The Trailrider's Fortune (46 page)

She shook her head
as Travis overheard someone make a comment about two mountains he'd like to
explore. "Next fella to make a crude remark mends fences for the next two
months," Travis announced.

"Uh, Mr.
Conley." It was his newest man. Only the new ones called him mister.
"I met a fella at the Jug who said he'd advertised for a bride. Before his
luck ran out. Had a drink together, then he went to the train depot. Said he
was headed south to Albuquerque or Santa Fe."

Travis inwardly
groaned. The poor gal had come too late. She barely spoke English and had been
abandoned. He was trying to figure out how to explain matters when she gasped
out loud.

"
Marone! Me
misero!
This can no be. He was gone? Not here, yes?"

"Yes. I mean,
no. He ain't around now." Travis was beginning to wonder if he actually
knew anything anymore. Had he done something to warrant all this misfortune
being heaped on in a single day? First the near-miss at Sweeney's with Pearl,
then riding home to find all hell breaking loose with another troublesome
female. Maybe he should give up ranching and become a monk.

"They say you
need kitchen," she blurted, brightening. "I kitchen, see?" She
seized a covered tin from her stack of paraphernalia. "I make. You like
these, yes?" She thrust the tin forward, approaching each bemused man in
turn, bobbing her head as they sampled the proffered morsels. Looks of pure
ecstasy stole over their faces.

She held out the
tin to Travis. He glanced down. Cookies. She couldn't have had jerky or moldy
biscuits in that damned tin. It
would
have to be cookies, a treat
Sourdough wisely hadn't even attempted.

"Look
ma'am," Travis huffed, disdaining her offering. "Miss…Whatever your
name is, I—"

"Lucia
Montessano." She smiled and stepped closer, twisting Travis' stomach into
a knot. She had an incredible smile. It lit up her whole face. Which—now that
he got a good look at it—wasn't as outstanding as her breasts, but wasn't
anything to sneeze at. "Happy please you meet me."

"Yeah. That's
great. But Lucille, what—"

"No." She
frowned and reached up to mold his lips with her fingertips. "
Lu-chee-ah
,"
she repeated slowly. "
Lu-chee-ah.
"

Travis jerked back
from her touch as he heard the men begin to snicker. Mick was shaking with
suppressed mirth. Danbers appeared to be suffering an apoplectic fit. Travis
could guess why. He probably looked like a horse's hind end.

"Whatever. The
point is—" He informed her with a dark scowl, "—I'm lookin' for a
housekeeper and I mean to hire a spinster or a widow woman. You know what that
means, widow? Somebody a lot older than you."

She dashed to a
battered valise and pulled out a black shawl. She covered her head and turned
back to him, looking downcast before she spoke. "
Vedova
." This
came with another emphatic nod. Travis began to suspect she knew only too well
how her bosom jiggled when she nodded like that. "Lady with no
marito
."

Aha! Now they were
getting somewhere. That last part sounded close to "married," so he
knew she'd grasped his meaning. "Right. No
marito
. Exactly."

"Yes, I keep
no
marito
! Me, yes. Thank you, yes."

The crate yowled
again and Travis saw the men grinning. "Nope. You
no
," he
countered, firmly shaking his head.

He knew what she
saw here—a passel of eager wranglers; a ranch house with a recent coat of
paint, big natural rock chimney, and windows of glass, not oiled paper or
cowhide. A young buck as boss of the outfit. He wasn't wealthy, but to a
foreigner with her whole universe piled in a sorry collection of crates, he
probably looked like quite some prize.

He was about to
explain that, for a variety of reasons, she couldn't stay on. He wasn't offering
her the job. But his men chose that moment to mutiny. They formed a solid wall,
standing shoulder to shoulder to block the drive, faces set in grim
determination.

Damned cowards.

Mick was the only
one with gumption enough to speak his mind. "Taste them cookies, Boss.
Imagine what one of them would be like, dunked in some genu-wine coffee, not
Sourdough Freiling's mud."

It was over without
a fight.

Shannah Biondine is a former
professional resume writer who is the author of several historical romances and
works of fantasy. Shannah is an avid and eclectic fiction reader herself. She
collects Venetian masks and the art of Josephine Wall. Shannah also owns big
dogs, reads tarot cards, enjoys both jigsaw and crossword puzzles, and since relocating
from California to Colorado has developed an affinity for shoveling snow. To
learn how to pronounce her pen name or learn more about her titles, please
visit her website: 
www.shannahbiondine.com