Wyoming Woman (2 page)

As if echoing his thoughts, sheet lightning flashed above the peaks, followed by the rumbling boom of thunder. This wash was no place to be stuck in a storm, especially with an unconscious female on his hands. Injured or not, he needed to get her to safe ground.

He was turning back toward her when something caught his eye—a glittering flash of blue, lodged behind one half-buried front wheel. Drawn by curiosity, he dropped to a crouch and worked the object free. It was a small, beaded reticule, fashioned of the same fabric as the periwinkle-blue traveling suit. Luke glared down at it, where it lay clutched in his big, callused hands. The little piece of frippery had probably cost enough to feed a starving family for a month. And this pampered, pretty creature probably hadn't given the money a second's thought.

Only as he was about to toss it away in disgust did it occur to him that he should open the reticule and look inside. He might find something with a name or address on it—a letter, a calling card, even an em
broidered handkerchief that might tell him her name or furnish some clue about who to contact, should she need more help than he could give her.

His fingers fumbled with the small, ornate clasp. Frustrated by its intricacy, Luke cursed under his breath. For two cents he would draw his knife and cut the damned thing open like a—

“Hold it right there, sheep man!”

The taut little voice raked Luke's senses. “Drop the bag, raise your hands and turn around slowly. No tricks, or I'll blow you to kingdom come!”

Luke's rifle was on the horse and, in any case, he knew better than to make a rash move before sizing up the situation. Cursing himself for getting into this predicament, he dropped the reticule, raised his hands and slowly turned around.

The woman lay propped on one elbow. Her striking blue-green eyes blazed with raw fury. Her free hand gripped a tiny but evil-looking derringer that was pointed straight at Luke's chest.

R
achel gripped the miniature one-shot pistol she'd taken from her pocket, willing her fingers not to tremble. Her temples were throbbing, and her left shoulder felt as if it had been kicked by a mule, but there was nothing missing from her memory. The recollection of swerving off the road to miss the sheep, then careening into the wash, was crystal-clear in her mind—as clear as the image of the bastard she'd just caught trying to rob her.

“Are you sure you know how to use that little toy, lady?” He spoke with a hint of southern drawl, his voice as deep and rich as blackstrap molasses.

“You don't want to find out the hard way.” She glared up at him, feeling small and helpless despite the cold weight of the gun in her hand. The derringer was cocked and loaded, the man close enough to provide an easy target. But something in the lithe, easy way he stood, hands relaxed, dark eyes narrowed like a wolf's, whispered danger. Fear crept upward into her throat—a fear that she masked with spitting fury.

“Are these your sheep?” she sputtered. She took his silence for a yes. “I could have been killed! Look at this buggy! It's ruined, and the mule's run off to heaven knows where! What were those fool animals doing in the road anyway? If I hadn't swerved, I'd have crashed right into them!”

“The last I heard, there was no law against herding stock across a road,” he replied icily. “Sheep and cattle have the right-of-way in this country. If you were going too fast to make the turn, that's nobody's fault but your own. Now put that silly little gun away before somebody gets hurt.”

“So you can finish going through my things? Don't waste your time. I don't have enough money in that bag to be worth your trouble.”

His lip curled in a sneer of contempt, and Rachel sensed at once that she had said the wrong thing. The stranger's fierce pride showed in the erect stance of his lean, muscular body, the set of his aquiline head and the unruly spill of blue-black hair over his brow. His face was more compelling than handsome, with features that could have been hewn from raw granite. His dark, hooded eyes were as sharp and alert as a hawk's. He was a disturbing man, an unsettling man whose gaze sent an oddly sensual quiver through every nerve in her body. But Rachel's instincts told her he was too proud to steal, especially from a woman.

All the same, she would be foolish to lower her guard. Gripping the derringer's tiny stock, she glared up at him. From beyond the rim of the wash, she
could hear the brassy jangle of sheep's bells and the bleating of the ewes and lambs. “You've no right to be running sheep in this part of the state,” she said. “This is cattle country.”

A dangerous smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, underscored by the dance of lightning in the dark sky behind him. “This is open range. And only a cattleman's woman would talk like that.”

Rachel had to raise her voice to be heard above the echoing thunder. “A cattleman's
daughter!
” she snapped, throwing discretion to the winds. “My name is Rachel Tolliver. My father owns the biggest cattle ranch in this county. And if you so much as lay a finger on me—”

His laughter interrupted her—cold, bitter laughter that did nothing to settle her edginess. “I'm aware of who your father is, Miss Tolliver. I've even heard a few tales about his spoiled, redheaded hellion of a daughter. Believe me, I'd just as soon pick up a live rattlesnake as lay a finger or anything else on you. Now, if you don't mind putting that gun away, my arms are getting tired.”

Rachel hesitated. She'd grown up hearing that sheep men were worse than bandits. Their wretched, woolly animals fouled the water holes and destroyed good range land by nipping off every blade of grass so short that there was nothing left for the cattle to eat. Sheepherders who worked for wages tended to be Mexicans or Spanish Basques—quaint little men who lived in their hutlike wagons and kept to them
selves. But this tall, insolent stranger was clearly not of that stripe.

“What do you plan to do with me, Rachel Tolliver?” he taunted her. “Shoot me? Send me packing? Either way, you'll be out here alone with a storm coming and your buggy wrecked in a wash. Like it or not, I'm the only help you've got. You've no choice except to trust me.”

“I'd just as soon trust a coyote as a sheep man!” Rachel retorted, but she was beginning to see that he was right. Like it or not, unless she wanted to walk twenty miles in the rain—

The rest of her thoughts took flight at the sound of a low growl behind her. She glanced back over her shoulder to see a middle-sized dog with a shaggy black-and-white coat crouched a half-dozen paces away. Its sharp yellow fangs were bared in a threatening snarl.

“Oh—” Caught off guard, Rachel was unprepared for what happened next. With the speed of a pouncing cat, the stranger was on her. His strong hands caught her wrist and wrenched the derringer out of her grasp. The next thing she knew, she was lying flat on her back, staring up at him where he stood over her. From the ground, with thunderheads rolling in behind him, he looked as big as a mountain.

Scowling, he released the hammer and slipped the miniature pistol into his vest. Rachel was bracing for a fight when he reached down, seized her wrists and jerked her roughly to her feet. Frightened and angry, she tried to twist away from him. He released her so
abruptly that she lost her balance, stumbled backward and slammed against the side of the buggy.

“Your call, Miss Rachel Tolliver,” he growled, making no further move to touch her. “You can ask for my help, or I can ride off and leave you here alone with your spilled baggage. Either way, it's up to you. I don't give a damn what you decide.”

He glanced down at the dog, which had moved to stand protectively at his side. At a slight motion of its master's hand and a spoken command that was no more than a whisper, the animal wheeled and raced up the side of the wash in the direction of the sheep.

Rachel flinched as the first raindrop splashed against the end of her nose. With a clatter that began like pearls falling from a broken string and grew to a solid rush of pelting rain, the storm swept down from the mountains to engulf everything in its path. Rain peppered the sand in the wash and blasted the dust from the buggy's shiny black body. Rachel felt its weight soaking her hair, its wet chill penetrating layers of clothing to reach her skin.

“Well, which will it be?” Water streamed off the sheep man's hair and beaded on his eyebrows, but he had not moved from where he stood. “Make up your mind, Miss Tolliver. I haven't got all day.”

“All right. Yes, I need your help!” Rachel had lived too long in this country not to know what would happen to anything that remained in the wash. “Please! Hurry! The important things—my paints and canvases—are in the back! And we really need to
get the buggy out. Otherwise my father will have to pay Finnegan's Livery for the loss of it.”

“There's a rope on my saddle. I'll get the horse.” He turned away and strode up the side of the wash, his boots leaving muddy gouges that swiftly filled with water and crumbled away. Rachel watched his tall figure disappear through the gray curtain of rain. Then, with no more time to spare, she turned and raced to gather her scattered, soaking possessions.

 

Luke left her scrambling for her things and strode back through the brush to get the horse. Morgan Tolliver's daughter. He cursed under his breath. For two cents he would ride away and leave the little hellcat to the storm. He owed no favors to cattle ranchers and their kin, nor did he expect any in return. All he really wanted was to be left alone.

The buckskin was waiting beside the cedar bush. It nickered and shook its rain-soaked hide as he freed its bridle from the dead branch. A quick glance up the slope confirmed that Mick and Shep, the two collies, were doing their job, herding the sheep into a tight circle where the lambs would be protected from the worst of the storm. The precious animals would be safe enough until he could pull the buggy out of the wash and, he hoped to heaven, get the snooty Miss Tolliver on her way. She was a wild beauty, with those sea-colored eyes, that untamed mop of red-gold curls and a figure that would tempt the devil himself. But a cattleman's daughter… Luke shook his head and
swore as he led the horse toward the wash. Her kind of trouble was the last thing he needed.

The Tolliver Ranch was the biggest spread in the county, and likely one of the biggest in the state of Wyoming. A remote corner of it butted onto Luke's modest parcel of land at the foot of the Big Horn Mountains. Luke had only a passing acquaintance with the ranch's owner. But a cattleman was a cattleman, and if there was anything the cattle ranchers hated more than sheep it was the men who allowed them to graze on public land.

Had Morgan Tolliver and his twin sons been among the raiders that had nearly burned poor old Miguel alive in his wagon and then beat him sense less? Had a Tolliver gun shot the three purebred ewes that were the best of Luke's herd—the herd he had labored for five miserable, backbreaking years in the Rock Springs coal mines to buy?

The answer to those questions made no difference. Luke had nothing that would stand as proof against the Tollivers and their kind. Even if he were to find such proof, there'd be nothing he could do except sell out and run for his life. And he would die, Luke swore, before he let the bastards drive him off his land.

Through the pelting rain, he could see the edge of the wash and the water-soaked heap that Morgan Tolliver's daughter had made of her rescued baggage. Hauling the buggy out of the wash would be a tough job. And even if they could salvage it, how was she
going to get home with no mule to pull it? He would be stuck with her.

For the space of a breath, Luke hesitated. Why should he be helping the woman at all? Rachel Tolliver had held a gun on him, accused him of thievery and, in general, behaved like the spoiled brat she was. It would serve her right, maybe even teach her a lesson, if he rode off and left her on her own. Surely she would not be alone for long. Her family was bound to miss her and come looking for her.

But no—the image of Rachel shivering in the rain like a lost puppy was more than his conscience could bear. It had been a long time since he'd considered himself a gentleman, but he had not sunk so far that he would ride away and leave a woman in a dangerous situation.

He found her hunkered beside the buggy, digging around one mired wheel with a twisted sage root. Her hair hung around her face in dripping, curly strings, and her once-elegant blue suit was soaked with muddy water. She looked up in ill-disguised relief as Luke slogged his way down the bank with a coil of rope.

“I thought you'd turned tail and left,” she said, raising her voice to be heard above the rain.

Ignoring the taunt, Luke found the middle of the rope and looped it around the rear axle of the buggy to make a tight slipknot.

Still kneeling, she glared up at him. Her eyes flashed like a tiger's through the dripping tendrils of her hair. “No lectures, sheep man. Just get the buggy
out of the wash. I'll see that you're paid for your time.”

Rankled, Luke shot her a contemptuous glance. “My name is Luke Vincente. And I don't want your money—or your father's.”

She scrambled to her feet, her wet jacket outlining her small, high breasts and cold-puckered nipples. “I think you're too proud for your own good,” she said, a scowl deepening the cleft in her determined chin. “But then, since the accident was mostly your fault, I shouldn't expect to pay you for helping me.”

“My fault?” He glared at her.

“Well the problem with the brake wasn't your fault. I suppose Mr. Finnegan at the livery should take the blame for that, since he should have fixed it. But as for the rest—”

“The brake?” He stared at her. “You mean you were ripping down that hill with no way to stop?”

She flashed him a withering look. “I would have been fine. Everything was under control, and I was planning to coast to a stop at the bottom. Unfortunately, your stupid sheep—” Her muddy fists clenched into knots. “Don't think you're doing me any favors, Luke Vincente. This mess is your fault, not mine. You
owe
me—”

“Then let's get this over with,” he snapped, playing out the rope as he moved up the bank to the waiting horse. “The job's going to take both of us. You can guide the horse, or you can stay in the wash and try to free the wheels. It's up to you.”

She gazed up at the buckskin, her eyes slitted
against the driving rain. “He's your horse. You'll get more out of him than I will. I'll stay with the buggy.”

“Suit yourself.” Luke had hoped she would leave him to free the wheels, but he was in no mood to argue. Not with the rain coming down harder by the minute. As he mounted the bank of the wash, he saw that she had found her digging stick and was scraping away the sand that trapped the left front wheel. A cattleman's spoiled brat she might be. But Rachel Tolliver had grit. He would credit her that much.

Tying the rope to the saddle horn, he swung onto the buckskin. Lightning snaked across the sky. “Get to the front,” he shouted. “When I say push, give it everything you've got.”

The only reply was a shattering crack of thunder. The horse danced nervously, tossing its head.

“Rachel?” He held his breath. An eternity seemed to pass before he heard her speak.

“I'm ready when you are.” Her voice sounded thin and distant.

“Then…push!” He jabbed the horse with his knees. The buckskin was a powerful animal and the buggy wasn't heavy. One good, hard pull should be enough to break it loose, he calculated as the doubled rope strained tight.

But Luke hadn't counted on the sucking grip of the sand on the front wheels. He was just beginning to feel some give when he heard Rachel scream, “Stop!”

Only then did he realize what was happening. The
front wheels were so firmly stuck that the pull of the horse was threatening to rip them loose from the axle.