Nights with the Outlaw (2 page)

Doreena kept tapping the pig, making it maintain a trot between the horses. She caught Clint looking at her more than once, and the way he'd quickly pull his gaze away had her insides quivering. She remained quiet, pondering the man a bit deeper, while the ride home went by without another mishap.

At the ranch, he dismounted and opened the gate as she guided the pig into its pen. She was swinging out of the saddle when three fast shots rang out. Air swooshed out of her lungs as she suddenly hit the ground covered by the protective weight of Clint's body. Stunned by his unexpected actions, she fought to breathe as Clint, still on top of her, pointed his pistol in the direction of the shots.

Doreena's heart pounded. Not from the gunshots, but from the heat and unusual sensations Clint's body created in hers. His weight held her flat on her back. Once her lungs caught some air, she took a moment to contemplate the situation and the unique vibrations happening to her insides before saying, “That would be Tristan, my brother.” Catching the attention of those blue-on-blue eyes, she continued, “He wants to be a gunslinger.”

“Oh.” Clint eased off her, glancing around the property. She followed his gaze. Pride and love for what he saw filled her. The house, the barn and sheds, as well as the pens and the land itself proved her father's cattle business had done considerably well at one time. She'd worked alongside her parents for years building the ranch, and she wasn't about to walk away from it without a fight. No matter what. Hope leaped inside her. Clint's split-second reaction to the gunfire said he might be the one person who could help her.

She took hold of the hand he held out, and rose to her feet. “It's not completely his fault for being as frolicsome as he is. Mama lost four babies before Tristan came along so she tended to spoil him.”

Clint tucked his gun back in its holster. “Being a gunslinger isn't an easy job. Your brother would be better off tending to the pigs.”

Three more shots rang out. “I know,” she admitted. “I've told him that, many times. But he's stubborn. Won't listen to a thing I have to say. Besides, that too, is partly my fault. Ever since I mentioned hiring a gunslinger, he's decided to become one.”

Eyeing her from head to toe, Clint asked, “You two live out here by yourselves?”

“No. I told you I have three hired hands. And Jeb's married to Sarah. They live in that cabin next to the bunkhouse.” She'd already told him more than she normally would, but for some reason, she couldn't stop now. “Sarah's getting up in age, too. Pushing sixty. That's part of the reason I thought about hiring someone else, a sentry of sorts. I have too many people to keep safe, besides the hogs.”

“
You
run this place?”

Doreena frowned. Her instincts had said he was different. “Of course
I
run this place. Didn't you believe me before? I already told you,
I
have for years.” A touch of sadness had her gaze going to the grove of trees on the hill to the west. “Even before Pa died. He just wasn't the same after Mama passed on. I guess I should be thankful he only lived a couple of years without her.”

She knew the moment he recognized the markers on the hill as headstones. His gaze returned to her. “Years? How old are you?” he asked.

“I'm twenty-four. Why? How old are you?”

“Well, I'm twenty-six.”

She could swear his cheeks, beneath a thin layer of whiskers, were tinged pink. Doreena shook her head, trying to get rid of thoughts about just how handsome this stranger was. She didn't have time for such notions, nor did she have time to waste on someone who thought she—a woman—couldn't handle running the ranch. “Good for you,” she said, turning for the barn. “I gotta get a ring in that pig's nose before he digs out again.”

Clint fell in step beside her.

She eyed him warily.

“I'll help,” he muttered.

She shrugged. “Suit yourself. You ever pierced a pig before?”

“Nope,” he said. “But I'd never been treed by one before, either. This must be my day of firsts.”

The humor and easiness of his voice had her relaxing and smiling again. Maybe her first instincts about him were right. It was impossible to tell with her insides jumping about. “I'll teach you. It's not hard, but it's not pleasant, either.”

The task was done in no time, and Clint proved to be an apt learner. Doreena wiped her hands with the skirt of her work dress and then pointed toward the far side of the bunkhouse. “You can get cleaned up over there. Supper'll be done in an hour. Once you've eaten, I'll square up with you for helping.”

Clint tipped back his hat while his acute eyes roamed the homestead again. “How long are your hired hands going to be away?”

“A few days. Why?”

He shrugged. “I could hang around until they get back. Make sure that pig doesn't get out again.”

Her heart nearly somersaulted right out of her chest. She had to roll her shoulders to keep it where it belonged. An unwavering honesty in his eyes said his offer was genuine. “I sure could use the help,” she admitted. “I'll pay you the going rate, and you'll have the bunkhouse all to yourself until Joe and Dobbs get back.”

He nodded, and she, feeling almost as happy as she had when the new Chester White had arrived, turned for the house.

Clint couldn't draw his eyes away as Doreena walked across the worn ground between the big whitewashed house and the hog pen. She was remarkable. The way she wrangled that pig, along with the care she used while piercing its nose, said she had gumption. That alone made him want to help her.

He turned to make his way to the bunkhouse, and reality hit. What was he thinking? Stay around until her hired men got back? He had to find Martin and Henderson, see they got their due and then be on his way to California. To where the streets were lined with gold and women wore scanty dresses. That's where a man could forget his past and start anew. Everyone knew that, including him. So why'd he have this odd desire to help a woman he found hugging a tree?

After cleaning up, and getting no closer to figuring out why he'd offered to stay, Clint stowed his gear under an empty bed in the one-room bunkhouse, and then made his way around the large home, to where shots continued to echo.

A scrawny kid, with a mop of blond hair had six bottles set up on stumps and was taking aim. All three of his quickly fired shots whizzed several feet over the bottles. An older man, leaning heavily on a cane, said something, but the kid started firing again, so Clint couldn't hear what it was.

He made his way over to stand next to the older man. Balancing his weight on the cane, the man offered his hand. “Jeb Stockholm.”

“Clint Turnquist.”

“Doreena says you're gonna hang around a few days and help out.”

“Yeah,” he agreed, without a qualm, which again was odd.

“Thanks. We sure could use the help. I messed up my knee a couple of weeks ago and haven't been much good for anything lately.”

Clint nodded, but his attention was on the boy staring at them with puckered lips. “You're not aiming with your gun,” Clint suggested.

The kid, Tristan, glared harder.

“The end of your gun predicts where the bullet's going.”

“I know what I'm doing,” Tristan snapped.

Clint waited for the kid to fire off a few more rounds before pulling a coin out of his pocket. “Tristan.” When the kid turned, Clint tossed him the coin. “Throw it in the air.”

Tristan rolled the coin between his fingers, as if deeply contemplating the action. Then with a snap of his wrist, he flipped the coin skyward.

Without thought, Clint drew and shot. The coin recoiled from the hit, and he fired again, hitting the metal a second time as it spiraled to the ground.

“Sheesh!” Tristan ran to retrieve the coin. “How'd you do that?” He held the coin in the air. “You hit it twice. There's no hole, only two buckle marks.”

“Of course there's no hole,” Clint said. “A bullet's not powerful enough to go through the metal. If anyone tells you differently, they're wrong.”

“How'd you do that?” Tristan asked again.

“I aim with the end of my gun.”

“You didn't aim at all,” Tristan insisted. “You just shot.”

“I didn't use the sights, but I aimed the end of the barrel at the coin.” Clint nodded toward the coin. “Throw it again.”

That's where Doreena found them, shooting at the coin until Clint was almost out of ammo, which was a foolish thing to do. Ammo was precious.

“Supper's on the table,” she said, glancing at the coin Tristan held.

“Can I keep this?” the kid asked.

Clint nodded and followed the group toward the house. A part of him—the part that wanted to impress her—had hoped Doreena would witness his shooting abilities, but the way she'd looked at the coin had him wondering if she'd actually second-guessed her agreement to let him stay. He removed his gun belt and hat inside the back door, and when he turned about, memories of sitting down to a meal with others threatened to make it impossible to swallow. He should walk out now, while he could.

Doreena, with a light touch on his arm, guided him to the table. “Sit here, Clint,” she instructed, taking an adjacent chair.

“I'm Sarah,” a round and buxom older woman said. “Jeb's wife.” She set a platter on the table. “Don't be shy about eating. You earned it catching that hog Doreena's been chasing for a week.”

“I couldn't have done it without him,” Doreena agreed, spreading a napkin across her lap.

His neck heated up, as if he stood in the sun, and his throat locked, holding in the protest proclaiming she'd done most of the work.

“Eat up,” Sarah insisted as she took a seat next to her husband.

“Don't mind if I do.” Tristan lifted a basket. “Here, Clint, nothing's better than Sarah's biscuits.”

Clint took one and passed them to Doreena, whose genuine smile had his pulse slapping against his skin.

The warm atmosphere was like a calming balm. Jeb and Sarah were good people, friendly and forthright, and Tristan, though young and with his head still in the clouds, was a likable kid when all was said and done, but it was Doreena that held Clint's attention.

She'd changed her dress, and now wore a delicate rose-colored gown that made her about the most fetching woman he'd ever laid eyes on. No matter what he tried, he couldn't quit staring at her. After everyone finished the fine meal with a large slice of chocolate cake that had made his stomach growl like he hadn't just eaten two helpings of ham and potatoes, Clint took his leave of the house. It was too hard to think straight with Doreena's long lashes fluttering like a butterfly's wings. Her transformation from a no-nonsense ranch owner to a proper and almost prim young lady was mystifying, and had him thinking about things he shouldn't be thinking about.

A big round moon lit up the yard, and the stillness let the sounds of night float on the air with an unhurried peace. Clint stretched his arms overhead as he walked to the bunkhouse, where he found a sturdy chair under the overhang. He sat and let his mind dwell on the situation he'd planted himself in. After two years of living in a cell and not doing much except thinking, most folks would have thought themselves right out of thoughts, but that wasn't the case for him. If anything, he now had more to ponder, including a beautiful and baffling woman pig farmer.

Trancelike, watching the tiny flicker of a flame far off in the hills, his insides twitched when someone sat down next to him.

“Nice night,” Doreena said.

“Yes, it is.” Drawing ease from her tranquil sigh, he added, “Nice supper you made there.”

“Thank you. I'm glad you liked it.”

Neither spoke then. It was a gentle silence, one that didn't seem strained or out of place or lonely. That thought surprised him, too. He hadn't pondered loneliness for some time.

“Clint,” she uttered so softly it sounded whispered.

“Yeah?”

“Where'd you learn to shoot like that?”

He shrugged. “Here and there.”

“Where's here and there?”

He shifted in his chair. Being a hired gun wasn't far from being an outlaw.

“Never mind. It's none of my business anyway.”

“Texas,” he blurted, somewhat stung by the piece of his heart that was ready to share his entire sordid past with her.

“Excuse me?”

“Texas is where I learned to shoot like that. I was born and raised in Missouri, but moved south when my mother died several years ago.” He pulled his attention back to the tiny glow. “When did your hired hands head out with the pigs?”

“That's not them.”

He'd already gathered as much.

“I don't know who it is, but they're out there every night. Every day.” Her chair creaked as she leaned back. “That's part of the reason I waited so long to send Joe and Dobbs and the herd to market. I've searched. Rode every trail, but I can't find them.”

“Maybe it's drifters.”

“No. Whoever it is, they're watching us. Watching me, and waiting to make their move.”

“Indians?”

“No. There aren't any hostiles around. I believe it's Stewart Drake. Not necessarily him, but his cronies.”

“Drake? The Sheriff you mentioned earlier?”

“Yes. He's out to break me. Has been since I accused him of killing my father.”

The hair on the back of his neck grew stiff.

“My father died riding posse with Drake. The two of them separated from the rest of the group, and Drake returned with the body of my father, shot in the back. The rustlers were never caught. Jeb was there. He thinks the same as I do.”

An all-too-familiar, gut-churning, bile-building scene crossed his mind. Blocking the memories, he started to ask, “Why would—”

“Drake showed up around here about the same time as all the rustling started. When Sheriff Dobson was shot dead—” her gaze was serious “—again in the back, Drake supposedly shot the assailant, and then convinced the city council to appoint him the new sheriff of Plum Creek. The man's as dirty as they come. I know it. I just haven't been able to prove it.” Her sigh echoed in the still night. “I've been too busy trying to keep our heads above water.”

The more Doreena said, the more Clint wanted to know. Martin's signature was shooting people in the back. “I was going to ask why Drake would want your father dead.”

“That's what I'm still trying to figure out. That and why he wants my property so badly. He's gone so far as to say the only way this ranch will be mine is to marry him.”