

Author's Note

A
uthors are often asked where their ideas come from. This one struck as I was walking through my living room and heard the song Mustang Sally coming from the television. All day that song continued to play in my head, and I found myself humming it in my sleep.

The very next day, I met “Mustang Annie.” I'd been working on another story when she appeared in my mind and said, “Either tell my story or I'm gone.” Well, many a writer will tell you that if you don't get the story down when it hits, you won't get it back. Such was the way with this one: scene after scene showed itself to me, and as I scribbled notes on every napkin, notebook and grocery receipt, I feared if I didn't tell Annie's story then, she'd take it away.

What struck me most significant about Annie was her eyes. They were so flat and lifeless that it almost hurt to look at her. And I knew then, that she needed someone to make her feel alive again—and who better than a man who grabs hold of life with both hands?

I will always be grateful to my editor for tolerating the senseless telephone conversation she received shortly after, and for enabling me to temporarily put aside the other story so I could write Annie's, and for giving me and the characters the time needed to tell their tale.

I would also like to extend a special thank you to fellow author and dear friend DeWanna Pace for helping me “color” the Texas Panhandle; to my dear friends Jan, Debbie, Alexis, Patti and Peggy for encouraging me to take a risk with this book; and to Eve, Jamie and Kelly for introducing me to Brett. But most of all I'd like to thank R&B artist Wilson Pickett, who sang of Mustang Sally and unknowingly provided me with the inspiration, and to country artists Lone Star, whose beautiful delivery of the song “Amaze” was released right about the time Brett fell in love with Annie, and maintained a permanent spot in my CD player beyond the last page. Thank you, gentlemen, for capturing my hero's feelings so eloquently in song.

I've taken liberty with several facts in the story. My research proved conflicting on when Tascosa was actually founded, so I chose to leave the year up to the reader's discretion. Sage Flat is a completely fictional town. Also, though the scenario and the characters are also completely fictional, the scene where Annie saved a herd of mustangs from being driven over a cliff is based on a true incident when the military drove 1,400 head of wild horses over the side of the Palo Duro Canyon in an effort to eradicate the Comanche and their way of life. And finally, although details on the setting and time period are based on research, any discrepancies are mine alone.

I hope you find Annie as compelling and Brett as irresistible as I did. May all your risks be fruitful, and all your rides be wild.

PO Box 1217, Hughes Springs, TX 75656
http://www.angelfire.com/tx2/RachelleMorgan

Excerpt from
Sensuous New Romance

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Mustang Annie
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Chapter 1

Last Hope, Colorado
1886

 

S
he didn't know who looked worse: the man, or the horse he rode in on. Both carried the mark of miles of weather in their slouched postures and dust-caked hides: both looked as if they hadn't seen a meal in ages, and both seemed incapable of taking another step without toppling over.

From her room above the saloon, Honesty McGuire watched the lone rider as he drew closer, stirring up dust on a street that hadn't seen traffic in months. She couldn't see much of his face past the heavy growth of whiskers around his mouth and jaw. Rust-brown hair fell past the collar of the duster covering him from neck to spur. He was a bit too thin for her tastes, too, but a girl in her position couldn't afford to be too choosy.

As much as she wished otherwise, Honesty needed a man. One capable enough to withstand the rigors of travel yet obedient enough to do her bidding without question. At least he was sober. And young. And breathing.

So that left only one question: since the ore mines had been stripped, only two kinds of people showed up in Last Hope anymore—those looking for someone or running from someone. Which was he? The hunter? Or the hunted?

 

A drink, a meal, and a bed. Jesse Justiss craved all three so badly he'd have given up his four-dollar boots for just the sight of them.

He navigated his horse around a pot hole to the warped hitching rail and dismounted. A spear of agony shot through him the instant his boots hit the ground. Knees on the verge of buckling, he leaned his sweat-drenched forehead against the saddle and cursed ten ways to Sunday through gritted teeth. He'd taken bullets twice before, and hadn't taken this long to recover. Maybe he should have heeded the doc's advice and given his shoulder a couple more weeks to mend before tearing up one side of the Rockies and down the other. Maybe then he wouldn't be feeling as if hot railroad spikes were being driven through his chest. But then, Jess never had been very good at taking advice.

Once the pain had subsided to a tolerable ache, he pushed away from Gemini's side and circled the horse, inspecting him carefully. The mustang had been a gift from the prettiest horse thief he'd ever had the pleasure of knowing. Jesse had laughed when Mustang Annie told him he'd never find a finer mount or more faithful friend, but over the last eight years, he'd lost count of how many times Gem had proved her right.

The sight of blood on Gem's front foreleg caught Jesse's eye. “Hell and damnation,” he swore under his breath. “What have you done to yourself this time, old pal?” He knelt and ran his hand along Gem's leg, careful to avoid the ragged gash just below his knee. A fresh cut, probably from the trip down the mountain. No swelling, and no limping—both good signs. But that didn't mean the animal hadn't pulled a muscle or suffered an even more ruinous injury. It just meant Jess had caught it in the early stages.

Jess wiped his hand down his face. The last thing they could afford was another delay. But until he knew for certain that Gem hadn't suffered a serious pull, he'd not take any chances.

Through weary eyes, Jess gave the town—if it could be called that—a full sweep. The windows of the false-fronted structures that weren't busted or covered with boards wore grime so thick you couldn't even see through them. Paint peeled from signs that creaked on rusty chains. Patches of weeds had sprung up between cracks in the boardwalk and had begun taking over the packed dirt road, and a general air of defeat had settled over the area.

“You sure picked a helluva place to pull up lame,” he muttered to the animal.

With a sigh as dismal as his surroundings, Jesse turned to the only open establishment.
THE SCARLET ROSE GAMBLING PARLOR AND SALOON
was painted in bold, sweeping strokes of red across a whitewashed backdrop. It couldn't have been more appropriately named, for the building stood out from the others like a perfect blossom in a row of tumbleweed.

He started toward the front door, but a sudden sense of being watched stopped him. Prickles danced up Jesse's spine. He glanced up and searched each of the four windows set into the false front behind the second floor balcony. A flutter of curtains made his sight hone in on the corner window.

Jess froze. His right hand shifted to the holster at his hip and, with one deft flick of his finger, he popped the safety strap. Though he hadn't seen anyone watching him, that sixth sense had saved his hide too many times to mistrust it now.

Several seconds passed with no further movement. He stepped onto the boardwalk and cautiously pushed the door open, standing half inside the double wide doorway, his nerves tight as sunbaked rawhide, his senses alert as he scanned the interior of the Scarlet Rose.

A woman in red silk appeared in a doorway to the right of the bar. Upswept blonde hair frizzed around an oval face lightly powdered with rouge. Mid-twenties, curvy in all the right places.

Then she caught sight of him.

“Land's sakes, you scared the fooley out of me!” she cried, slapping one hand over her ample bosom.

The genuine surprise in her soft brown eyes made it obvious that she hadn't been the one spying on him. Jess tipped his hat. “My apologies, ma'am.” He kept his hands in sight and a good distance between them, letting her know he posed no threat. “Are you Scarlet Rose?”

“The one and only. Who's asking?”

Still wary. Smart woman. “Nobody important.” Jesse scanned the rest of the saloon. A stage skirted in worn red velvet was the main attraction, flanked on either side by tall windows draped in a red velvet print. The balustrade rimming the staircase and the second floor wore the same red velvet bunting, and red mats covered a dozen tables scattered about the room.

Satisfied that no danger lurked in the corners, he strode to the polished mahogany bar that ran the length of the north wall. Shelves climbing to the ceiling framed a mirror scrolled with gold woodwork that many a poker player no doubt used to his advantage.

Scarlet Rose, recovering her surprise, brushed her hands down the red cotton fabric stretched tight across her midriff, and took up her position behind the bar. “Now that I've got my heart back in my chest . . . what's your pleasure?”

Jesse hooked one heel over the brass foot rail. “Whiskey—if you've got it.”

“That's about all I've got—five cents a shot.” She plucked a bottle from beneath the bar and poured him a shot.

Jesse plopped down a few nickels, then tossed back the whiskey. Blissful fire burned down his throat and into his belly, washing away weeks of accumulated dust.

“We don't get many visitors around here since the mines played out.”

He didn't miss the inquisitive gleam in her green eyes or the subtle question in her statement. He knew the game; he'd played it for years. “My horse pulled up lame. Any idea where I might find a good hostler?”

“In Last Hope? You'd have better luck finding gold.” She tipped the bottle and refilled his shot. “Folks expected this to be another Leadville. Miners hit color twice, but the shafts played out within a year. Then everyone pulled up stakes and moved on to richer pickings.”

“You're still here.”

One shoulder lifted in a shrug. “Stubborn, I guess. There's still a couple of prospectors up in the hills who swear they won't leave till Last Hope becomes Lost Hope.” A crooked smile played on her rouged lips. “I guess I can't bring myself to give up till they do.”

“Persistence.” Jesse saluted her with his shot glass. “Now, that's a quality worthy of admiration.”

The blush that stained her cheeks confirmed his belief that even such a worldly woman wasn't immune to flattery.

“Actually, I'm headed toward Leadville myself to meet up with a pal of mine,” he told her. “He might even have passed through here in the last couple of weeks. Big fellow, red hair, thick Scots brogue . . . ?”

“Sorry, sugar, nobody like that's come through here.”

Jesse resisted the urge to ask her if she was certain. Scarlet was a shrewd woman who had doubtless seen it all and forgotten nothing, and the fastest way to raise her hackles was to press her with a bunch of questions. Jesse hadn't reached the ripe age of thirty by making stupid mistakes.

It had been a long shot, anyway. Duncan McGuire was known to frequent larger towns that provided a variety of opportunities to either load or lighten his purse—depending on which way the wind was blowing. McGuire would have avoided this place like smallpox.

“Look, I've got a stable in back where I keep my mule,” Scarlet said, breaking into his thoughts. “If your horse don't mind putting up with Bag-o'-bones' brayin', he's welcome to rest up there for twenty-five cents a night.”

Jesse couldn't blame the woman for trying to make extra coin, despite the steep price. “Much obliged. It looks like I'll be needing a room for myself, too, if you've got one to spare.”

“Got half a dozen empty ones upstairs. Fifty cents a day, including meals.”

Jesse almost choked on his whiskey.

“You pay whether you eat or not, so you might as well eat. And no one goes upstairs without a bath first.”

“And I suppose you know just where a man can find a bath hereabouts?” Jesse asked with a lifted brow, fully aware that it, too, would come with an outrageous price tag.

“Bathhouse closed a few months back, but I've got an old tin tub in the pantry. A dollar a filling—a dollar fifty if you want hot water.”

“That's robbery!”

She gave him a mischievous smile that shaved years off her features. “There's always the creek.”

That ribbon of mud and muck just outside of town? At this rate, he'd be flat broke by nightfall. “You drive a hard bargain, Scarlet.”

“So I've been told. But I make it worth every penny.”

The smokey lilt of her voice left no mistake that they weren't just talking a room, a meal and a tub of water. “How much more for personal treatment?” he couldn't resist asking.

“Depends on how personal.”

“A back scrub and hair washing—for starters.”

“Well, normally that would cost an extra ten cents, but for you . . . it'd be on the house.” Her voice dropped a notch. So did her gaze. “Anything more will be up for negotiation.”

The first genuine smile Jesse had felt in months tugged at his mouth. If he looked half as bad as he felt, it was a wonder any woman would look twice at him, much less flirt with him so brazenly. But then, women of Scarlet's profession would flirt with a fencepost if it meant adding to the till.

Suddenly, warning prickles once again danced up the back of Jesse's neck. His hand slipped to his holster even as Scarlet called out, “There you are, Honesty. We've got us a visitor.”

The guarded glance Jesse cast over his shoulder became an eye-popping double-take as his sights filled with the most stunning vision he'd seen in years. She stood halfway down the stair-case, one hand on the banister, the other propped lightly on her hip. A mass of ebony hair that contrasted with her porcelain skin tumbled down her back in loose ringlets and framed a delicate face that belonged on a cameo pin. Dainty brows arched over wide, round eyes with impossibly long, sweeping lashes that, though Jess couldn't swear to it, looked natural. Her nose was small and narrow, and her mouth . . . God, lips that ripe and full had been
made
for kissing.

Desire slammed into him with the force of a lightning bolt. The low-cut, red satin dress hugging her curves from bodice to knee left little to the imagination, but a whole lot to temptation, as if it had been designed solely for the purpose of driving a man crazy. At that moment, Jess would have sold his soul to explore the black lace edging lining the slopes of her breasts, to run his hands down the matching ruffle attached to the swell of her bottom, or to slip off off the dark stockings hugging the most shapely calves he'd seen in ages.

“Why don't you show him to a room while I scare up something for supper?” he dimly heard his hostess tell the woman.

“Sure thing, Rose,” she said. “Follow me, cowboy.”

Anywhere
, Jesse thought, her spun velvet voice wrapping around his vitals, while a familiar fever surged through his blood stream and settled below his buckle. As he numbly watched the twitch of red silk and black lace across her bottom, he couldn't decide who deserved his thanks more—Rose for employing such a prize, or Gemini for getting him stranded with her. Even from a distance, he could tell she was tall for a woman, just a few inches shorter than his own five-feet eleven, which meant their bodies would fit together like two pieces of a puzzle. Images that would have made even the most seasoned harlot blush sliced through his mind.

She paused at the top of the steps. “Are you coming?”

Not yet, but he would if he stared at her much longer—right here in the middle of the Scarlet Rose.

Jess thanked the beard for hiding the color he felt heating his cheeks. It had been a long time since he'd felt such a swift and immediate response toward a woman, and he knew it wouldn't be wise to go anywhere near her until he got himself under control. “I'll be along after I've seen to my horse,” he said.

With a tip of his hat, he strode out the door, leaving Honesty to stare after him with her mouth agape and her heart in her throat. Never in all her born days had a man looked at her like that. Every inch of her skin tingled, and a strange, faintly wicked sensation stirred deep in her belly.

“You gonna give me a hand or are you gonna stand around gawking all day?”

Snapped from her musings by Rose's humor-filled question, Honesty followed the woman into the kitchen. “I wasn't gawking.”

“You were. Not that I blame you—that one's got the makin's of a true Lothario.”

Warmth flooded Honesty's cheeks. “If your tastes run toward the scrawny desperado type.”