GALAHAD IN A STETSON

Cowboy John Elder needs a replacement crew of cattle hands to drive his longhorns to Kansas—he just never figured they’d be wearing petticoats. Traveling with Moira O’Mara and the orphan girls in her care is a mutually beneficial arrangement. Yet despite Moira’s declaration of independence, the feisty beauty evokes John’s every masculine instinct to protect, defend…marry?

Moira is grateful for John’s help when he rescues her—and she can’t deny that his calm, in-control manner proves comforting. But she is determined not to let anything get in the way of her plans to search for her long-lost brother at journey’s end. However, can John show her a new future—one perfect for them to share?

“You don’t have to be strong for everyone. You don’t even have to be strong for yourself all the time,” John said. “We’re a crew together, we help each other. Support each other.”

“And what happens when we reach Cimarron Springs?” Moira asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What happens when I become dependent on you and then you’re not there anymore?”

“Well, it’ll be different, that’s for sure. Town life is a quite a bit different from trail life.”

“It’s not only that.” She’d promised herself she’d remain aloft from the girls. The more time they spent together, the more difficult keeping her promise became. “Once we’re back in town, everyone will go their separate ways.”

“You can write letters.”

“That’ll never happen. Out of sight is out of mind for people. Once this is over, we’ll never even think of each other again.”

“Do you really think that?”

“Don’t you?” She avoided his dark gaze. Lately she worried she’d miss the cowboy most of all.

SHERRI SHACKELFORD

A wife and mother of three, Sherri Shackelford says her hobbies include collecting mismatched socks, discovering new ways to avoid cleaning and standing in the middle of the room while thinking, “Why did I just come in here?” A reformed pessimist and recent hopeful romantic, Sherri has a passion for writing. Her books are fun and fast paced, with plenty of heart and soul. She enjoys hearing from readers at sherrimshackelford@yahoo.com, or visit her website at www.sherrishackelford.com.

The Cattleman Meets His Match

Sherri Shackelford

www.millsandboon.co.uk

For which of you, intending to build a tower, sitteth not down first, and counteth the cost, whether he have sufficient to finish it?

—Luke 14:28

To Kristie Ryan, for knowing me better than anyone and liking me anyway.

To my mom, Bonnie, because I didn’t acknowledge her in my last dedication. And she mentioned the oversight—a couple of times. Love you, Mom!

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

About the Author

Title Page

Bible Verse

Dedication

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Epilogue

Dear Reader

Questions for Discussion

Extract

Copyright

Chapter One

Fool’s End, Indian Territory

September 1881

If John Elder hadn’t been so furious with his mutinous crew of cattle hands, he might have noticed the woman dangling above his head sooner.

Except nothing had gone right since his arrival in the bustling cow town of Fool’s End. Night had long since fallen by the time he’d discovered his four missing cowhands. Drunk. In a brothel. He’d fired them on the spot.

As John had circled behind the row of connected buildings, mud from a chilly autumn rain sucked at his boots and slowed his pace. Walking the alley at night wasn’t the wisest choice, but he didn’t have much time. He’d discovered the men’s horses—his horses—at the livery earlier. He was taking back his property before his crew sobered up.

He kept the same rules as his father and his grandfather before him—no gambling, drinking or sporting women until the job was finished.

Moonlight glinted off broken bottles and the stench of sour mash whiskey burned his nostrils. Propped open with a dented brass spittoon, the saloon’s rear door released a dense cloud of cigar smoke. John skirted the hazy shaft of light with a grunt. He’d wasted half the day. For nothing.

A scuffle sounded behind him and he pivoted with his fists raised. Only inky darkness met his searching gaze. John dropped his arms. A man couldn’t be too careful in this corrupt town.

The space behind the buildings wasn’t as much an alley as an afterthought of the hastily constructed cow town. Dreamers and schemers had built Fool’s End from one hundred people to five hundred practically overnight. The pains of rapid expansion had ravaged the city’s grid work. Hope and despair fought a never-ending battle in the red soil, leaving behind an odd carnage. Buffalo hunters, cattle hands and fortune seekers had sprouted opportunity and corruption in equal measures.

A raucous piano ditty spilled from the nearest open saloon door and John’s head throbbed in time with the grating tune. If any one of his six older brothers could see him now, he’d never live it down. Halfway from Paris, Texas, to his final destination of Cimarron Springs, Kansas, and he was spitting distance from failure. Again.

Sure, there’d been times in the past when his optimism had outpaced his good sense. But not this time.

John snorted at the irony. He shouldn’t have let his temper get the better of him. Firing the men left him with only a cantankerous chuck wagon cook named Pops who was older than dirt and just as talkative, and eight hundred head of longhorn cattle he couldn’t drive to Cimarron Springs alone. A small herd by most standards, but too large for two men alone.

It was imperative he reach the Kansas border or forfeit his dreams of starting his own cattle ranch. Fearful of Texas fever, a disease spread by longhorns to other livestock, the state was steadily moving the quarantine line farther west. He’d gambled the line would hold. Farmers and ranchers were filling the state, and their vote was bound to sway the legislature. Which gave John two weeks to cross into Kansas before the vote to close the borders took place.

Time enough for finding a new crew. But not much time.

The faint scuffing grew louder. Pausing, he glanced left and right, then lifted his chin and caught the first blow on his upturned cheek.

“Out of my way,” a feminine voice called down.

The heel of her sturdy boot knocked him sideways. Staggering upright, John clutched his battered shoulder. A slender form dangled from a knotted bed sheet above his head.

His jaw dropped.

The girl craned her neck toward the ground, her face an alabaster oval against the darkness. A blur of pale petticoats covered by a dark skirt met his astonished gaze.

Her gaze snapped upward and her red hair shimmered in the moonlight like a wild, exotic halo. “Let out more rope. I’m still six feet from the ground,” she hissed.

Her voice was mature. John craned his neck. The harder he looked, the more he realized this was a woman, not a girl. Her body twisted and his heart lurched.

He thrust out his arms and her flailing leg grazed his right hand. “Ouch.”

Scooting aside, he reached with his left hand and she smacked that one too. “Take it easy!”

Retreating a safe distance, he assessed the situation. Either this was a dangerous prank or the woman was involved in something nefarious. He didn’t care. He wasn’t getting involved. No way. No how. Right now he had more problems than time.

“We haven’t any more slack,” a thin voice replied from the upper window. “That’s all the sheets.”

A dark-haired girl, no more than twelve years old, thrust her head into the shaft of light from the second-story window.

A blonde of the same age appeared at her right and stretched over the sill, her brilliant pale hair curtaining her face. “Maybe we should pull Moira up. This was a bad idea.”

John rolled his bruised shoulder. “That’s an understatement.”

Their casual assessment of the situation confirmed his first instinct. This was some sort of childish prank. And the woman suspended above him was old enough to know better.

The girls chattered away, their heads bent together, complaining about the lack of decent bed sheets while completely ignoring both him and the dangling woman.

John shook his head. Of all the irrational sights he’d seen in this cow town over the past two days, this topped the list.

While yet another young lady joined the overlapping discussion, the woman above his head struggled for purchase on the rough clapboard walls. Her feet slipped up and down against the chipped paint as though she was running in midair.

John heaved a sigh. He had a singular way of sizing up a situation and predicting the outcome. Even his brothers grudgingly admired his innate ability.

He reached up and patted the woman’s foot. “Let go and I’ll catch you.”

“Everything is quite under control,” she replied primly.

“Lady, I don’t know what kind of stunt you’re pulling, but I see four girls in that window, and not a one of them realizes your arms are shaking and you’re about to break an ankle. Or worse.”

“This is none of your concern,” she announced, her voice strained. “The plan is sound. I simply miscalculated the sheet length. I think it was the knots. Yes. That’s it. The knots took up more slack than I expected.”

“Either way, you’re in a pickle.”

The females in the window giggled.

“Be quiet up there,” the woman ordered, a sense of urgency lacing her words. “If they catch us—”

She lost her grip and John dove forward. He grasped her around the waist and staggered, his feet held immobile in the mire. Keeping a tight hold on the squirming woman, he teetered backward and sat down. Hard. Icy water oozed through his canvas pants and chilled his backside.

The woman scrambled in his loose hold and her elbow cracked his ribs. John flinched. So much for playing the gentleman. She didn’t appear at all grateful he’d taken the brunt of the fall—and soaked himself in the process. As she squirmed, her toe dug into his bent ankle.

He yelped and circled her waist with one arm. “Take it easy.”

The woman whipped around, battling against his protective grasp. Her eyes widened. “Let go of me this instant or I’ll scream. Please.”

Sensing her terror, John obliged. With her arms braced against his chest, his sudden release propelled her backward. She sprang from his embrace and landed flat on her back, sprawled in the oily puddle.

A chorus of titters sounded from above.

The blonde girl swung her leg over the sill in a flurry of white petticoats. “I’m going next.”

John scrambled upright, slipping and sliding in the muck. “No. Wait.”

While his gaze swung between the prone woman and the knotted rope, the second girl crawled out the window. She shimmied down the length until her feet swayed just out of reach.

John caught sight of a third girl straddling the ledge and his heartbeat quickened.

“Stop!” he ordered ineffectively.

The blonde dropped into his outstretched arms and he caught her slight weight against his chest.

As he set her on her feet, she tipped back her head and struck his jaw. John saw stars. He was going to be black-and-blue by the time this was over.

“Thanks.” The girl sketched a wave and scurried aside. “I’m Sarah. I’ll help Moira while you catch the others.”

A pair of short boots descended into view, and John rubbed his sore chin.

He slanted a glance at the woman he’d rescued first. “Lady, please tell me someone up there has some sense.”

“Don’t count on it.” She avoided his searching gaze and stretched her right hand toward Sarah. “And you may call me Miss O’Mara.”

John hid a grin as Sarah awkwardly assisted Miss O’Mara onto unsteady legs. For a wild moment the two clung to each other like a couple of drunken sailors on a pitched deck. The moment the woman regained her footing, they sprang apart.

Miss O’Mara shook the mud from her back, then tugged her dark skirts lower. They were too short, showing a good bit of her worn boots and sliver of ankle. Together with her innocent face, it was easy to mistake her for an adolescent at first glance. On closer inspection, it was obvious she was in her late teens or early twenties.

“You’d better stand firm,” the woman ordered, swiping the back of her hand over her mud-splattered face. “That’s Darcy and she’s the heaviest.”

Distracted by the enticing smudge on Miss O’Mara’s cheek, John didn’t see the third escapee release her hold. His inattention cost him. A sharp elbow hammered his head and a boot scraped along his cheek. Blindly lifting his arms, he groaned beneath the girl’s weight and managed to set her aside before another, much smaller, pair of boots descended into his vision.

A curly-haired child hugged the knotted sheets, her ankles crossed.

John reached out. “Let go. I’ve got you.”

The youngster shook her head, her dark curls almost black against the moonlight.

Miss O’Mara stomped forward, her fisted hands planted on her slim hips. “Hazel, we haven’t much time. Let go this instant.”

The girl frantically shook her head. John rolled his eyes. Logic and orders weren’t going to convince Hazel of safety.

Stepping back a pace, he caught the little girl’s frightened gaze. “Almost there, Hazel. I’ll catch you.”

The frightened child sniffled. “Promise?”

“Promise.”

John swiped his index finger in an x across his chest. The childish display of fealty captured Hazel’s attention.

After a moment’s hesitation, she tumbled free and he easily caught her slight form. The instant he set her safely on the ground, she giggled. “That was fun. Can I do it again?”

“No!” Moira and John shouted in unison.

The last girl descended the rope and waved him aside. “Don’t need your help, mister.”

Unlike the previous girls, she released her legs and worked her hands down the length until she was only a few feet above the ground. John crossed his arms and stepped back as she easily dropped the abbreviated distance.

Straightening from her crouch, the girl dusted her hands together. “Thanks for helping with Hazel. I’m Antonella. But everyone calls me Tony.”

The girl pumped his hand once and stomped off.

John searched the empty window. A red velvet curtain flapped gently in the breeze. “Is that all of you?”

Miss O’Mara gathered her charges. “That’s four. Darcy, Sarah, Tony and Hazel.”

Scratching his head, John studied the motley gathering. “What are your ages, girls?”

Darcy boldly elbowed forward. “I’m fifteen next month.”

“Thirteen,” Sarah replied.

“Twelve and a half,” Tony chimed in.

The littlest girl, Hazel, glanced up. “I’m ten.”

John caught Miss O’Mara’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow.

She pursed her lips. “My age is none of your concern.”

Over twenty, he surmised immediately. Over twenty was about the age when a single woman ceased advertising her age. Little did she know. He’d give anything to be in his early twenties once more, when he’d still felt invincible.

Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “Are we safe now?”

The hairs on the back of John’s neck stirred. Each building had a distinctive look from the front, but facing the alley, they blended together into one indistinguishable row. He counted the doors from the corner and his chest tightened.

“Hey,” a slurred voice called from the open window. “Get back here.”

The girls shrieked and spun away.

Summoned by the commotion, a bearded man stuck his head out the saloon door and spit into the mud. “What’s goin’ on?”

A clamor sounded from the far end of the alley.

Miss O’Mara ushered the girls deeper into the darkness without even a backward glance. John split his attention between the growing cacophony of voices and the escapees.

Indecision kept his feet immobile. The girls hadn’t asked for his help. He could leave without an ounce of guilt. Considering they were obviously up to mischief, he’d already done more than most men would have.

“Hey, mister.” The drunken man smacked his palms against the sill. “Stop them girls. They stole my money.”

Of course. John mentally slapped his forehead. He should have known. He’d nearly been taken by a similar bunch in Buffalo Gap. Hastily stuffing his hands into his pockets, he breathed a sigh of relief. His fingers closed around the cool metal of his money clip. At least they’d rewarded his assistance by leaving him with the contents of his pockets intact.

Desperate children forced into desperate measures.

But what punishment did they deserve? John clenched his jaw. It wasn’t for him to decide.

A flash of yellow caught his attention. Half immersed in the mire, a rag doll lay forgotten. He pinched its yellow yarn braid between two fingers and held it aloft in the moonlight.

Above him, the shouting man worked his way down the rope. The sheets held firm and a grudging admiration for Miss O’Mara filtered through John’s annoyance. She tied knots like a trail boss.

“Well, mister,” the man demanded, his breath a fog of alcohol fumes. “Where’d them little thieves go?”

What now? If his brothers were here, they’d shove John aside like a pesky obstacle. They’d take charge and assume he didn’t have anything to offer. Like a herd of stampeding cattle, they’d wrestle all of the decisions—right or wrong—out of his hands. When his brothers were around, he never had to bother with taking responsibility.

John squinted into the darkened alley.

The inebriated man shoved him. “You deaf? I asked you a question.”

John clenched his jaw. The sooner he put Miss O’Mara out of his thoughts, the sooner he could continue his journey. Heaven knew he hadn’t even proved himself worthy of caring for a herd of cattle. A motley group of pickpocket orphans and a beautiful woman with fiery red hair were problems well beyond his limited resources.

Miss O’Mara and her charges were knee-deep in calamity and sinking fast. Moira required someone with the time, focus and connections to unravel her difficulties. Someone with the resources to steer her charges toward a respectable path. A hero. She’d gotten him instead. Maybe she’d have better luck down the road.

The drunken man took off in the direction Miss O’Mara and her charges had escaped. John snatched the man’s arm and pointed the opposite way. “I’d check down there.”

* * *

Moira heard the cowboy’s betrayal and her heart lodged in her throat. She tugged on Hazel’s arm and quickened her pace. With each pounding step her lungs burned and her vision blurred. What did speed matter when they were running blind? They’d be caught again for certain.

A hand tugged on her sleeve and tears of defeat sprang in her eyes. She yanked away. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet. The fingers kept a brutal grip.

“Miss O’Mara,” the cowboy spoke near her ear. “Let me carry Hazel. We’ll make better time.”

“No. You betrayed us.”

Moira stumbled and the cowboy steadied her with a hand cupping her elbow.

“I didn’t. Look around if you don’t believe me.”

At his calm reassurance, she slowed and glanced behind them. The alley was empty. No one pursued them.

While her exhausted brain grappled with the realization, the cowboy knelt. With childish faith, Hazel clambered onto his back. The little girl wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, effectively forcing Moira to follow. They ran another two blocks, her hand clasped in his solid grasp, before he halted.

The cowboy jerked his head toward a closed door. “In there.”

Frightened and weak with hunger, Moira instinctively reacted to the innate authority in his tone. She tore open the door and guided the others inside.

The pungent aroma of animals assailed her senses. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light and she noted Dutch doors lining either side of a cavernous center corridor. The cowboy had led them into the livery.

Horses stamped and snorted at the disturbance. The girls whispered together and Moira quickly shushed them. Their footsteps sounded like a stampede and their raspy, labored breathing chafed her taut nerves. She crept across the hay-strewn floor behind the cowboy, her index finger pressed against her lips for silence.

The cowboy gently lowered Hazel and propped an empty wooden saddle rack before the exit. Walking the aisle, he peered into each stall in turn, pausing before the third. He swung his arm in an arc, motioning them forward.

While the girls scurried inside the empty stall and huddled in the far corner, Moira bent and clutched the stitch in her side. In an effort to calm her rapid breathing, she dragged a deep breath into her tight lungs. The stall wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least they weren’t out in the open anymore.

The cowboy returned a moment later with an enormous hay bale and tossed it onto the ground. He came back twice more in quick succession. Understanding his intent, Moira yanked on the bale wire, grimacing as it dug into her palms. Each bundle must weigh a hundred pounds, yet the cowboy showed no signs of strain.

He returned again with a stack of burlap feed sacks draped over his arm. “Cover yourselves with these and don’t make a sound. If he searches the building, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe.”

“Wait,” Moira called in a soft voice. “Why are you doing this?”

He hesitated and she sensed a war raging within him.

During their escape from the brothel, she’d noted his lean, muscular build and caught a glimpse of his square jaw. In the milky light of the stable, she made out the dark hair curling from beneath his hat and the raspy-looking whiskers darkening his jaw. He had an aristocratic face with deep-set eyes, a patrician nose, and lips that qualified as works of art.

He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. If only she had her sketch pad. He’d make a superb subject. Like a hero in a penny awful rescuing the damsel in distress, he had the sort of face that inspired romantic dreams.

Moira mentally shook the wayward thoughts from her head. Dreaming of a happily ever after was like building a house on a shifting sandbar. She’d seen too many people caught by the enticing trap, starting with her own mother. Over the years she’d guarded her heart well, and she wasn’t about to weaken her resolve for a chiseled jaw.

A muscle worked in John’s cheek. “Keep your head down. I may have to cause a distraction. Whatever you hear, stay out of sight unless I tell you to run.”

His voice was rough and uneven and the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. Moira had effectively trapped them in a corner.

She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d entrusted their lives to a stranger, albeit a handsome stranger. “What’s your name?”

“John. John Elder.”

Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.

Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”

He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”

Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.

She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”

He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”

“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”

“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”

Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.

Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.

With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.

Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.

The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.

She should have heeded the warnings this time.

Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.

Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.

A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.

She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.

Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks from her destination, some drunken fool had nabbed and locked her in that second-story room with four other girls.

Children.

She hadn’t seen a one of them before that moment. Yet they’d formed an instant bond against a mutual enemy. Moira shuddered at the implication. She might be naive, but she knew a brothel when she saw one. If they were discovered, there’d be no escaping unscathed the next time.

Keeping her expression neutral, she passed each of the girls a sack. The less they picked up on her terror, the better. Being afraid didn’t change anything anyway. It only made the waiting more excruciating.

Together they huddled silently in the deepest recess of the darkened stall, barely concealed behind the stack of hay bales. Hazel crawled onto her lap and Moira started. The frightened little girl had clung to her since her kidnapping. Had that been only a few hours ago? It seemed like an eternity. Hazel burrowed deeper. Unused to such open displays of affection, Moira awkwardly patted the child’s back.

Tony took Hazel’s cue and clustered on Moira’s left side, Sarah on the other.

Darcy sat a distance apart, wrapping her arms around her bent legs and resting her chin on her knees. “This is stupid,” she announced in a harsh whisper. “You should have waited until I thought of a better plan.”

Moira pursed her lips. At fifteen, Darcy was the oldest of the girls—and the most sullen. The only words she’d uttered in the past two hours had been complaints or criticisms.

Darcy snarled another gripe beneath her breath.

Since they were all terrified and half-crazy with hunger, Moira bit back an angry retort. “We’re here now and we’ll have to make the best of it.”

Darcy scowled but kept blessedly quiet.

For the next several minutes they waited in tense silence. As time ticked away, the air beneath the burlap sacks grew thick and hot. Sarah shifted and coughed. Footsteps sounded from the corridor and Moira hugged Hazel tighter.

“Can I help you, sir?” an unfamiliar voice spoke.

“I’m looking for a gang of thieves.”

Moira immediately recognized the second man as her kidnapper. His raspy voice was etched on her soul.

“Five of them,” the kidnapper continued. “A bunch of girls. One of them picked the wrong pocket this time. Stole Mr. Grey’s gold watch.”

“Why didn’t he nab the little thief right then?” the first man spoke, his voice tinted with an accent that might have been Norwegian or Swedish.

“Because he didn’t notice his watch was missing right off.”

“Then how does he know who done took his watch?” The Norwegian sounded dazed.

“Because we got three reports of the same kind of thing.” The kidnapper’s voice raised an octave. “An orphan girl comes in begging for change or food, and the next thing people know, their watches and money go missing.”

“Well, I’m plum confused by the whole thing. Is it one girl you’re after or five?” The Norwegian sputtered. “Did all five of them pick Mr. Grey’s pocket? What’d she look like? Wait a second. What did they look like?”

“Well, let me see here. Mr. Grey seen a girl with red hair just before—” The kidnapper huffed. “Never mind. It ain’t your business. Have you seen them or not?”

Moira’s blood simmered. Why that low-down, no good, drunken...

Another thought jerked her upright. A watch. Four years ago a pocket watch had set off a chain of events that had changed her life forever. It was somehow fitting a timepiece had been at the center of this evening’s troubles.

Would John Elder protect them if he thought they were thieves? Who else would help them if that vile man spread lies to cover his foul deeds?

“I ain’t seen nobody,” the Norwegian replied.

A scuff sounded, as though someone had opened a door.

“Now you’ll have to leave,” the Norwegian ordered. “That’s a paying customer and you’re not.”

“Hey,” the kidnapper snapped. “Ain’t you the fellow from the alley?”

“Yep, that’s me.”

Moira started. John Elder was the “customer” who had come through the door. He must have escaped through the back and circled around front.

“The name is John,” her rescuer answered, sounding bored and a touch annoyed. “And I already told you where to find the girls.”

“Except I didn’t find them, did I?” The kidnapper cackled. “Maybe you’re saving them for yourself.”

Moira’s heart hammered so loudly and she feared they’d hear its drumbeat thumping through the slats in the stall door. She’d misjudged her reluctant rescuer once already tonight. Or had she?

“Look yourself,” John replied, his annoyance apparent. “They’re your problem, not mine.”

The horse in the neighboring stall whinnied and bumped against the wall. Moira stuffed her fist against her mouth. Itchy hay poked through her clothing and she resisted the urge to scratch. A moment later the footsteps paused before their stall. The door scraped open. She held her breath and prayed.

An eternity passed before the door slid closed once more. Moira heaved a sigh of relief, then offered a silent prayer and a couple of promises concerning future atonement for good measure. Another few seconds and they’d be safe.

Sarah stifled a sneeze. The sound was faint and muffled, but it might as well have been a shotgun blast. The door scraped open once more.

“Hey,” John called. “What did you just say to me?”

“Back off,” the kidnapper snapped. “I didn’t say nothing.”

“I think you did.”

Boots scuffed in the dirt and Moira winced at the sound of flesh hitting flesh. She whipped the bag from her head and sat erect, swiping her tangled and static hair from her eyes. From her vantage point, she watched as the cowboy spun the kidnapper around. John was obviously diverting the man’s attention.

Setting Hazel aside, Moira leaped to her feet. She’d best spring into action before John Elder decided that rescuing a bunch of orphans no longer suited him. She snatched a pitchfork from the corner and charged, jabbing her kidnapper in the backside. Yelping, the man sprang upright, his hands clutching his back pockets.

The kidnapper whipped around with a snarl and her stomach clenched. Roaring in fury, he hurtled across the distance. Moira quickly sidestepped, then stumbled.

A glint of light reflected from a star on the kidnapper’s lapel. Moira blanched.

Had her past finally caught up with her?

Chapter Two

Fear spiraled through Moira’s stomach and shot to her knees, weakening her stance. She’d gone and done it now.

The cowboy was easily two paces behind the kidnapper. Feinting right, she swept the handle around and batted her attacker’s legs. The man staggered and his arms windmilled. His left hand smashed against a hanging lantern. Glass shattered and sparks showered over the hay-strewn floor. Like a wild animal set loose, brilliant orange flames spread across the dry kindling. Astonished by the sudden destructive force, she staggered back a step.

In light of this new threat, Moira tossed aside the pitchfork and stomped on the rapidly spreading danger.

“Get back!” John hollered.

The kidnapper’s face twisted into a contorted mask of rage.

He pointed at Moira through the growing wall of smoke separating them. “It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, you little hoyden.”

With another shouted curse he pivoted toward the exit. Midstride, his right foot caught the curved tongs of Moira’s discarded pitchfork. The handle sprang upright and ricocheted off his forehead. The kidnapper’s expression morphed into a comical mask of astonishment before going slack. He stumbled back a step, jerked and collapsed. A soft cloud of hay dust billowed around his motionless body.

Moira stifled a shocked peal of laughter.

The cowboy gaped. “You are a menace.”

Her sudden burst of hysterics dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. Flames licked across the floor, belching black smoke in their wake.

Moira waved her hand before her face. “Stop bickering and help me put out the fire. I’ll get, I’ll...”

She stumbled over her words and her feet as she dashed back into the stall.

She lifted the sacks, revealing four flushed faces. “Fire! Everybody up. Help me beat out the flames.”

The girls scrambled from their hiding place and dutifully rushed past, each of them snatching a sack in turn.

Using his coat, the cowboy had already doused two of the smaller fires. “Wet those sacks first!” he shouted.

Without needing instruction, Moira and Tony doused their sacks and joined him. Hazel tugged a heavy bucket of water from a nearby stall. Sarah met her halfway and together they hoisted it into the air and dumped the contents onto a pile of glowing embers. The water hissed and steamed over the scorched ground. Darcy flitted around the edges, snapping her damp sack and adding more fuel than help.

The horses whinnied and kicked at their stalls. Tony opened the enclosure nearest the fire, then covered the horse’s eyes with a scrap of cloth.

A panicked shout announced the arrival of yet another man. He was old and grizzled, his back bent into a c and his arms no more than long, thin twigs jutting from his spare body. Judging by his muttered grumblings, Moira figured he was the Norwegian she’d heard earlier—the livery owner. He joined their efforts, stomping on the dying embers in a frantic jig.

Between the seven of them, they had the flames under control in short order. As the smoke dissipated, Moira kicked at the dusty floor, scraping away the top layer of ashes. The room went silent for a tense few minutes as they searched for hidden embers.

Once they determined the fire was well and truly extinguished, their forced camaraderie ceased.

The irate old man flailed his puny arms. “What in the world? You nearly burned down my barn. I ought to call the sheriff.” He stilled and scratched the prickly gray patchwork of whiskers covering his chin. “Except Sunday is poker night. Maybe the new deputy is around. Haven’t met that feller yet.”

John dug into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. “This is feed and board for my horses.” He added several more bills to the fat pile. “This is for the damage.”

The wizened man accepted the money with one gnarled hand and rubbed the shiny bald spot on the back of his head with the other. “Suit yourself.”

Moira wasn’t certain the exact amount the cowboy had paid, but it was enough to send the livery owner away whistling a merry tune.

Gathering her scattered nerves, she folded her burlap sack into a neat square. Her eyes watered and her lungs burned from the grit she’d inhaled.

John paced back and forth before her, his face red. After three passes, he halted and opened his mouth. No words came. Moira tilted her head.

“Are you crying?” he demanded at last.

“No. It’s from the smoke.”

“Good.” The cowboy worked his hands in the air before her as though he was strangling some invisible apparition. “I gave you very specific instructions. What did you think you were doing?”

“Assisting you, of course. And you might have thanked me.”

“I had everything under control. You, on the other hand, nearly burned down the barn. And us in the process.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, don’t you think?”

“If you had followed my very simple instructions, none of this would have happened. Give me some credit. I happen to know what I’m doing.” The cowboy thrust his hands into his flap pockets and his expression turned incredulous. He lifted his jacket hem, revealing where his fingers poked through a charred hole. “You’ve ruined my best coat.”

Moira stifled a grin at this outrage. He didn’t appear in the mood to appreciate the absurdity of the situation. “You were the one who used it to beat out an open flame.”

“I didn’t want to die.”

Moira’s eyes widened. She’d never heard anyone enunciate that clearly with their teeth still clenched together.

And why on earth was he angry? She planted her hands on her hips. Judging by the mottled red creeping up his neck, he wasn’t merely angry, he was furious. His searing glare would have melted a less hearty soul.

Moira straightened her spine. “You were hardly at risk of death.”

“You don’t know that. Your crazy stunt set this place ablaze.”

“I beg to differ. My crazy stunt saved our hides. Not to mention I used this perfectly useful burlap sack and not my best jacket. You might have done the same.”

“You could have trusted me. I haven’t proven myself unworthy yet. You might have at least waited.”

She cast him an annoyed glance. “What are you blathering on about now?”

“You are the most—”

“I haven’t time to debate with you.” Moira rubbed her eyes in tight circles with the heels of her hands. She instinctively knew their plight no longer suited John Elder’s interest. He’d be gone in a flash for certain.

Moira smoothed her hair and adjusted her collar. For a moment she’d thought the kidnapper was sporting a silver star. The glimpse she’d seen must have been a trick of the light. Besides, St. Louis was a lifetime ago. If the Giffords hadn’t looked for her after she’d left four years ago, they certainly weren’t looking for her now.

Dismissing the cowboy, her reluctant rescuer, she faced the girls.

Her stomach roiled. What now?

She hadn’t thought much past their immediate escape. Judging by their dazed expressions, neither had the others. Darcy had abandoned her indifferent sneer and Hazel’s lower lip trembled. Tears brimmed in Hazel’s wide brown eyes. Even Tony had lost her swagger.

“It’s safe now,” Moira announced and flapped her hands dismissively. “I believe our kidnapper will be indisposed for an extended period of time. You may all go home.”

“I’m sorry I sneezed and gave away our hiding place.” Sarah wrapped her arms around her slight body. “I can’t go home.”

“Of course you can,” Moira urged. “Mr. Elder will walk you safely home, won’t he?”

She lifted a meaningful eyebrow in his direction. Let him wiggle out of that one.

Sarah shook her head. “We haven’t any place to go.”

Moira caught sight of the safety pin, the number long-since faded, attached to the girl’s pinafore. Nausea rose in the back of her throat. “You were on the orphan train?”

“I have an uncle.” Tony cut in, her expression defiant. “He gave me a letter and everything. He said he’d come for me.”

Darcy braced her legs apart and planted her hands on her hips. “Then where is he now? You can claim whatever you want, but you’re no better off than the rest of us.”

“The woman on the train took my letter.” Tony lifted her chin. “She stole it while I was asleep. So I ran away. Folks don’t want children. They want workers. We’re free labor, plain and simple.” Tony jabbed her thumb at her chest. “I’m worth more. I was doing fine on my own until I was caught.” Her face blanched. “Until that man. Until tonight when we were...you know. I got sloppy, but it won’t happen again.”

“Don’t worry.” Moira patted her hand. “It’s all over now.”

The hollow platitudes stuck in the back of her throat. They were children. Alone. They’d never be safe. Her head spun with the implications of the impossible situation. Life for discarded children was ruthless and devoid of fairy-tale endings. At best they’d be neglected, at worst they’d be exploited. Driven into impossible choices.

The air sizzled with emotion and the girls crowded around her, speaking over each other, demanding her attention. She backed away from the onslaught and they crowded her against the stall door.

“I have a sister,” Sarah announced with a nod. “She’s older than me. She said she’d take care of me, but her husband didn’t want me. They put me on the train anyway.”

Moira swayed on her feet. The past came rushing back. She pictured her mother standing on the platform, her ever-present handkerchief pressed against her mouth as she coughed. Moira had held her brother’s hand clasped in her own.

“I’ll take care of you, Tommy.”

She knew better than anyone did the perils of survival. She’d been tested herself. Tested, and failed.

“Miss O’Mara,” John Elder’s voice interrupted her memories. “What’s going on here? Aren’t you together?” He circled his arms and touched his fingertips together. “Aren’t you a gang of little pickpockets?”

Her body stiffened in shock. “You’d believe a drunken kidnapper over a bunch of innocent children?”

She hadn’t stolen anything in the four years since she’d left the Giffords’. Not even when she’d been near starving. He didn’t know anything about her. He was making a blind guess, that’s all.

A horse stuck its head from the stall door and nuzzled her ear. Moira absently scratched its muzzle.

Hazel tugged on her skirts. “What’s a pickpocket?”

Guilt skittered across the cowboy’s face. “I’m sorry,” he spoke. “I’m not certain what’s going on here. It’s not that I don’t have sympathy for your predicament, but I’ve got a herd of cattle.” He motioned over his shoulder. “I can’t leave them for much longer.”

Moira ran her hand through her sweat-dampened hair. What was she going to do? She couldn’t hide them all. “I’m renting a room at the hotel. It’s the size of a water closet.”

She was tired and hungry and bruised. The entire trip had been a waste of time and she was penniless. Stuck in this corrupt town unless she could find a respectable job. As much as she wanted to help, there wasn’t much she could do. She could barely take care of herself.

The four girls cowered before her like penned animals who’d escaped their enclosure. They were wide-eyed and curious, frightened and hesitant. And lost. That was the thing about growing up in a caged environment, a person could always feel around the edges and find where the ground dropped off. Even being homeless was as much of a cage as anything else. When the basic needs of food and shelter consumed every waking moment, survival was a jail all its own. No time for dreams or hopes or plans of the future. The moment they’d found one another, the rules had altered. They were a team.

Moira vividly recalled her first year alone after leaving the Giffords—the fear, the uncertainty, the uneasy exhilaration of holding her own fate in her hands, unencumbered by the push and pull of others. A similar feeling was blossoming in the girls.

Having stretched beyond their solitary struggles, they showed the first trembling signs of hope. They’d discovered kindred spirits, and they were holding on tight, lashing together their brittle fellowship like a flimsy raft against troubled waters. Moira hadn’t the heart to tell them they were better off alone. Sooner or later, everyone wound up alone.

Sarah hung her head. “No one picked me at the last stop,” she spoke quietly. “I couldn’t stand it anymore. It’s like at recess when nobody picks you for a team. When the chaperones came for us at the hotel, I hid. I did what I had to do. I know I’ve done things wrong and I’ve prayed for forgiveness. After you helped us, I felt like my prayers were answered.”

The room swayed and Moira’s vision clouded. She knew the feeling of being passed around like a secondhand coat nobody wanted anymore. Though she feared the answer, she asked anyway, “Where have you been staying since then?”

“We all just sort of found each other and stuck together. There’s an abandoned building near the edge of town.” Sarah ducked her head. “That’s where that man found us.”

Darcy’s expression remained defiant. “You all knew it couldn’t last. You knew they’d catch us sooner or later. I was on my own for four years without getting caught.” She noticed Moira’s curious glance and her countenance faltered. “I was on my own for four years,” she repeated.

Though Moira didn’t want to hear any more, didn’t want to know any more, she’d set her questions into motion and there was no going back.

She knelt before Hazel, the youngest. The little girl wore a faded blue calico dress, the grayed rickrack trim ripped and drooping below her hem. “Do you have a home?” Moira asked gently.

The littlest girl shook her head. “A family picked me, but I was bad and they took me back.” Hazel sniffled. “I left the chicken coop open by accident and the dog got in. All the chickens died. Mrs. Vicky didn’t want me any more after that. Then tonight I only wanted an apple... I would have worked for it. I would have.”

Sarah rested a hand on her shoulder. “You don’t have to say any more.”

Moira gritted her teeth. They were just children and they’d been discarded like so much rubbish. She was sick of it. Sick of people thinking children didn’t have thoughts or feelings. “How did you wind up in Indian Territory?”

“Because this is the end of the line,” Darcy said.

There wasn’t much between the Indian Territories and California. Moira supposed No Man’s Land was as good a place as any to dump the unwanted children.

Ten years ago she’d been a rider on the orphan train. She and her brother, Tommy. She hadn’t kept the promise she’d made to her mother. She hadn’t taken care of Tommy.

Sometimes she felt as though she was being punished for her failure. She hadn’t felt peace since that fateful day when she’d slipped Mr. Gifford’s watch into her pocket. She’d known it was wrong. She’d known it was stealing. She couldn’t help herself. She often wondered what kind of person she’d become. She wondered if there was any going back. If she’d slipped once, how much temptation did she need before she slipped again?

Mr. Gifford had blamed Tommy for the missing watch and she’d been too terrified to admit the truth. Mr. Gifford had promised retribution, but Tommy hadn’t waited around for the punishment. By the following morning, he was gone. And he hadn’t even said goodbye.

Once she found him, once she confessed what she’d done, this pain would end. She’d waited another year at the Giffords’ even though staying had been near torture. She’d waited hoping Tommy would return so she could explain the truth and finally take the blame. Except he’d never come back.

After she’d left the Giffords’, she’d remained in St. Louis, hoping against hope she’d glimpse him. It was crazy, but it was all she had. She’d kept in touch with anyone she thought she could trust, but most of the servants were too scared for their jobs to return the favor. Then she’d received the charred bits of the telegram from the maid with Tommy’s name. Her prayers had finally been answered.

The girls stared at her, their faces expectant. Moira knew better than anyone what fate awaited the orphan girls, but there was nothing she could do. The system was too far broken for one lone person to fix. She glanced at the cowboy. He looked away. Mr. Elder wanted a crew, not a bunch of waifs.

Moira shook her head in denial. They didn’t know her. They didn’t know how she’d failed Tommy. How she’d fail them if they put their faith in her. They’d turn on her for certain if they knew how she’d betrayed her own brother.

Shame robbed the breath from her lungs. “I’m sorry, but I can’t help you. Any of you.”

* * *

The defeat in Moira’s voice knocked John down a peg. For the past twenty minutes he’d been patting himself on the back, lauding his clever handling of the situation. While the rescue hadn’t been particularly elegant, he’d accomplished his goal. He’d saved the girls from the dubious justice of a drunken vigilante and disabled the man in the process. What had his false pride netted him? He hadn’t solved anything. He’d mined a heap of new problems instead.

One night, John told himself. He’d lost a whole day already, what was one more?

His brothers’ words rang in his ears. You’ll never make it without our help.

All his life they’d treated him as though he wasn’t capable. Every bit of clothing he’d had growing up had been a hand-me-down. If he had an idea, they had a thousand reasons why it wouldn’t work. If he wanted to try something new at the ranch, he had to ask permission like a child. At thirty-three years old, they still treated him as though he was a kid. Truth be told, he was the odd man out in his family. He’d always been more relaxed, more easygoing than the rest of his siblings.

His brothers attacked their responsibilities, no matter how minor, with all-consuming zeal and they expected him to do the same. John figured there were times when letting go was just as difficult as fighting. Yet he’d never once seen a monument erected in honor of a calculated retreat.

He and his brother Robert had fought the worst. Their last argument had divided the family, and John had realized it was time to set out on his own. If he stayed, one of them was bound to say something they couldn’t take back. The only way they were going to get along was if one of them backed down. He’d demanded his share of the herd and declared his intention to take over the homestead his older brother Jack had abandoned when he’d married.

You’ll never make it without our help.

Robert’s words rang in his ears. John pulled out his watch and checked the time. Eleven o’clock. Too late for anything but sleeping. He’d quit tomorrow, when things were less complicated.

Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “I’m tired. Can we come home with you?”

“I don’t have a home. Not here anyway.” Weary resignation softened his voice. When had his simple goal become this complicated? “I’m driving a herd of cattle to Cimarron Springs, Kansas.”

He felt another tug on his pant leg.

Hazel’s liquid brown eyes stared up at him. “Do you have any food at your camp?”

John’s throat tightened. His whole life he’d been surrounded by the suffocating pressure of family. But he’d never gone to bed hungry.

And he’d never been homeless. “When was the last time any of you ate?”

Hazel shrugged.

John studied each of the girls in turn, their personalities already forming in his mind. Sarah kept her face downcast, as though asking for help was an imposition. Tony met his questioning gaze straight on, challenging. Darcy remained hesitant, uncertain, caught between rebellion and desperation.

Moira’s eyes haunted him most of all. A curious shade of pale blue-green, the color of the tinted glass of a mason jar, translucent and ethereal. Hopeless. The foreign emotion resonated in his heart. You couldn’t mourn for something you’d never had. What had Moira hoped for, and lost? She hadn’t hoped for someone like him, that much was certain. She’d made her disdain of him apparent. Yet the desolate look in her eyes was hauntingly familiar. He’d seen that look once before.

Years ago, Robert had lost his wife during a bank robbery gone sour. He’d never forget the agony his brother had suffered. The pain of loss his niece and nephew had worn from that moment on. The death of their mother had bent them like saplings in the wind. They’d survived the tragedy, but they were irrevocably changed.

Robert had changed, too. He’d been married and widowed young. A man who’d grown old before his time beneath the weight of tragedy. Four years separated the brothers in age, though it might as well have been forty. He couldn’t bridge the chasm between them—because knowing why Robert had changed and getting along with him were different things. After their last fight over how to run the family ranch, John had known he could no longer stay without tearing the rest of the family apart.

He rubbed his forehead. He had enough food back at camp to feed four hungry crewmen. Certainly enough for a few scrawny females.

He was well and truly trapped by his own conscience.

One night, he repeated. What was the harm in sheltering the girls for one night? Yet the past two months had taken its toll on his endurance. Even the most basic problems had multiplied, popping up like wild mushrooms after a spring rain.

Impatient with his indecision, Hazel took his hand. “Why are you taking your cattle for a walk?”

“It’s not a walk,” John patiently explained. “It’s called a drive. I’m driving them to Cimarron Springs.”

“How come?”

“Because I was tired of trying to prove myself,” John grumbled beneath his breath.

Hazel’s innocent questions struck too close to the heart of the matter. He didn’t have any strength left to pretend he didn’t care. Feigned complacency took energy, and he was plum out of flippant answers. Everyone in a family had a role, and John’s role had been determined before he’d toddled off the porch and cut his chin. A scar he still bore. A preconceived legacy he couldn’t shake.

He was the one who dove in headfirst without heeding the dangers. He was the most impulsive of his family, the most easygoing, too, as far as he could tell. Which meant his brothers rarely took his ideas seriously. When he’d declared his intent to purchase his brother Jack’s plot of land in Cimarron Springs and drive his share of the herd north before Kansas closed its borders against longhorns, Robert had scoffed.

You’ll lose your shirt.

John hadn’t lost yet.

He did have an idea how to stop the girls’ incessant questions. “You can stay with me tonight.” A body couldn’t talk while eating. “I’m coming back to town tomorrow. We’ll find help during the day. There’s nothing else we can do this late.”

The relief on their faces disgraced him. “Can any of you ride?”

Tony and Darcy nodded.

Moira shrugged. “Some.”

He’d earlier judged Miss O’Mara’s age as early twenties. Old enough for courting and pretty enough for dozens of marriage proposals. John pictured the girls back home with their giggles and coy smiles. Moira could easily pass for one of those girls. She had a sweet face, pale and round, with a natural dusting of pink on her cheeks. Her lips were full and rose colored, perfect for kissing. But despite the natural innocence nature had bestowed on her face, her eyes held a jarring, world-weary cynicism.

John plucked the hat he’d lost during the fight from the ground and dusted the brim. He slanted a glance at the prone man who lay where Moira’s discarded pitchfork had rendered him senseless. Their pursuer would come to soon enough, and he’d be spitting mad.

They didn’t have much time. “I’ll take you back to my camp. We’ll figure out the rest in the morning.”

Moira moved protectively before the girls. “Is there anyone at camp besides you?”

“Yes,” John answered truthfully.

She pursed her full lips and he glanced away from the distraction.

Moira tsked. “Then the answer is no. I’ll take care of the girls myself.”

The return of her elusive temper buoyed his spirits. That was more like it. “I’ve got a cook. His name is Pops and I’m pretty sure he’s as old as dirt. And ornery. But he makes good grub.” John laughed drily. “Too bad you weren’t a bunch of boys. I’d hire you on as my new crew and save myself another trip into town.”

His joke fell on deaf ears. A myriad of emotions flitted across Moira’s expressive face. Doubt, hope, fear. She wanted to trust him, she didn’t have much other choice, but he sensed her lack of faith. Not for the first time he wondered about Miss O’Mara’s background. What was her story? She was at once an innocent girl and a jaded woman, and he couldn’t help but wonder what forces had shaped her.

“I’ve got five horses I need delivered back to camp,” John continued. “You’d be helping me out.”

Hazel appeared crestfallen. “If I can’t ride, does that mean I can’t go?”

His heart heavy, John knelt before the little girl. “Of course you can go. You can ride with me.”

He marveled at their expressive personalities. Darcy was petulant and defiant—he’d keep an eye on that one. Sarah was meek, with a thread of steel behind her shy demeanor. Tony pressed her independence, but she wasn’t as brave as she appeared. Nothing prevented Tony from leaving. She’d stayed instead. And Hazel. What kind of heartless person discarded a little girl because of a simple mistake?

John faced Moira, the unspoken leader. Her eyes drooped at the corners and he realized she’d reached the end of her rope.

He knew that feeling well enough. “Trust me.”

Her eyes sparked with emotion. “For tonight,” she replied, her voice a telling mixture of exhaustion and determination. “Just for tonight.”

The kidnapper stirred and groaned. John crossed the distance and looped his arms beneath the prone man’s shoulders. Heels dragging tracks through the dirt floor, he dragged the dead weight into an empty stall. A glint of silver on the man’s coat caught his attention. John flipped the lapel aside and groaned. The silver star knocked the wind from his lungs. The words stamped into the metal flickered in the lamplight: Deputy Sheriff.

John staggered back a few feet and braced his hands on the slatted walls. Hang it all. He’d gone and decked a lawman. A burst of anger flared in his chest. None of this nonsense would have happened if the fool deputy had declared himself a lawman right out. The drunken man had never once identified himself. Pacing the narrow enclosure, John considered his options. He didn’t know what any of this meant, but he knew well enough this situation had gone from bad to worse.

His stomach grumbled. Time enough tomorrow for facing the consequences. As hungry as he was, the girls must be ravenous. Sorting out the details when they were all exhausted and near starved would only make matters worse.

He briefly considered waking the deputy before he caught another whiff of the alcohol. Moira and her charges were too vulnerable for a man who was bound to wake up mean. Keeping his gaze averted, John slid shut the stall door and dropped the T-bar into place.

He motioned toward Moira. “Let’s get this show on the road.”

With no other choice but to move forward, John gathered his five horses and had them saddled and ready in short order. Growing wearier by the moment, the girls groggily followed his orders, stifling yawns behind patched-elbow sleeves. Their eyes blinked slower and slower.

While the horses stamped and snorted, he quickly emptied his men’s saddlebags into a burlap sack. When that task was completed, he cinched a rope around the top and placed the belongings with the livery owner for safekeeping.

The elderly man jerked upright from his half doze and accepted the parcel. “Your men ain’t gonna be too happy when they come back and find their mounts gone.”

John braced his knuckles against the doorframe. “They can keep their gear and the pay they earned this far. The horses are mine. They’re well aware of that.”

“You don’t have to convince me.” The livery owner kicked back in his chair and closed his eyes.

John set his jaw. He’d been second-guessed his whole life by his own family, he wasn’t paying a bunch of two-bit cowhands for the privilege.

As the girls clustered in the moonlit corral, John took stock of their attire. Each of the younger girls wore warm coats buttoned to their throats. Not Moira. She wore only her thin cotton dress with its too-short hem—a dress more suited for a sultry summer evening than a crisp fall night. How had she wound up crawling out the window of a brothel? Why had the deputy stashed the girls in such an unlikely place? Snippets of girls’ conversation rattled around his brain.

I was doing fine on my own until I was caught...

I got sloppy...

I only wanted an apple...

He pinched the bridge of his nose. He was too weary for the answer. Too cowardly to face what his questions might uncover. Tomorrow would come soon enough. He’d get his answers then. None of them appeared injured, at least not physically, which meant any questions he had could wait. A good night’s sleep would make the reckoning that much easier.

Moira blinked at his lengthy silence.

John tilted his head and considered Miss O’Mara. The more time he spent with her, the more he realized she wasn’t like the girls back at home at all. She didn’t fill the silence with chatter. She hadn’t asked for anything. Not food or help or even money. Certainly money would solve their most pressing problems. The fact remained, she hadn’t asked and he wouldn’t offer. He’d accepted responsibility only for their safety, at least for this evening. A guarantee he planned on keeping.

A light mist gathered on Moira’s eyelashes, sparkling like tears in the moonlight. A delicate shiver fluttered down her arms. He realized she’d been holding herself rigidly, hiding her discomfort.

Feeling like a first-rate heel for letting her suffer in the chill night air, John shrugged out of his jacket and tossed it to her. “Take this.”

She caught the material against her chest with a shake of her head. “I mustn’t,” she protested, but he couldn’t help but note how she clutched the material, her knuckles whitening. “Thank you.”

“I’ve got a slicker in my saddlebags.” Her obvious gratitude roughened his voice. “That’ll be good enough.”

She should have been chastising him, not thanking him. His mother had taught him better. No matter the surroundings or the circumstances, he’d been raised a gentleman.

Moira glanced up shyly, staring at him through the delicate fringe of her eyelashes. She fingered the charred hole in his pocket and a mischievous grin lit her face. “Are you certain you trust me with your best coat?”

Heartened by her teasing, he replied, “Just don’t set it on fire. Again.”

For a moment her guard slipped. She smiled at him, a wide grin that plumped her cheeks and lit her eyes. His heart sputtered, an irregular beat as though it was searching for a new rhythm. Miss O’Mara was beautiful, though not from the perfection of her features. Her lips were too full, her nose too pert for classic beauty—yet her smile was captivating and her eyes tipped and exotic. Her brilliant red hair shimmered in the moonlight, a ruckus of curls tumbling over her shoulders, torn free from its moorings by the night’s activities. She was perfect in her imperfection, and his addled brain grappled with his unexpected fascination.

Worrying that he’d give himself away at any moment, John tore his gaze away and cleared his throat. “We should, uh, the night’s not getting any younger and neither am I.”

Her expression faltered at his abrupt dismissal. As she turned he reached out his arm, then let it drop. It was better she didn’t see him as her rescuer. A misty haze of desolation surrounded her, unsettling his judgment. She’d seen more of the world than was meant for one so young. More of the darkness.

John shook his thoughts back to the task at hand.

Having studied the girls while they saddled the horses, he had a fair idea of their experience. All of his mounts were trained and relatively well mannered. He’d broken them himself. He’d always kept his own horses on the ranch, all of them raised from foals and trained by his own hand. A gentle touch resulted in the best mounts, a theory mocked by many of the ranch hands. He ignored their jeers because his results spoke for themselves. His horses were sought out from Illinois to Nevada. Through his brother Jack’s contacts, he’d even provided trained mounts for the Texas Rangers.

As with all animals, each of them had a personality, and he matched the girls accordingly.

“Mount up,” he ordered, watching them from the corner of his eye.

Tony, the most experienced of the group, effectively scurried into the saddle. John swung up behind Hazel and found the other three standing uncertainly beside their horses.

“Mount up,” he ordered again.

Sarah shifted and spread her hands. “Um. I don’t think I can.”

John paused and assessed the problem. The stirrup hit at her shoulder. Between the height of the saddle and her confining skirts, she was stuck. Why hadn’t he noticed before? Because I don’t usually ride out of a livery at midnight with a bunch of girls, that’s why, he reminded himself. Men, he understood. He’d been raised on a ranch full of men. Women, not so much.

“I’ll help.” John swung off his mount. He touched Hazel’s leg and met her questioning brown eyes. “Wait here and don’t wiggle too much.”

The little girl patted the horse’s neck. “What’s her name?”

“His name is Bullhead.”

“How come?”

“Because he’s bullheaded.”

“I don’t like that,” Hazel scowled. “I’ll call him Prince instead. I like that better.” She leaned forward and one of the horse’s ears swiveled in her direction. “You like that better, too, don’t you?”

The horse nickered, as though in approval. Hazel grinned triumphantly. “See? He likes his new name much better, don’t you, Prince?”

Another nicker. John rolled his eyes. “Whatever strikes your fancy.”

Not like the name was going to stick. She could call the horse Pretty Britches for all he cared. By tomorrow evening, he’d have Bullhead back.

A half smile at Hazel’s antics plastered on his face, he gave Darcy and Sarah a leg up, then paused before Moira. She’d reluctantly donned his coat, and the sleeves hung well below her fingertips. Her scent teased his senses and he searched for the elusive source. It was floral, and familiar, inspiring a sense of peace and well-being. He pictured a summer’s day, white moths fluttering above a field of bluebells, a gentle breeze whispering through the grass.

Peonies. That’s what had struck a chord. She smelled like peonies.

He lifted her hand and turned back the cuff, then repeated his action on the other side.

Keeping her eyes narrowed, she remained stubbornly quiet during his ministrations. John recalled what he’d stuffed in his pocket earlier. He reached out and Moira started. He stilled immediately, then moved more slowly, approaching her as he might a frightened animal—gradually, gently. She was as skittish as a newborn calf. Cautiously reaching into the pocket of his coat, he lifted his hand and revealed the rag doll he’d found earlier.

Moira’s face lit up. “That’s Hazel’s doll! Where did you find it?”

“In the mud beneath the window.”

She took the doll from him, cradling the soft material in her cupped hands. She glanced in the direction of Hazel and Bullhead—newly christened as Prince. The little girl murmured softly, petting its neck. Fascinated with the horse, she certainly wasn’t missing her lost doll.

Moira thoughtfully stroked the braided yarn, absently fingering the hand-sewn stitches. Her fingers moved reverently, lovingly, as though the fabric was silk instead of muslin.

Her rapt interest gave him pause. “Did you have a doll like that growing up?”

He didn’t know what had inspired his question, this wasn’t exactly the time or place for casual conversation.

She shook her head, her face melancholy. “No. I never had anything as fine as this.”

John choked off a laugh, certain she was fooling around. When her expression remained somber, he cleared his throat. “You should keep it safe. Until we’re back at camp.”

“She needs a bit of washing, that’s all. A little scrubbing and she’ll be good as new.”

“Of course.” He floundered. “She’ll be as bright as a brass button.”

Lost in a world he didn’t understand, Moira carefully wrapped the doll in a faded red handkerchief and gingerly replaced the bundle in the pocket of his jacket. For a moment the ground tilted on its axis and the world turned topsy-turvy. With Moira, the feelings sputtering in his chest were foreign, tossing him out of his element. This wide-eyed sprite carried a mixed bag of reactions. One minute she was chastising him, the next moment she was teary-eyed over a battered rag doll.

John shook his head. He’d never understand women. Not if he lived to be one hundred and ten years old.

“You ready?” he asked.

She nodded, then swiveled her head left and right, uncertain. She’d said she was a rider. She’d lied. Near as he could tell, she wasn’t sure which side to mount on—a basic skill of horsemanship. In deference to her novice ability, he grasped her around the waist and easily lifted her, surprised by her diminutive weight.

She was slight and delicate, vulnerable and threatening all at the same time. As she sheepishly attempted to cover her ankles, he averted his gaze. The self-conscious action sparked a burst of sorrow in his chest. Someone as proud and brave as Moira deserved a wardrobe full of new dresses that dusted the ground, like a well-heeled lady.

Quelling his wayward emotions, he turned away. To his enormous relief, the livery owner scuffled into the corral, splintering the tense moment.

The older man gestured toward the stables. “What am I supposed to do with that fellow in the stall?”

“Let him out when he wakes up,” John called over his shoulder. “You don’t know anything.”

“True enough,” the man replied. “True enough.”

Moira adjusted her feet in the stirrups and stared down at John. She must have discovered the starch in her spine while his back had been turned. She sat up straighter, her face a stern mask of disapproval. “You better not double-cross us, mister.”

The obvious rebuke in her voice triggered a long-forgotten memory. Years ago at a family wedding he’d joked with Ruth Ann, his on-again, off-again sweetheart, about getting married. She’d looked him straight in the eye, her disappointment in him painfully clear. “You’re too easygoing. I need someone who can take care of me.”

Ruth Ann had married his best friend instead. They had five kids and a pecan farm not far from the Elder ranch.

John had set out to prove himself, and so far he’d come up short. He couldn’t even take care of a herd of cows, let alone this vulnerable woman with her sorrowful, wounded eyes.

“I won’t double-cross you,” he replied evenly.

Moira’s fears weren’t unwarranted, just misdirected. He wasn’t a hero. There was no one riding to the rescue and the sooner he separated from this bunch the better. Before they found out they’d placed their fragile hopes on the wrong man.

There was something else going on here, and he wasn’t the man to sort it out.

Chapter Three

A short time later Moira swung off her horse and pain lanced up her legs. She winced, hobbling a short distance. She’d ridden a handful of times before and understood the rudimentary skills, but she wasn’t nearly as confident as she’d let on.

She’d thought she’d fooled John Elder. The sympathy in his perceptive eyes had exposed her mistake. He’d known she was a fraud, and he’d been too polite to voice his observation. She’d paid the price for her bravado. With each step, her untried muscles screamed in protest. She unwittingly sank deeper into John Elder’s coat and inhaled its comforting scent.

Over the years she’d come to associate two smells with men—cloying, headache-inducing cologne and the pungent scent of exertion. John’s coat smelled different, a combination of animal, man and smoldering wood. The unfamiliar mixture was strange and soothing. Despite the cool night, warmth spread through her limbs.

Shadows dotted the horizon, silhouetted against the moonlight. Restless cattle lowed at their arrival and Moira shivered. The glow of a fire marked the center of the camp. A wagon and three oatmeal-colored canvas tents were pitched in an arc around the cheery flames. The orderly sight was reassuring.

When she’d turned eighteen, she’d left the Giffords with little more than the clothes on her back. The gentleman who’d delivered their milk took pity on her and talked his brother-in-law into giving her a job. The brother-in-law owned a hotel and she cooked and cleaned for her room and board. She’d even kept in touch with the delivery boy from the grocer, and he’d promised to tell her if Tommy returned to the Giffords.

She’d never have considered it possible, but she’d traveled the West in style up until now. Moving from train depot to train depot, staying among people, clinging to the last vestiges of civilization, keeping her adventures urbane. Everything beyond the trampled town streets was wild and untapped.

While she drank in her new surroundings, John gathered the girls into a tight circle and spoke, “These cattle aren’t easily spooked, but they’re not used to your voices or your scents. They don’t know you’re a bunch of harmless girls. No loud noises or sudden moves. Stay within fifteen feet of the fire at all times. Once an animal that size stampedes, there’s no stopping.”

Hazel fiddled with the drooping rickrack on her hem. “Can we pet them?”

“Not now,” the cowboy replied without a hint of impatience. “Maybe in the morning. It’s for your own good. I’m keeping you safe.”

Safe. Moira hugged her arms around her chest. They weren’t safe. They’d simply turned down the flame. That didn’t mean they were any better off than they were before. Well, except the odds were better and the doors weren’t locked. They could run if they chose.

John whistled softly and a blur of white and brown padded into view. Moira took an involuntary step backward. A large gold-and-white collie appeared. The dog took its place at John’s heel and tilted its head. The cowboy absently patted the animal’s ears.

The four girls immediately rushed forward.

“He’s so cute!”

“What kind of dog is he?”

“Can he sleep with us tonight?”

John held up his hands. “Easy there. This is a working dog. He’s not real friendly.”

Moira craned her neck for a better view. The “working” dog had rolled onto its back. Its pink tongue lolled out the side of its snout while four paws gently sawed the air.

Darcy snickered. “He looks pretty friendly to me.”

Though the dog appeared harmless, Moira kept her distance. She’d been bitten once and the experience had left her wary. Dogs were unpredictable and temperamental. Best not to get too close.

Hazel rubbed her hand along the puff of fur of the dog’s belly. “What’s her name?”

“His name is Dog.”

“He’s far too handsome for such a plain name,” Sarah declared, rubbing one furry ear between her thumb and forefinger. “I think we should call him Champion.”

“Or Spot,” Hazel added.

Darcy shook her head. “That’s stupid. Why would we call him Spot? He doesn’t have a single spot on him.”

The cowboy pressed two fingers against his temple. “He doesn’t need a name. He’s already got a name.”

“Dog is a silly name,” Hazel grumbled. “Just like Bullhead is a silly name. You’re not very good at naming pets.”

John smothered a grin with one hand. “I’ve been accused of a lot of shortcomings, but I have to say that’s a new one.”

“Then we’ll give him a better name.” Hazel backed away several paces. “Come here, Champion.”

The dog trotted over.

Though the cowboy’s face remained impassive, Moira noted the rise and fall of his chest as he heaved an exasperated breath.

She grudgingly admired John’s even temper. Weak with hunger, her mood swung between rage and despair at a moment’s notice. Right now she’d give anything for a soft bed and a slice of pie. Apple pie. A thick cut of crispy crust. She pictured cinnamon-flecked filling oozing between the tines of her fork. Her mouth watered and she swayed on her feet.

“What’s all this?” another voice called.

Moira snapped to attention. A squat man emerged from the farthest tent. As round as he was tall, his bowed legs were exactly half of his size. A shock of gray hair topped his perfectly round head and his plump face was smooth and cleanly shaven. He adjusted his belt and crossed his arms over his chest.

The cowboy tossed a log onto the fire, sending a shower of sparks drifting skyward. “I’ve brought you some mouths to feed.”

“What happened to the fellows?”

“Gone.”

The abrupt answer piqued Moira’s curiosity.

“Good riddance, I say,” the older man replied. “Not a decent one in the lot.”

John grunted and motioned between the squat man and the girls. “This is Pops. Pops, this is Darcy, Tony, Sarah, and little Hazel. They’ll be staying with us tonight. And they could all use some grub.”

John motioned Moira forward. “And this is Miss O’Mara, she’s in charge of the girls.”

“Well, not exactly, I wouldn’t say—” Moira stuttered over her scattered explanation.

She was the outsider.

No one ever put her in charge of anything, let alone anyone. Her vagabond life from orphan to foundling had shaped her into an expert at dealing with rejection. She spent her time hovering on the fringes, unnoticed. She came and went before anyone had a chance to know her.

Folks didn’t trust loners. Which at times she found annoying, especially considering the people who’d betrayed her trust most egregiously were the ones she’d known best of all.

Pops extended his hand. “Pleased to meet you, Miss.”

Moira offered a quick shake and a weak smile.

“You look fit to eat your shoe leather,” the old man continued. “Let me fetch something that’ll stick to your ribs.”

“I’ll help,” Sarah offered quickly.

Moira blinked. As the most shy of the bunch, she hadn’t expected Sarah to step forward.

The next twenty minutes passed in a blur. Moira and the girls ate quickly, devouring the simple stew with gusto. Their chattering gradually quieted and their shoulders drooped. Pops and John rustled up a stack of blankets and Moira arranged them inside the tent nearest the warming fire. Once all four girls had pulled the covers over their shoulders, she sat back on her heels.

The dog wove his way through the tent, sniffing each girl in turn before returning outside and lying before the closed tent flaps and resting its snout on outstretched paws.

With her hunger sated for the first time in days, Moira transformed from bone-weary exhaustion into a bundle of nerves. Not tired, but not quite awake either. She was anxious and uncertain. The evening had been a chaotic ride fraught with danger. There’d been a time when she would have lit a precious candle and read until her restlessness passed, but she hadn’t either a book or a candle.

Emerging from the tent, she gingerly stepped over Champion before arching her back. John crouched before the fire, arranging the logs with the whittled point of a stick.

Moira glanced around. “Where’s Pops?”

“Asleep.” John relaxed against his cinched bedroll and stretched out his legs, crossing his ankles and lacing his hands behind his head. His hat sat low on his forehead, shadowing his eyes as the firelight danced over the planes of his face. “I’ve never seen Pops that agreeable. It’s worth having you girls around to enjoy his rare good temper.”

Moira scoffed. “You’re pulling my leg.” The grandfatherly man was as gentle as a spring lamb.

“Don’t let him fool you. He’s meaner than a sack full of rattlesnakes.”

She shrugged out of John’s coat and approached the cowboy. “Thanks for letting me borrow this.”

“Keep it.”

Too tired for arguing, Moira put it back on. Stretching her arms through the sleeves once more, she inhaled his reassuring scent. She sat cross-legged before the cheery blaze, her hands folded in her lap. Cocooned by darkness, she was content with the silence between them, comforted by the lowing cattle and the crackling fire. Gradually the tension in her sore muscles eased.

The flames danced in the breeze, orange and yellow with an occasional flash of blue at the base. A fire not contained by brick and mortar was foreign. More beautiful and compelling.

John glanced across the distance, shadows flickering across his face. “The girls okay?”

Moira nodded.

“Did anything happen back there?” He tipped back his hat, revealing his clear and sympathetic eyes. “Anything more?”

Moira knew what he was asking, and she answered as best she could. “I don’t think so. We were all taken this evening and locked in together.”

A sigh of relief lowered his shoulders. “Thank God.”

He visibly relaxed, and she realized he’d been carrying the tension since he’d counted the windows. He hadn’t known she was watching, but she’d observed his studied concentration, seen his face change when he’d recognized the brothel.

“Amen to that,” she replied quietly.

The question had cost him, that much was clear, and Moira admired his courage. It was easier ignoring the evil in life, easier looking away than facing wicked truths. Most folks would rather skirt a puddle than fix the drain.

She replayed the events of the night in her head. What did she know about John Elder—other than he smelled like an autumn breeze and looked like he should be advertising frock coats on a sketched fashion plate. Not that looks and scent counted for much. She knew he was driving his cattle north because he was trying to prove himself. He didn’t appear the sort of man who’d let someone else hold him back.

Unable to curtail her curiosity, she braced her hands against her bent knees. “Where is the rest of your crew?”

“They went bad on me. Or maybe I went bad on them. It’s hard telling sometimes.”

“Surely you can’t drive the cattle alone?” Moira frowned. She didn’t know much about cattle drives, but she didn’t figure he could accomplish the task single-handedly. “What will you do now?”

“Go back into town. Start over.” He shook his head in disgust. “I’ll figure it out. I always do.” John cracked a slender branch over his bent knee. “I guess I’ll find a short crew. It’s seventy-five miles to Fort Preble, and double that to Cimarron Springs. That’s ten days with good weather. Only ten more days.” He grunted.

“Where’d you start from?”

“Paris.”

Moira bit off a laugh. “Paris? What’s wrong with American cows?”

“Paris, Texas.” A half grin slid across his face. “My family owns a cattle ranch there.”

Her cheeks heated. She was obviously too exhausted for witty banter. “Are you driving the cattle to Cimarron Springs to sell?”

“Nope.” The cowboy paused for a long moment and Moira let the silence hang between them. Finally he replied, “Starting over,” he spoke so quietly she almost didn’t hear him. “It’s a small herd, but it’ll grow. Times are changing. The big cattle drives are drying up. In ten years’ time, you will hardly see a one.”

Moira knew a lot about starting over. A man with roots and family shouldn’t feel the need. “What about your kin?”

He stared at her as though she’d grown a second head. “It’s a long story.”

Moira nodded her understanding. “They treated you unkindly.”

“Not, uh, not really. Not mean exactly.”

“It must be really dreadful. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“It wasn’t really bad, we just, uh, we just didn’t get along, that’s all. There’s no deep dark secret.” The cowboy plucked another handful of kindling from a pile at his elbow and tossed sticks onto the crackling flames. “What about you? Where’s your family?”

Thrown off guard by the abrupt turn of the tables, Moira considered her answer carefully. She didn’t share details about her past with strangers. She didn’t want pity or judgment.

Yet something in the night air and the cowboy’s affable, forthright eyes compelled her confidence. “I’m searching for my brother. We were separated as teenagers. Last month I received a telegram. Well, part of one. It’s a long story. Anyway, I gathered what information I could and came straight out, hoping he hadn’t gone far. Except I got here too late. He’s already gone.” She recalled the cowboy’s previous comment. “What did you mean earlier? If we were boys, you’d take us on as your crew?”

A chuckle drifted across the campfire. “It was a story my father used to tell. Back in forty-nine you couldn’t find any able-bodied men for work. They’d all been lured away by the gold rush. A local rancher, desperate for hands, hired him and ten other boys. They drove twelve-hundred head of cattle almost four hundred miles. None of them but the rancher and the cook was over the age of fifteen.”

“That’s amazing!”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure how much I believe.” John scoffed. “The story got bigger each time he told it.”

Moira braced her hands behind her and leaned back. For the first time in years, she’d lost her direction. She’d run up against dead ends before. For some inexplicable reason, this time felt different, more final...more devastating.

“Too bad about your brother,” John said. “I have six of ’em and I’m the youngest. Never lost a one though. They were always around. Too much so.”

Moira’s eyes widened. “What a blessing, having all that family.”

The cowboy kept his eyes heavenward. “I don’t know if I’d put it that way.”

She followed his gaze, astonished by the sheer number of stars blanketing the night sky. She couldn’t recall the last time she’d stared at the moon. If she was out after dark, she kept her defenses up, watching for strangers and pickpockets, not staring at the twinkling stars. “What about your parents?”

“Both dead. My pa died first and I guess my ma couldn’t imagine living without him. She died a short while later.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Moira murmured. “I guess you’re an orphan, too.”

“I never thought about it that way.” A wrinkle deepened on his forehead. “Except I’m the youngest, and I sometimes feel like I have six fathers. My reasons for leaving seem small now, after talking with you, but I had to set out on my own. When our folks were alive, they had a way of making sure we all had a voice. Now it’s as if we’re all fighting to be heard, only no one is listening. It got to the point where we’d argue over something just for the sake of a good brawl. I figured if I didn’t leave soon, all that fighting would turn into hate. And hate is a hard thing to come back from. I know my folks wouldn’t have wanted that for us.”

Moira plucked a handful of prairie grass and held it in her fisted hand. “I wouldn’t know.”

Her own father had run off the year Tommy had been born. Her mother had once been young and beautiful, but time and illness had stolen the bloom from her cheeks. The more she needed and the less she gave, the less her husband came home at night. Once she’d lost her usefulness, he’d run. He’d run from his wife and his children. His responsibilities. He hadn’t run far enough. He’d been killed in a factory accident three months later.

Moira had been in charge of herself for as long as she could remember. Her mother had worked herself sick, and Moira had cared for her little brother. When her mother could no longer even care for herself, a woman from the Missouri State Charitable Trust and Foundling Society had arrived.

Never outlive your usefulness, her mother had said.

Moira had felt her mother’s death somewhere along the way, although she’d never received proper notice. One day she’d finally accepted that no one was coming for her. The realization had hardened her heart and made her more determined than ever to prove her worth.

Shortly after the Charitable Trust had found them, she and Tommy had been taken in by the Giffords. Mrs. Gifford had fancied herself a society lady, except Mr. Gifford had never made enough money to keep her in the style she figured she deserved. Moira had initially been humbled, awed by their fine house and brocaded furniture. She’d soon learned it was all superficial luxury.

From the beginning, the Giffords had treated them like hirelings. To her foster family, she was a servant. Mrs. Gifford took great pride in parading her charity before her friends. The truth was far less charitable. The Giffords had put them to work. The siblings rolled cigars for ten hours a day, sometimes more. Pacing and frowning, Mr. Gifford had timed them with his ever-present pocket watch. More cigars meant more income for the Giffords.

Making Moira work from sunup to sundown for nothing more than a roof over her head and a castoff dress each spring didn’t place Mrs. Gifford in the annals of sainthood, though she acted as if it did. After Tommy ran away, Moira had marked off the days until her eighteenth birthday and left that morning.

Mr. and Mrs. Gifford had figured she’d be back in a week, begging for help. She’d never doubted her decision. Tommy hadn’t returned and neither would she.

The cowboy stretched and yawned. “When did you see Tommy last?”

“Five years ago. He was fifteen and I was almost seventeen. He ran away. I, uh, I thought he’d come back. I’d given up ever seeing him again until I received the telegram. It was the sign I’d been searching for all along.”

She’d find him and make things right. She’d apologize for taking the watch, for getting him in trouble. No one had loved her, truly loved her since that fateful day when she’d hidden Mr. Gifford’s infuriating pocket watch behind a tin of crackers in the pantry and let Tommy take the blame.

She was supposed to take care of him, and she’d failed. She’d failed in the worst way possible. The cowboy dug his heels into the soft earth. “That’s a long time to look for someone.”

“Not very long when you love the person.”

“Point taken.”

“We’ll be a family again.”

The cowboy resumed his stargazing. “You’re what, twenty-one, twenty-two? He’s almost twenty? That’s a long time apart. People change. Maybe you should think about starting a family of your own.”

Moira shook her head. “Not until I find Tommy.”

“Well, he’s probably looking for you, too. I’m sure it’ll all work out.”

The cowboy’s casual words buoyed her fragile hope. Would her brother accept her? He’d never returned to the Giffords. He must have known it was her fault. She’d have told the truth, except she’d been too much of a coward. By the time she’d screwed up her courage, Tommy was gone. She’d waited for him at the Giffords then stayed on working at the hotel in St. Louis, hoping to catch a glimpse of him.

If he’d been looking, surely he’d have found her. Yet this past month she’d finally been given proof, courtesy of the Gifford’s maid, that he’d tried to contact her. His concession had to mean something. “Everything will be better when we’re together as a family again.”

He’d forgive her. If she found him, if she explained, he’d forgive her. Then she could finally be whole again. They could finally be a family again. She’d have a purpose once more.

John stood and dusted his pant legs. “It’s late. You should get some sleep.” He held out his hand. “You did real well tonight. You tie knots like a trail boss. Those girls are lucky to have you.”

As she took his proffered hand, her heart stalled beneath his unexpected compliment. “Why are you doing this? Why are you helping us?”

No one ever did anything without an ulterior motive.

“Didn’t have much other choice,” he answered easily.

Moira kept her own counsel. He’d want payment for his help. She only hoped the price wasn’t too steep.

Either way, she hadn’t the energy to sort out his motives. She’d find Tommy, she’d settle for nothing less. Lord knew she’d pave a street to his doorstep brick by brick with her bare hands if only she knew the way. There was an empty space inside her, and she wouldn’t be whole again until they were family once more. This was merely a detour in her journey. She wouldn’t be distracted by the handsome cowboy and his deceptively kind eyes. Not now. Not ever.

She’d never open up her heart to the disappointment her mother had faced. She wouldn’t spend her life proving her worth just to be abandoned in the end. Sooner or later everybody left. The first year at the hotel she’d tried to make friends, but no one ever stayed long. One by one all the people who’d been important to her were plucked away. She’d learned her lesson well—she was better off alone.

Moira glanced around and realized John was heading for the horses and not the tents. “Where are you going?”

“Keeping watch. Checking the remuda.”

Champion scrambled upright. John pointed a finger. “Stay. Keep watch over the camp.”

The animal immediately lay down and rested its head on its paws.

Moira followed the cowboy’s shuffling steps and her earlier animosity softened. His shoulders had slumped since she’d first seen him striding through the darkened alley. He must be exhausted. If he didn’t find a crew tomorrow, what then?

Thoughtful, she gazed into the darkness. Those cattle sure didn’t care if she was a boy or a girl. Why should anyone else? If a dozen boys could drive twelve hundred head of cattle, couldn’t a few girls drive this bunch? If they were useful, maybe that would be enough payment.

Moira shook off the crazy thought. She’d find another way.

Alone.

The less time she spent in the company of John Elder, the better. She’d only known him a short while and already her resolve was weakening. His shoulders were strong, and it had been a long time since she’d had someone to lean on. She was exhausted, that was all. After a good night’s rest she’d be stronger. And after tomorrow, she’d never see him again. She was used to being on her own. Life was easier that way. Lonelier, perhaps, but she’d rather be solitary than grow fond of someone who would only be in her life a short time.

* * *

As the lavender fingers of dawn branched out from the east, John braced his hands against the saddle horn and locked his elbows. A faint haze on the horizon showed the first signs of the morning sun. He’d kept watch all night, dozing off and on, and was so exhausted he could hardly think straight.

Outside of Texas, the terrain had leveled. John had never considered himself a sentimental man, yet the changing landscape left him melancholy.

His longhorns would thrive on the rich buffalo grass of the plains. Cities like Wichita were growing while Dodge City faded. Kansas was shutting out the Texas cattle, but folks still needed to be fed. If an army marched on its stomach, then nations flourished on a full belly.

Pops poured a cup of coffee and John reached for the steaming brew. Pops had been around the Elder family for as long as John could remember. He should be retired now, kicking back and relaxing. Instead he’d chosen a grueling cattle drive. Some men just weren’t made for retirement.

John’s horse sidestepped and he carefully balanced the hot liquid over the ground.

The older man poured another. “What’s the story on them girls?”

“Hard to say,” John replied. “Looks like the deputy sheriff was rounding them up. Searching for pickpockets. Put ’em up in a sportin’ house while he sorted out the details.”

Pops scoffed. “Why’d he take them to a sportin’ house?”

John sipped his coffee and winced against the heat. “Didn’t ask.”

“What do you think?”

“I think something doesn’t feel right.”

They’d dropped out of the sky onto his head. Literally. Then Moira had inadvertently knocked the sheriff’s deputy senseless. It’s fitting you’ll die in fire, the deputy had said. That threat felt personal. Had they encountered each other before? Had Moira had a previous brush with the law?

The girls were still sleeping which gave John time for thinking. Too much time. The law in town was rounding up pickpockets. And not just any pickpockets. They were specifically looking for young girls.

While Moira was definitely a woman, she could be mistaken for an adolescent with her girlish skirts, petite stature and fresh-faced smile. The gang he’d encountered in Buffalo Gap had worked as a team. One member distracted a fellow while another lifted his belongings.

Was one of his unlikely charges in possession of Mr. Grey’s watch? John’s thoughts immediately lit on Darcy. Of all the girls, she had the hardest edge. While John was tempted to speculate, he shook off any supposition. All he could do was place them in someone else’s safekeeping.

Pops stood and stretched his fisted hands toward the sky. “What are you going to do?”

“I’ll go into town this morning. See if I can get the lay of the land while I’m posting a notice for a new crew.” See if I’m a wanted man. John didn’t suppose assaulting the sheriff’s deputy was a crime without punishment.

In the crisp light of dawn he couldn’t easily dismiss the way Moira had looked at him last evening. As though he’d already disappointed her. Ruth Ann had looked at him that way once, when he’d playfully asked her to marry him and she’d declared him unfit. At least he’d given Ruth Ann a reason. What reason did Moira have for doubting him? Though her opinion shouldn’t matter, it did. He didn’t like her looking at him as if she’d sized him up and was waiting for him to show weakness. To fail.

John shook his head. It was better this way. He didn’t need the distraction. And Miss Moira O’Mara was definitely a distraction.

“I’ll watch the girls while you’re gone,” Pops spoke, interrupting John’s reverie.

“Suit yourself.” His head pounding, John gulped the last of his cooled coffee. “Be sure and hide the valuables.”

There was a good chance he’d brought a gaggle of half-size pickpockets into camp. They couldn’t get away with much, but better safe than sorry.

Pops didn’t appear concerned at the prospect. “I’ll take my chances.”

“What would the boys do?” John asked, knowing Pops would understand the question better than anyone.

The older man considered his answer as he hooked the handle of his Dutch oven with an iron rod and hoisted it over the flames. “I don’t suppose it matters what your brothers would do. They’re not here, are they?”

“The one time I wouldn’t mind a little help, and they’re not around.”

Pops grinned. “Never say God doesn’t have a sense of humor.”

John stifled a sigh. If Moira was guilty of a crime, then she’d have to answer to a higher power than him. No matter what the outcome, he needed some distance between them. He had an uneasy sensation the feelings stirring in his chest wouldn’t change based on the outcome of her guilt or innocence. According to Ruth Ann, he wasn’t the sort of man people pinned their hopes on.

John’s horse sidestepped and he glanced up. Two riders appeared on the horizon. Judging by the dirt clods they kicked up in their wake, the men were coming fast. The one on the right was lanky and tall. Familiar. John groaned. Even from a distance he recognized the deputy sheriff.

He tightened his fist around the reins. “Pops, why don’t you round up the girls. We’ve got trouble.”

“What kind of trouble?”

John nodded toward the approaching riders. “The law has caught up with us. Looks like I don’t need to go into town after all.”

Pops threw up his arms. “What in the name of Sam Hill happened last night?” He eyed John, his speculation manifest in his watery gray eyes. “I’m guessing there’s more to the story than what you told me.”

“I might have assaulted the sheriff’s deputy.”

“Might have or did?”

“I hit him.” John shot his cook a quelling glance. He’d hoped to avoid admitting that particular transgression. “It’s a long story and I don’t have time to tell it right now. I’ll meet our company. Let the girls know we have visitors.”

Pops shook his head. “I’ll round ’em up. But you’re on your own after that. I’ve got a stew to finish.”

John glanced behind him at the quiet tent. One thing was for certain, he sure hoped Miss O’Mara unraveled knots as well as she tied them.

Chapter Four

Moira stumbled into the early morning light and held the tent flap aside for the other girls. She stretched and yawned, then pressed her hands into the small of her back and arched.

Tony rubbed her eyes, blinked and blinked again.

Following her gaze, Moira bolted upright. The kidnapper and another man stood before them.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the orphan bunch,” the kidnapper said with a smirk.

“Stay away from us or I’ll fetch the sheriff,” Moira said.

The second man rubbed the back of his neck. “That would be me.”

Nausea rose in the back of her throat. Both men wore stars on their lapels. Though one was tarnished and dull; the other twinkled in the morning sunlight.

“Some of you have met already,” the second man continued. “Perhaps more formal introductions are in order. My name is Sheriff Taylor. This is my deputy, Wendell Ervin.”

Moira glared at the deputy sheriff. One shirttail hung loose from his sagging, brown trousers while greasy stains from a long-forgotten meal interrupted the black-and-gray satin stripes lining his vest like jailhouse bars. He’d removed his hat revealing a crown of thinning, sandy-colored hair pressed into place by layers of dirt and grime. A goose-egg bruise stood out between his shaggy eyebrows and purple half moons flared from the inside corners of his eyes.

He leered at her, showing a yellowed nightmare of a gap-toothed smile. Suppressing a delicate shudder, Moira leaned away. His close proximity revealed the bloodshot whites of his faded blue eyes. He pointed a crooked finger at her. “You’ll be spending the rest of your life in jail.”

She might have felt a modicum of satisfaction from his self-inflicted injury if she wasn’t terrified of his threat. Moira figured the situation could only degrade from there.

While the deputy swaggered and postulated, it was clear he wasn’t in charge. The man who’d introduced himself as the sheriff managed to overshadow his deputy with nothing more than a dismissive glare. Unlike Wendell, there wasn’t a speck of dirt marring the sheriff’s impeccable black suit. A crisp white shirt with a starched collar glowed between the dark folds of his lapels and his silver star sparkled.

Moira had a sudden absurd image of the sheriff blowing a hot breath against the metal and polishing the tin against his tidy black sleeve before riding into camp.

Her four charges stomped and huffed, rubbing their hands against chill shoulders. Despite the deputy’s blustering threat, their expressions were dull and uncomprehending. The girls blinked and yawned, wrinkled and blurry-eyed from sleep.

The sheriff smoothed his neat, dark coat into place and focused his attention on John. “Your name?”

“John Elder,” the cowboy replied, his voice a low growl.

He kept his face averted from Moira. Come to think of it, John hadn’t met her eyes once this morning. As though sensing her perusal, he turned, revealing his stark profile and the hard set of his jaw. There was nothing reassuring about his demeanor and her chest throbbed with something weighty and ragged.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.