Praise for Carol Finch:

‘Carol Finch is known for lightning-fast, rollercoaster-ride adventure romances that are brimming over with a large cast of characters and dozens of perilous escapades.’

—RT Book Reviews

THE LONE RANCHER

‘A wild Western complete with snappy dialogue, laugh-out-loud humour, crazy escapades, danger, and most of all passion.’

—RT Book Reviews

BANDIT LAWMAN, TEXAS BRIDE

‘Finch has made her reputation on wonderfully realistic and humorous Westerns filled with biting repartee and non-stop action. She’s at her finest with this action-packed tale of a lawman and a spitfire.’

—RT Book Reviews

TEXAS RANGER, RUNAWAY HEIRESS

‘Finch offers another heartwarming Western romance full of suspense, humour and strong characters.’

—RT Book Reviews

LADY RENEGADE

‘Finch’s forte, verbal repartee, is at its best here. With well-developed characters and a quick pace, this tale is highly reminiscent of her classic Westerns.’

—RT Book Reviews

“Are you proposing to me? Isn’t that unconventional in white society?”

“Where is it written that a woman can’t propose?” Josie challenged quietly.

“Nowhere I know. It’s what I’d expect from a misfit like you … So I accept.”

He draped his arm familiarly over her shoulder, drawing her closer. Ordinarily she was inclined to step away when a man crowded her space. Oddly enough, however, she didn’t object to Tremain’s feigned display of affection.

“You know this is going to cost you, don’t you?” he whispered devilishly.

“How much, Tremain?” she asked, when she saw the wicked gleam in his sea-green eyes and noticed the ornery grin twitching his lips. “I’m saving my funds for improvements on my homestead—if I manage to stake one.”

“We’ll work something out, trust me.”

“Just so you know, I don’t trust any man’s intentions …”

Her voice trailed off when his raven head came slowly and deliberately toward hers. Then he kissed her, satisfying her curiosity—and stirring something wild and hungry deep inside her.

About the Author

CAROL FINCH, who also writes as Gina Robins, Debra Falcon, Connie Drake and Connie Feddersen, has penned over seventy novels in the historical romance, contemporary, mystery and romantic suspense genres. A former tennis pro and high school biology instructor, she devotes herself full-time to writing and working on the family’s cattle ranch in Oklahoma.

Oklahoma
Wedding Bells
Carol Finch

www.millsandboon.co.uk

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This book is dedicated to my husband, Ed, and our

children Jill, Jon, Christie, Durk, Shawnna, and Kurt.

And to our grandchildren, Livia, Blake,

Kennedy, and Brooklynn. And to Kurt

and Shawnna’s children whenever they may be.

With much love.

Chapter One

El Reno, Oklahoma Territory April 1892

Josephine Malloy sat on a rickety wooden bench in the tent city near the river. With practiced strokes, she replaced a button on a worn shirt that would have served better as a rag. Beside her, Muriel Wilson stitched a patch on a tattered jacket for one of their many male customers.

“Brace yourself, Josie,” Muriel murmured confidentially when Orson Barnes approached.

Josie inwardly groaned when the big, burly cowboy lumbered toward her. Orson claimed to be twenty-nine, but with a woolly brown beard and mustache covering his face, and a frizzy crop of dark hair surrounding his broad head, it was hard to tell his age. She took his word for it.

Muriel nudged her discreetly. “Why don’t you put the poor man out of his misery before he spends all his money ripping buttons off his shirts so you can sew them back on?”

“I’m hoping he’ll run out of extra spending money before he works up the nerve to pop the question,” she mumbled.

Orson was one of the self-appointed leaders in the tent community—a former soldier who was well respected by the hopeful settlers. Yet he was exceptionally bashful around women. Josie had listened to Orson stammer and hint that a man needed a wife, and that he would be a protective provider and landowner after the run. Maybe today would be the day he proposed and she rejected him….

Her thoughts trailed off when Orson halted in front of her, casting his broad shadow over her. “Mornin’, Miz Malloy. You, too, Miz Wilson.” His wide smile exposed the noticeable gap between his two front teeth.

Orson chitchatted about the weather and the upcoming race to stake free land in the area that had once belonged to the Cheyenne and Arapaho tribes. Then he inhaled an enormous breath that made his barrel chest double in size. “Miz Malloy, as you’ve likely noticed, I’ve become quite fond of you while you’ve done mending for me.”

Here it comes, Josie thought with an inward wince.

“If you’ll do me the honor of being my wife after the run, we can stake our one-hundred-sixty-acre claims side by side and have twice as much land to start our new ranch.”

Same proposal, one hundredth verse. No, she silently corrected, one hundred two. Muriel was at ninety-nine. With literally thousands of single men swarming the area to chase dreams of building ranches on free land, Josie and Muriel were constantly bombarded with marriage proposals.

It was nothing new, however, Josie reminded herself. She had rejected several hundred proposals before participating in the race for land to help her brother and sister-in-law in the Run of ’89….

She was jolted back to the present when Muriel elbowed her in the ribs. Josie raised her gaze to meet Orson’s expectant eyes.

“You are too kind to offer for me, Orson. But I don’t consider myself good wife material and neither should you,” she replied, repeating the practiced rejection speech she’d given literally hundreds of times before. “If you knew me better you would realize I’m much too independent, outspoken and contrary to be a dutiful wife. In addition, it’s my dream to have a ranch all my own.”

Beside her, Muriel muffled a chuckle with a cough. Josie wasn’t sure which quality—her independence, frank speech or contrariness—amused her friend more. She had witnessed examples of each since they had become acquainted and formed their sewing partnership three weeks earlier. At twenty-one, Muriel was well on her way to perfecting those characteristics herself.

As Josie’s older brother was fond of saying, a man who tangled with an independent, free-spirited woman had no idea what he was getting himself into. Nevertheless, Noah had married Celia, who was no shrinking violet.

Orson’s buffalo-size shoulders slumped dejectedly as he curled and uncurled the brim of his sweat-stained hat in his meaty fists. “Maybe if we spent a little more private time together—”

Josie thrust his mended shirt at him. “No, Orson,” she said as gently—but firmly—as possible. “I’ll accept payment for repairing this garment, but I can’t accept your proposal. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I’m very sure that you’ll be much happier with someone else.”

As had happened often in the past three weeks, her rejected suitor turned to the brunette beside her and flashed his best smile. If Josie or Muriel rejected a man’s proposal, he’d immediately transfer his attention to the other woman, as if they were interchangeable. Which served to prove that a man wasn’t very particular about whom he acquired for his wife. One female was as good as the next, and Josie refused to let herself forget that.

There were a few exceptions, she conceded. Her brother actually loved Celia.

At twenty-three, Josie had become exceptionally cynical because of several unpleasant experiences with overeager single men who had hounded her before—and immediately after—land runs.

“How ‘bout you, Miz Wilson?” Orson asked hopefully. “We would suit well, too, I believe.”

“Thank you kindly, but no, Orson,” Muriel replied politely. “Like Josie, I fancy being on my own, and I’ve learned to take care of myself. I’m chasing my own rainbows and I’m not ready to settle down.”

“But you can double the amount of land—”

“No, thank you,” Josie and Muriel said in unison. “Good luck staking your land claim.”

After Orson glumly paid the fee, crammed his mended shirt under his arm and walked off, Josie came to her feet to work the kinks from her back. “I think I’ll hike into town for lunch. Want to come along?”

Muriel tucked the patched jacket in the knapsack where they kept their sewing supplies, then tossed the bundle into the tent she and Josie shared for their protection. “One hundred proposals and counting,” Muriel muttered. “And not one that interests me.”

“Maybe we’re too particular. Or shrewish,” Josie remarked as she walked alongside her friend. “Getting to know one another doesn’t appear to be a prerequisite for marriage in this territory. But I wish men would wait at least a week after making our acquaintance before proposing.”

“That didn’t bother Rachel Winters or Annabelle Mason.” Muriel smirked, her golden-brown eyes sparkling with humor. “They paraded up and down the streets in fine fashion to snag husbands. Neither of them knew their new grooms for more than a day before getting hitched. Though I wonder why they didn’t want to wait until after the run to wed. They could have staked their own claims and combined them with their husbands’ to double the size of their property.”

“There are opportunists galore milling about,” Josie insisted as she led the way up the tree-choked riverbank to reach the bustling community. “But I don’t blame the former saloon girls for trying to improve their situations, even if they hurried along their weddings. Extra land was the least of their concerns. They are in their late twenties, from the looks of them, and likely have endured a hard life. They were searching for an escape, while we are chasing our dreams of claiming homesteads of our own.”

“Mercy me,” Muriel muttered when they reached the edge of town. “There is that infuriating Captain Holbrook again. He’s always bossing folks around and running off the Sooners that sneak in to claim prime land before the day of the race.”

“I’m all in favor of routing those greedy settlers who are trying to cheat their way into acquiring the best property!” Josie insisted emphatically.

“So am I,” Muriel agreed. “But Holbrook’s domineering attitude riles me. He snapped at me, just because I wandered over the borderline while trying to avoid a clump of men tossing proposals left and right. The captain is too much the authoritarian and too full of himself, if you ask me.”

Josie glanced back and forth between her friend and the commander of Fort Reno, who was in charge of maintaining control of thousands of people who filled the town to overflowing, and was obliged to protect the Indians on the soon-to-be-opened land. “Has the captain insulted you or made improper advances?” she asked worriedly.

Muriel thrust out her chin, causing tendrils of dark hair to ripple around her face. Her thick-lashed eyes threw sparks. “He accused me of leading men on, is what he did!” she huffed irritably. “You know perfectly well that I can’t help it if ten cowboys decide to follow at my heels and toss out proposals simultaneously. The same holds true for you.”

That had become the story of their lives the past three weeks, Josie acknowledged.

“I’m trying to avoid men, not attract them.” Muriel snorted, and added spitefully, “I’d like to see that stuffed shirt of a soldier down on bended knee. I would smack him on the head with a skillet to punctuate my rejection.”

Muriel’s burst of temper befuddled Josie. She was also curious why the handsome captain cast Muriel the evil eye as he reined his horse toward her. With his shiny brown hair, brown eyes and muscular physique, Grant Holbrook was not unpleasant to look at. At age thirty or thereabout, he held a position of authority, and was highly regarded by his men. Why Muriel and the army officer provoked each other so easily was beyond Josie.

Captain Holbrook halted his roan gelding beside them and looked down from his advantageous position. He nodded politely to Josie, then focused a hard stare on Muriel. “What? No string of men trailing behind you today, Miz Wilson?” he said, and smirked. “Off day, is it?”

Muriel tossed him a caustic smile. “I sent them away because I’ve decided the only proposal I’ll accept is from you, Captain. I don’t want you to have to compete with the others, since it’s obvious you are so short on charm. Of course, my answer would still be no.”

“I wouldn’t ask,” he assured her crossly.

Muriel hitched her thumb toward Josie. “Then maybe you prefer blue-eyed blondes.”

“Don’t drag me into whatever personal feud you two have going,” Josie protested. “I, for one, will be relieved when the day of the run arrives so all these unattached men will have something better to do with their time than make a last-minute grab for a wife.

“I even passed out mail-order-bride magazines and matrimonial newspapers last week to divert attention from us, for all the good it did,” she added. She stared earnestly at Captain Holbrook. “Can’t you do something about the constant harassment? Muriel and I are tired of wading through would-be husbands to reach our destinations.”

He jerked up his head and frowned. “Has someone attacked you? Give me his name and I will deal with him severely.”

Josie noticed the captain directed his question and vow to Muriel. Hmmm … Wasn’t that interesting?

“I carry a knife as a deterrent,” Muriel replied. “I’ve managed to defend my own honor when the occasion arises.”

“Don’t stab anyone without provocation,” he warned. “I’d have to toss you in the stockade, and you might miss the run altogether. And why, may I ask, are you two racing off to claim property that you can’t possibly work by yourselves?”

Both of them puffed up with indignation. Apparently, this wasn’t the first time the captain had posed the question to Muriel, because she took extreme offense, even more so than Josie.

“Do I look incapable of fending for myself or setting up a temporary tent until I can hire someone to build my house?” Muriel challenged sharply. “I’ll have you know that I managed to work tirelessly as a seamstress and care for my ailing mother after my father died. We had to sell our farm and move into a run-down boardinghouse in town, but I did what had to be done until Mother passed on last winter. I long for what I had as a child. To that end I have saved every spare cent to make the run and to pay for farm improvements after I stake my claim!” Her voice rose indignantly. “I assure you, Captain High-and-Mighty Holbrook, this is not a whim!”

She dragged in a deep breath, crossed her arms over her chest and stared him down. “I doubt you know what it’s like to scratch and claw, Captain, but I do. Necessity demanded it. I’m chasing my long-held dream and it doesn’t include taking a husband who sees me as his cook, housekeeper, seamstress and personal harlot—”

Muriel clamped both hands over her mouth to halt her runaway tongue. The captain’s eyes nearly popped from their sockets. Josie burst out laughing.

Holbrook was first to regain his composure. He shifted on his horse, then looked down his patrician nose at Muriel. “Are you quite finished spouting comments that are considered improper in mixed company? If you had any manners you would know that.”

Josie’s gaze bounced from Muriel to the captain while the two exchanged blistering glares. They were so sensitive to what the other one said and did that they set off intense reactions in each other.

Ordinarily, Muriel took life in stride, as Josie did. A determined woman, she dealt efficiently with the throng of men hounding her with proposals. But poof! The captain arrived on the scene and Muriel bristled with hostility.

Josie had never been interested enough in a man to react to his words and glances the way Muriel did with Grant Holbrook. To Josie, the bothersome male masses were one more difficult obstacle to overcome on her way to establishing her own home and ranch in the soon-to-be-opened territory.

When Muriel wheeled around and stamped off, the captain scowled sourly, Josie saw. She hurried to catch up with her friend. “Feel better, now that you’ve put the commander in his place?”

“Much, thank you,” Muriel insisted, then dragged in a restorative breath. “Do you see why that arrogant soldier annoys me so much?”

“No, I don’t,” she said honestly.

Her friend stopped in her tracks to gape at her. “You don’t think he’s irritating beyond belief?”

“If you say so …” Josie’s voice trailed off when four men on the boardwalk spotted them. All smiles and eager anticipation, they surged forward like an ocean wave. But then she grinned, as a brilliant idea struck her. “Maybe we’re going about this the wrong way. Maybe we should accept a marriage proposal.”

Muriel stared at her as if she had vines sprouting from her ears. “Are you out of your mind?”

“Think about it.” Josie eyed the gaggle of men scurrying toward them. “If we accept a proposal we will be off the marriage market.”

A slow smile curved Muriel’s lips. “You’re right….” Then she frowned disconcertedly. “But how do we discard our unwanted fiancés after they serve their purpose? Surely we aren’t actually going to marry them.”

“No, of course not. We’ll just get a bad case of cold feet the morning of the run … while emotions are running high,” Josie suggested, warming to her bright idea.

“We can claim it is too much to deal with, too rapidly,” Muriel suggested enthusiastically.

“Other prospective suitors won’t hear that we called off the betrothals until after we claim our land,” Josie continued. “By then, the men will be too busy setting up housekeeping to bother us. For a while at least.”

Muriel stared speculatively at the approaching group. “Maybe I’ll agree to the first proposal tossed at me before lunch. Someone other than the infuriating, uppity captain, who was likely born with a silver spoon in his mouth and descended from a long line of self-important military martinets.”

Josie studied her friend for a thoughtful moment. “The way you’re carrying on, I’m beginning to think the captain’s proposal is the one you secretly want to accept.”

She gasped in outrage. “Holbrook is the last man on earth I’d want to marry!”

Josie smiled impishly. “Well, then, propose to him, since you have no intention of keeping him. If he accepts, then you will have the wicked satisfaction of jilting him before you leave him choking in your dust on the day of the run.”

Muriel snickered wryly. “Now I know why I befriended you. You are clever and intelligent. That’s an interesting notion—”

It was all she had time to say before the four cowboys descended, spewing the same nauseating flattery Josie and Muriel had heard for three continuous weeks.

Solomon Tremain led a string of a dozen prize horses into town—and drew an immediate crowd, as usual. Would-be settlers were eager to purchase swift, powerful steeds to outrun the other hopeful contestants and reach their promised land. This was Sol’s third trip to the town sitting on the eastern border of Cheyenne-Arapaho territory—which was about to be overrun by land-hungry whites.

Sol gnashed his teeth when the ever-constant conflict of his half white, half Cheyenne heritage rose within him. Although his physical appearance was more like his father’s than his Indian mother’s, Sol was Cheyenne at heart. He resented the white intrusion on the tribe’s hunting grounds and sacred sites.

Unfortunately, restraining the greedy white settlers was like holding back floodwaters. At least Sol was in a position to help his people—as much as they could be helped when the fickle government approved another land run in Indian Territory. The Twin Territories—Oklahoma and Indian—he silently corrected, and scowled.

From the time Sol became a member of the elite, highly trained fighting force known as the Wolf Warriors, within the special clan called the Bowstring Society, he had been involved in law enforcement and held positions of authority. He’d gone on to join the Lighthorse Police of the Cheyenne Nation, and then was handpicked as one of Judge Isaac Parker’s Deputy U.S. Marshals. Sol dealt with outlaws, Indian haters, greedy ranchers and pesky squatters that encroached on tribal property.

This assignment demanded that he pose as a horse trader, to gain the confidence of shysters and gather incriminating evidence to ensure convictions. Land runs were breeding grounds for trouble, and Sol was well aware of the underhanded tactics often employed in acquiring property, such as the schemes used during the Runs of ’89 and ’91.

If Sol had his way, all offenders would be watching this upcoming run from the stockade at Fort Reno. Then again, there wouldn’t be a run if he had his druthers. Which he didn’t.

Sol focused his attention on the men congregating around him, and promptly sold a half-dozen horses. When the group dispersed, he looked up to see his local contact, Captain Grant Holbrook, sitting atop his horse, staring off into space.

Sol followed the captain’s gaze to two women surrounded by four cowboys. Then three more men joined the crowd and another two. The scene reminded Sol of honeybees buzzing around a hive.

“Must be nice to attract so much attention,” he said with a chuckle. “If women flocked to me the way men flock to those two ladies, I’d be a happy man.”

“What?” Holbrook jerked to attention, then glanced sideways at Sol.

“I said those women must be something special.”

“Those two?” Grant snorted. “They can fend off their hordes of admirers by themselves for all I care.”

Sol raised a brow, then scrutinized his friend, who was two years his junior. “Am I missing something here?”

“Not unless you like sharp-tongued shrews who delight in the attention they receive from men anxious to acquire a fiancée before the run,” he muttered sourly. “One is a mite worse than the other, however.”

Sol assessed the two women. “Which one? The blonde or brunette?”

“Brunette. I’ve met more agreeable rattlesnakes.” He shook himself loose from his meandering thoughts, then noticed the fine quality of horseflesh Sol had brought with him to town. “Where do you keep gathering such good stock for your cover, Tremain? Last week you arrived with a dozen exceptional mares and geldings to sell, and you left with a pocketful of money.”

“My Cheyenne cousins trained these horses,” he confided. “I make sure they receive top dollar for these animals, which are well adapted to this terrain. I’m making double damn sure the tribe profits from this offensive encroachment on their property.”

Grant nodded somberly. “Another treaty discarded for the sake of white expansion. Sometimes I’m ashamed to be white.” He glanced curiously at Sol. “How many acres did the Cheyenne and Arapaho lose this time?”

“Over six hundred thousand.” Sol scowled resentfully when he thought of how the tribes had been forced to take their land allotments and relinquish the rest of their reservation to the government for settlement. “Not counting their land in Colorado and Kansas the government confiscated years ago.”

“And I’m stuck in the middle of this, just like you are,” Grant mumbled in frustration. “It’s hell trying to protect the tribes and their allotments before the white mob descends to claim the surplus land.”

The captain expelled an agitated breath. “I’m holding more than a dozen Sooners in the stockade because they sneaked in to set up camps along the creeks on the wrong side of the starting line, and refused to leave. With your help, I’ve flushed out nearly a hundred early birds, but I don’t have enough soldiers to patrol the area to keep those blasted Sooners honest.” He snorted and said, “Now there’s a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one.”

“I’ll continue to do what I can to help,” Sol promised. “I carry my special trader’s license to prove I can cross the territory as I please. If I see more illegal squatters, I’ll contact you. I can also question my tribe about the location of other whites illegally encroaching on their land.”

“Good,” Grant said. “I’ll run off as many as I can, and you do the same.”

“If I flash my marshal’s badge it won’t be easy to gain trust and gather evidence of fraud among these would-be settlers,” Sol reminded him. “But I can alert you to their location so you can take a patrol of soldiers to rout the squatters out.”

“I appreciate whatever help you can give, Marsh—I mean Tremain.”

Sol eyed him warningly. “The last thing I need is a careless slip of the tongue alerting folks that I’m in law enforcement.”

When half a dozen men leaning negligently against the supporting posts of the porch outside the Saddle Burr Saloon noticed their conversation, Sol reached into his vest pocket to retrieve his special trader’s license.

“We’re drawing attention,” he told the military commander quietly. “Look over my license thoroughly, then nod your head. I want those men to think you’re checking the authenticity of my credentials.”

Grant took the license and studied it closely. “They look like hired guns to me,” he murmured, his head bent in supposed concentration. “Is that what you’re thinking?”

“That’d be my guess,” Sol agreed. “I want to know what scheme is about to play out, who the gunmen are working for and why they chose this particular area to make the run.”

“We’ll have to confine our future conversations to out-of-the-way sites to avoid suspicion,” Grant said, returning the license with a clipped nod.

Sol tucked away the paper. “We’ll meet tonight at seven o’clock at Shallow Springs, south of the garrison. Find out what you can about those men without contacting them directly.”

Grant inclined his head in an authoritative manner for the benefit of the suspicious-looking group watching. Then he flicked his hand to shoo Sol on his way.

With a mock salute, Sol led his string of horses down the middle of the street—and drew the attention of the other crowd of men, who were fawning over the two women Grant had pointed out earlier.

From the corner of his eye, Sol surveyed the group outside the saloon, while pretending to assess the two women. Until the shapely blonde turned her head toward him, and sunlight gleamed on her thick, curly hair. The lustrous strands seemed a fascinating combination of sunbeams and moonbeams, and when she tilted her face up to him, Sol forgot all about the hired guns outside the saloon. Luminous eyes the color of forget-me-nots locked with his, and the jolt of awareness that sizzled through his body shocked the hell out of him.

According to Grant, this alluring blonde was the more tolerable companion. Holbrook insisted the stunning brunette was the devil’s sister, or at the very least a first cousin. Sol spared the fetching dark-haired woman a cursory glance, then his gaze settled on the blonde again as he halted his string of horses in the middle of the street.

“Anyone interested in prize horseflesh to make the land run?” he called loudly. “Only a half-dozen left today. Get one while you can!”

Four of the fawning admirers hurried over to examine the horses at close range. The other men continued to hover around the women like puppies on the trail of fresh milk—until the objects of their rapt attention pivoted toward Eugene’s Café of Fine Foods. Sol smiled appreciatively as he studied both women’s backsides, encased in formfitting breeches and shirts that accentuated their curvaceous physiques to advantage. As if they didn’t already stand out in a crowd because of their bewitching facial features, he mused.

Sol didn’t consider himself a connoisseur of women, and he had no time for lasting attachments. Still, he could easily understand why men salivated over the brunette and blonde—who looked to be about twenty-three, give or take a year. The brunette, he guessed, was a year or two younger.

“Keep my proposal in mind,” a tall, gangly sod buster called to the women before they disappeared inside the café.

Sol focused on the crowd gathering around him. Within five minutes, he had sold two horses. Then he continued on his way, and by the time he reached the opposite end of town, had made the last of his sales. The closer to the day of the run, the faster he depleted his supply of well-trained horses.

After stopping at the Silver Dollar Saloon to wet his whistle, he decided to return to the property where his cousin Red Hawk lived, so he could replace the horses he’d sold. When Sol reversed direction on the street, he noticed the two women emerging from the café. He decided that if he was in the market for a bride—which he doubted he’d ever be, since his duties left him roaming around as if he had wanderlust—he could flip a coin and be satisfied spending time with either of the attractive females.

Of course, he predicted both ladies were holding out for the best offer, to ensure the best financial security. He’d seen it happen before—and after—the other two land runs. Women were as opportunistic as men were, he reflected cynically. Everyone, good and bad alike, had a hidden agenda.

Damn, Tremain, he mused. You’ve spent too many years associating with murderers, swindlers and thieves. He needed to socialize with a better class of people before his skepticism swallowed him alive.

Unfortunately, he wasn’t well received by new acquaintances after he mentioned his mixed heritage, so he didn’t bring it up often these days. He wondered if the blonde and brunette would consider him poor marriage material if he disclosed his background to them.

Not that he cared what they thought. He had more important things to do besides ogling attractive females wearing trim-fitting clothing that defined the lush shape of their hips and the enticing curves of their legs. He’d be in the area only long enough to complete his assignment, before moving on to the next one in Indian Territory.

His thoughts disintegrated when a fresh batch of would-be suitors gathered around the two women. Sol did his best to ignore his fierce physical attraction to the blonde. He turned away, refusing to be lumped in the same category with every witless, hot-blooded male in town.

Chapter Two

Josie gnashed her teeth as she led her contrary sorrel, with his striking flaxen mane and tail, away from the camp after supper that evening. The stallion was not the horse she had originally planned to ride in the high-speed race during the run.

Unfortunately, the gelding she had trained had stepped in a prairie dog hole while she was exercising him, and had injured his leg. She’d been forced to resort to the high-strung animal that had bucked off her brother a few weeks earlier. Noah was still hobbling around with an injured back.

“Behave, Rooster,” she cooed to the flighty stallion. “You’ll get your chance to run at breakneck speed this evening, so have patience.”

“I agree with your brother,” Muriel said as she brought her docile dapple-gray mare, Bess, alongside. “That horse is cantankerous.”

“He’s also all I have,” Josie muttered, pulling herself into the saddle while Rooster pranced in a tight circle and tossed his head. “He runs like the wind … once I get him pointed in the right direction.”

“You think Rooster won’t come unglued when the soldiers fire off the cannons and shoot their rifles to signal the beginning of the race?” Muriel scoffed. “You should have bartered with that horse trader we saw in town today. You could have selected a mount with a better disposition.”

Josie recalled the green-eyed, raven-haired man whose five o’clock shadow was about three days old. He’d seemed nine foot tall sitting astride his horse—and was likely well over six foot when he wasn’t. She couldn’t figure out why the powerful-looking horseman had captured her attention immediately. After all, she was fed up with men and their constant badgering.

“There’s no guarantee the horse trader’s stock would be better behaved than Rooster,” Josie contended as she pulled on the reins to bring the stallion under control—if that was possible.

“If you don’t watch out, you’ll end up like your brother, or worse,” Muriel warned. “You will be forced to accept a marriage proposal, because you won’t be in any condition to make the race for a homestead by yourself.”

“Thank you, Miz Gloom and Doom,” Josie muttered caustically. “And let me point out that if you don’t brush up on your riding skills, you won’t stay on your horse long enough to claim any property.”

Muriel expelled an audible sigh. “You’re right. I didn’t get to ride as much as I wanted while working such long hours and tending Mother.” She got that determined look on her face that Josie had seen often. It was like staring into a mirror. “But I’ll die trying to stake a place of my own,” she declared.

Josie winced. “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that for either of us. As for tonight, let’s ride along the—”

Pistol shots rang out in a copse of nearby trees, cutting her off midsentence and spooking her flighty stallion. Her head snapped back when Rooster reared, then plunged forward, galloping headlong across the rolling hills—inside the boundary to territory that was off-limits until the day of the run.

“Josie!” Muriel shrieked, as her own horse jumped sideways, then shot toward the sandy creek bank.

Josie yanked back on the reins as hard as she could, but Rooster lowered his head and raced across the prairie, where belly-high grass waved in the evening breeze. Glancing over her shoulder, she noted that Muriel hadn’t been bucked off, thank goodness. Josie decided to quit trying to control Rooster and let him have his head.

Wasn’t this what she expected of the stallion during the race? She wanted him to run in a high-speed gallop so she could outdistance the other settlers and locate the best land. Then she’d place her stake in the ground to claim her one hundred sixty acres. The trials and frustrations she had dealt with the past three weeks would be worth it.

Keeping that in mind, Josie nudged Rooster in the flanks and held on to him for dear life. She’d always thought she had a way with horses, but had to admit that not all her whispers of encouragement and tempting treats affected Rooster’s unpredictable temperament. The horse lived to run, like the untamed mustangs—and she’d better clamp herself to him like a barnacle to a ship or she’d end up in worse condition than her brother!

Sol glanced up sharply when he heard the unmistakable thunder of hooves. His mount, a sleek buckskin stallion named Outlaw, pricked his ears and shifted beneath him. The string of fifteen horses Sol had picked up at Red Hawk’s cabin milled around, tugging restlessly on the lead rope he held.

To Sol’s amazement, he saw the same blonde he’d encountered in El Reno flying over the hill on a powerful sorrel stallion. With its contrasting flaxen mane and tail, which matched the woman’s long, shiny hair, the twosome would capture any man’s attention. The horse equaled Outlaw in strength, speed and stamina, but was running out of control, and the blonde was in danger.

Sol hurriedly tethered the lead rope to the extra horses around the nearest tree. He gouged Outlaw in the ribs and raced off to intercept the woman at the mercy of the runaway stallion.

He held his breath when the flashy-colored sorrel leaped a creek. Sol expected the rider to go flying, kerplunk, into the water. Miraculously, with her arms wrapped around the horse’s neck, she stayed on board—this time at least.

Scowling at the blonde’s idiocy in mounting such a spirited horse, Sol slapped Outlaw on the rump, demanding his fastest gait. Their path intercepted the rogue stallion on a steep downhill slope. Sol snaked out his hand and grabbed the reins in an attempt to stop the animal.

Wild-eyed, the sorrel reared up, jerking Sol off his horse and unseating the woman. She fell backward with a thud and groan—and Sol landed directly on top of her, forcing out her breath in a whoosh. His thigh wedged intimately between her legs and his chest slammed against her breasts.

She shrieked, panicked and shoved him aside. But their arms and legs were in a hopeless tangle, so they were knotted together as they rolled pell-mell down the hill. When they finally came to a dizzying stop on level ground, Sol was sprawled on top of her—a position he admitted held provocative appeal for him.

The same didn’t appear to hold true for her.

She struggled again to push him off her, but suddenly her eyes rolled back in her head and she wilted. Sol watched her flushed face turn an interesting shade of blue, then pasty-white.

“You okay, miss?” he asked as he rose onto his hands and knees above her.

Her ample breasts heaved while she struggled to draw breath—and couldn’t. Sol grabbed her arm and jerked her over his knee, to whack her between the shoulder blades until she began breathing again.

“Stop—whack—doing—whack—that!” she wheezed, then squirmed away from him to fall back on the ground.

Sol watched her inhale several shuddering gulps of air. But his attention kept dropping to the top button of her blouse, which had come undone during their downhill tumble, exposing her enticing cleavage.

“You okay now?” He tried to focus on her rattled condition, not her enticing physique. It wasn’t easy. She had sensuous curves in all the right places. And he had been trained to be exceptionally observant. Now that talent was working against him.

Forget-me-not-blue eyes zeroed in on him, narrowing into an accusing glare. “I was okay before you jerked me off my horse and threw yourself on top of me!” she huffed indignantly.

“I didn’t unseat you,” he contradicted. “Your devil horse did that when he reared up. Then he yanked me off my horse.”

“It’s what you deserve for roughing me up,” she muttered as she twisted gingerly from side to side to assess her condition. “You’re that horse trader I saw in town today, aren’t you?”

He nodded. “And you’re that blonde with wedding proposals galore. Find one to your liking yet?”

“No.” She rose unsteadily to her feet, rejecting his offer of support. She brushed grass off her breeches and glared at him some more.

“Not to worry, there are several single, wealthy shopkeepers and hotel owners in town, in case your slew of cowpunchers and plow-boys don’t meet your high expectations,” he assured her, then smirked.

She jerked up her head, causing the coil of shiny, spring-loaded, silver-blond curls to dangle above her left ear like a lopsided fountain. She took a challenging step toward him. He noticed she was tall for a woman—five foot five inches of feminine defiance, to be specific. Since he was six-two, he held the height advantage. Nonetheless, that didn’t stop her from standing toe to toe with him, refusing to be the slightest bit intimidated.

“And what is that supposed to imply, Mr. Horse Trader?”

The woman was bristling with indignation and bad temper—all directed at him. And Grant swore the brunette had a worse disposition? Ha! She had nothing on this sassy blonde, who hadn’t even bothered to thank him for risking his neck to save her gorgeous hide.

“You’re welcome, by the way,” he said sarcastically.

Her chilling glare could have formed icicles. “For what?”

Sol did a double take. “For saving you from disaster, of course. That devil sorrel didn’t look like he planned to slow down until his legs gave out or he launched you off his back. Whichever came first.”

“Which is the whole point of the exercise,” she insisted in a scathing tone.

“What exercise?” he scoffed caustically. “Catapulting off his back to see how many bones you can break at once?”

“No, I have to be able to hold on while Rooster runs hell-for-leather if I want to stake my claim in the run.”

“Lady, the only claim you’ll stake is a cemetery plot if you ride this animal.” Sol flashed her a stern glance. “You need to buy one of my horses. They are trained for riding, not green broke like this unruly stallion.”

She tilted her chin and scoffed at him. “How convenient that you just happen to have a string of mounts for sale. And you call me an opportunist? Ha! That’s a laugh.”

To his surprise, she became huffier by the second. She nearly stood on top of him, despite the fact that she was a head shorter and at least one hundred pounds lighter than he was. “I will have you know, Mr. Horse Trader, that I am not trolling for a husband in this sea of would-be settlers. I’m here to claim land for a ranch of my own, so I can raise horses and cattle. I don’t need a man lording over me and getting in my way. I do not need to be saved from the sire of my future horse herd … and you stay off me!” she shouted as she stabbed her forefinger into his chest.

Sol tried to pay attention to her lecture while she was yelling at him, he really did. Nevertheless, his betraying gaze zeroed in on her lush, tempting mouth. She had plump pink lips that he hungered to taste. The thought prompted him to lick his own lips in anticipation.

Apparently, he’d been too long without a woman, if this firebrand aroused him and sent his thoughts skittering off in the wrong direction. She was all sharp claws, biting teeth and prickly criticism, as spirited and contrary as her stallion. Not to mention wildly attractive—if a man could convince her to use that sassy mouth for something besides delivering scornful lectures.

When she lifted a questioning brow, Sol blinked and scrambled to find his place in the one-sided conversation. He finally gave up and said, “What?”

She cast him a withering glance. “Never mind. You men are all alike. You can’t get past outward appearances to pay attention to anything as inconsequential as intelligent conversation.”

She pivoted around to hobble toward her horse, which was trying to pick a fight with Outlaw. The two stallions laid back their ears, snorted and pawed the ground.

It reminded Sol of his confrontation with the blonde.

“I suppose I don’t need to know you by name.” She tossed the comment over her shoulder flippantly. “I can think of plenty to call you, even if you refuse to provide the one you were given at birth.”

Which was not the name he used now, he reminded himself. He had been born in a Cheyenne camp, not in white society.

Why did she want to know his name, anyway? So she could tattle to the El Reno city marshal that he had attacked her? Which he most certainly had not … but he was thinking about it now.

Before she could walk between the two stallions and get trampled, Sol let out a sharp whistle, startling Rooster and bringing Outlaw obediently to him.

“The name is Solomon Tremain,” he said as he grabbed Rooster’s trailing reins, then handed them to her. “And you are?”

She climbed slowly onto the horse and grimaced. Obviously, she had sustained some sort of injury during her fall and his subsequent collapse on top of her.

“I’m Josephine Malloy.”

He nodded in recognition. “You’re Button-Eye Malloy. I’ve heard your name mentioned in several tent communities hereabout. You’re the mender of shirts and the breaker of hearts, or so I’m told. I expect you’re doing a thriving business to earn extra money. The brunette I saw you with in town must be Patches Wilson.”

The blonde stared him down, making grand use of her elevated position on her demon horse. “At your service, Tremain,” she said loftily. “Is there anything I can sew shut for you? In that, I can be bought for a fair price … but for nothing else.”

He had to hand it to the minx, she gave as good as she got. He liked teasing her, just to watch those expressive eyes flash blue fire. He also liked the way her chin shot up in defiance. Not to mention the way she squared her shoulders, refusing to feel threatened, preparing herself for an oncoming challenge or debate. There was nothing docile or dull about Josephine Malloy.

“Maybe it’s best that you don’t accept any of the marriage proposals tossed at you,” he advised. “I’m guessing you’d be as difficult to live with as your contrary stallion.”

Josie studied the swarthy horse trader as he mounted the muscular buckskin, the coal-black mane and tail of which matched the color of Tremain’s thick, shiny hair. She had to admit there was something intriguing about the man. He moved with the controlled grace and agility of a powerful predator. She reluctantly noted how his dark breeches, shirt and leather vest clung to his powerful body, accentuating his muscular physique. She didn’t want to show the slightest interest in this man. Or any man, for that matter. She had more important things on her mind.

When Josie managed to drag her gaze off Tremain, she noticed his stallion behaved much better than Rooster did. “On second thought, I’ll trade you straight out. My stallion for yours,” she bartered impulsively.

He threw back his dark head and barked a laugh as he settled himself comfortably on his horse. His sea-green eyes, rimmed with thick black lashes, danced with amusement. Josie blinked in surprise when she saw the dimples creasing his bronzed cheeks. Tremain was actually quite handsome, in a rugged, earthy sort of way.

Not that she cared, of course. He could be God’s gift to women and she wouldn’t want him. She didn’t need a man to complicate her life right now—maybe ever. The idea of a husband ordering her about, as if it was his natural-born right, didn’t sit well with her. She wanted to avoid restrictive ties, so she could take complete control of her destiny and focus all her efforts on staking a claim for a homestead.

“Outlaw is worth a half-dozen horses like your cantankerous mount,” Tremain insisted as he reined toward the string of waiting mustangs on the hill. He cast her a pointed look. “And you are not supposed to be out here, not even to exercise that ill-mannered animal.”

“But you can be?” she challenged, as Rooster followed after Outlaw—probably looking to pick another fight, knowing him.

“I have a special trader’s license, Josephine,” Sol said, glancing at her over his broad shoulder. “You don’t. Since you are trespassing, I might decide to tattle to Commander Holbrook. He can lock you up with the other sneaky Sooners and you can watch the run from behind bars.”

“But you won’t if I what, Tremain?” she asked suspiciously. “If I offer to provide some sort of services to you?”

His rakish grin did strange things to her pulse, for reasons she couldn’t account for. More than a hundred men had tried to court her since she had set up camp beside the boundary line for the run. Yet this ruggedly attractive rascal appealed to her. Why? She couldn’t say. She wasn’t sure she even liked the man. Still, there was something about him that intrigued her—and that made her wary and defensive.

It likely stemmed from the fact that he had sprawled on top of her earlier, she mused. She had become fiercely aware that he was one hundred percent male. During their downhill tumble, Josie had found herself riding his muscular thigh, and her breasts had been mashed against his broad chest. It had been unnerving … and titillating. Oh, for heaven’s sake, don’t think about that!

She quickly turned her attention to the authoritative air that surrounded him like an invisible cloak. His demeanor reminded her of Captain Holbrook’s commanding manner, which seemed odd for a wandering horse trader.

Her thoughts trailed off and she shivered, becoming aware of the evening chill settling around her. She wished she’d worn her jacket. It would have provided warmth, not to mention extra padding during her fall and wild tumble. Even now, her hip throbbed and her wrist ached from being hyperextended.

“You should buy one of the other horses I have for sale,” he repeated belatedly. “Not Outlaw. He belongs to me.”

She was disappointed he hadn’t tossed out an inappropriate, off-color remark in response to her previous comment. Then she would feel justified in lashing out at him again. It would assure her that she had every reason to dislike him and would be well advised to maintain a cautious distance.

“No, thanks. I’m sticking with Rooster. He’ll get me where I want to go the day of the race.” She hoped.

“Or see you buried,” Sol mumbled as he leaned out to grab the lead rope on the other horses.

“Muriel said something to that effect, but I intend to prove you both wrong,” Josie insisted. She glanced curiously at him. “Are you going to make the land run?”

“Haven’t decided yet. I’m not one to stay in the same place for long. Born under a wandering star, you might say.”

Which meant he and Josie held opposing objectives in life. She dreamed of putting down roots and having a home of her own. She’d endured seven years of feeling unwanted, though she had stayed in a grand house where most women would delight in living. She had been overly anxious to escape that tormenting place. Nowadays, a sod house or crude dugout seemed like a welcoming palace to her.

“You can drop by my homestead after the run and see how well I’m managing without a man’s help or intrusion,” she invited. “Unlike you, Tremain, I want a place to call my own.”

He studied her for a long, contemplative moment. His penetrating green eyes bored into her, as if searching out hidden secrets.

“So … Miz Josephine, where do you hail from?” he asked as they rode toward the tent community that had become her temporary home.

“Iowa. My mother died when I was ten. Three years later, Papa married a wealthy, influential widow who could improve his social standing.” Josie wrinkled her nose in disgust. “Although Papa inherited property from my mother’s family, he had no interest whatsoever in ranching. Eventually he sold it for extra money, after his new wife pressured him into it. Needless to say, my brother and I were hugely disappointed.”

“You had constant conflicts with your stepmother,” Sol said perceptively.

“Yes. She would have preferred if Papa didn’t bring Noah and me into her grand house,” Josie confided, and wondered why she was discussing her personal life with a stranger. Ordinarily, she kept her feelings to herself. She figured everyone had their own problems, and didn’t want to hear about hers.

“It was her house, after all,” she continued, surprising herself again. “She had a daughter and son by her first marriage, and she did her best to make my brother and me feel unwelcome and unaccepted in her circle of highsociety acquaintances.”

“Her home, her money, her friends,” he said with a knowing smile. “She didn’t want to run the risk of you outshining her children. She sounds anything but delightful.”

“Needless to say, I leaped at the chance to join Noah and his then-fiancée, Celia, when they came south to make the Run of ’89. They married after they claimed their adjoining homesteads.”

“But you didn’t claim property nearby?” he asked curiously.

“Couldn’t. The Homestead Act states a single woman of legal age can stake land in a run, but I wasn’t yet twenty-one at the time. Since Celia was, they could combine their property after they filed their individual claims. I helped them set up their farm, which is east of El Reno, and I lived with them until recently.”

“And now it’s your turn to follow your dreams.”

“Exactly. I couldn’t make the Run of ’91, which opened land to the east of their homestead, either.”

“Oh? Why’s that?” he asked interestedly.

“Because I couldn’t work the fields and erect buildings for barns, hog sheds and chicken coops by myself,” she explained. “At the time, I didn’t have the funds to hire workers, either. But I can raise cattle, train horses and build fences on the soon-to-be-opened range land.” She stared at him, daring him to deny it.

He grinned and glanced meaningfully at Rooster. The horse had been tossing his head and sidestepping every chance he got.

“Yes, I can see how well trained this devil is. But you can claim twice as much land if you accept a marriage proposal and wed after the run, like your scheming sister-in-law did,” he pointed out.

“She isn’t a schemer, and that was different,” Josie said defensively. “Celia loves Noah and he loves her. And don’t think my prospective suitors haven’t mentioned repeatedly the advantage of claiming more land for a ranch. But I’m not like my father. He married both times for position and prestige, the second even more than the first. I lost all respect for him when he practically deserted my brother and me to seek acceptance in society’s highest circles.”

Josie inhaled a calming breath, determined not to let hurtful feelings from her past upset her. She had a new life now and her always-critical stepmother was miles away.

“I had you and Miz Wilson pegged as clever opportunists.” He inclined his raven head. “I was wrong to believe the worst without hearing the facts. I apologize.”

“What about you, Tremain? What is your story …?”

Her voice trailed off when she saw Muriel trotting her dapple-gray mare over the hill—with none other than Captain Holbrook riding beside her. What the devil was her friend doing with him? And why were they out here?

Josie stared apprehensively at Tremain, wondering if he planned to accuse her of trespassing, as he’d threatened earlier. But he simply glanced at her, shrugged a broad shoulder and gazed curiously at the approaching twosome.

Dear Lord! Josie thought suddenly. Had Muriel taken her rash suggestion of proposing to the man she disliked as a tactic to fend off unwanted suitors? Muriel and she hadn’t had time to hammer out the details of such a drastic plan yet. Perhaps Muriel had acted impulsively and persuaded Holbrook to become her temporary fiancé.

Josie tossed Solomon Tremain a speculative glance. Maybe she should follow her own advice. The aimless horse trader would make a perfect pretend fiancé. He wouldn’t hang around after the run, and other potential suitors would be too busy establishing their own ranches to notice. She would be left alone to set up her homestead.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” he asked warily.

Josie flashed a wide grin and didn’t reply, just turned her attention to the approaching riders—and wondered how Tremain would react if she proposed to him….

Chapter Three

Sol frowned after Josie shifted her speculative gaze from him to the approaching riders. He dearly wanted to know why the intelligent blonde had been staring at him with her lustrous blue eyes narrowed in thought. It made him nervous, reminding him of prisoners that were mentally plotting their escape.

Sol had an unblemished reputation of not losing prisoners. He brought them in alive or dead. Their choice. However, dealing with the feisty female was another matter entirely. She was up to something; he’d stake his reputation on it. He wanted to interrogate her privately, but Grant and her friend drew their horses to a halt in front of them.

“Thank God!” Muriel gushed as she looked Josie over carefully. “You are all right, aren’t you? I was afraid that demon stallion might have left you in a broken heap on the ground.” Her accusing gaze settled on Rooster.

The animal tossed his head proudly and ignored her.

Josie flashed a blinding smile that would have knocked Sol’s knees out from under him if he’d been standing. Her face came alive and her radiant expression nearly stole his breath. He glanced at Grant to see if he had experienced the same stunned reaction, but the commander’s focus was trained on the attractive brunette.

“I’m perfectly fine, as you can see,” Josie assured her friend. “You’re okay, too, I hope.”

Muriel nodded reassuringly. “I finally regained control of my mare while she sloshed through the shallows in the river. But I was so worried about you that I headed straight for the garrison for assistance.” She angled her head toward Holbrook. “Thankfully, I didn’t have to ride very far before we crossed paths south of the fort.”

No doubt Grant had been on his way to their rendezvous site at Shallow Springs, Sol mused.

“I asked the commander for permission to cross the border to ensure your safety,” Muriel added. “He came along in case you were injured and I needed help transporting you to camp.”

Sol scrutinized the two women closely. Especially Josie. It seemed that Muriel had answered an unspoken question, because her friend relaxed in the saddle. Whatever passed between the two women was meant to exclude Sol and Grant.

Here was yet another example of a puzzling reaction Sol didn’t understand. But then, he had spent considerably more time with men than women, so he couldn’t read their behavior quite as easily.

“I had no intention of crossing the boundary line,” Josie assured Grant. “But the gunshots in camp frightened Rooster, and away he went without a care about what’s off-limits and what’s not.”

“A rabbit bounding out of the grass and hopping across the prairie would set off Rooster,” Sol commented as he stared at the horse, which refused to stand still. If it was possible for a stallion to strut, Rooster could pull it off, he decided. “Give me two days with that cantankerous animal so I can teach him discipline.”

Josie rolled her eyes, then glanced at her friend. “Muriel, this is Solomon Tremain.”

She smiled cordially. “You’re the horse trader. I remember seeing you in town. And this is Captain—”

“We’ve met,” Grant interrupted. “I checked Tremain’s special license this morning. He’s legal, but he’s making a killing off his livestock.”

“The horses aren’t stolen, are they?” Josie asked, so innocently that Sol knew instantly that she was up to no good. “Heavens, I’d hate to think the man who saved me from fatal disaster was a thief.”

Sol managed to maintain his trademark deadpan expression, but he inwardly fumed when Josie batted her eyes at him. What the hell was she doing? Fifteen minutes ago, she’d bitten his head off and insisted she didn’t need rescuing. Now she was hailing him as a hero for saving her. He was beginning to think there were two women housed in that luscious body of hers—a witch and an angel—and you could never know which one would show up at any given moment. She sure as hell had him buffaloed.

“I’m not a thief,” Sol insisted, while Muriel stared at him and Grant bit back a wry smile. “I’m half Cheyenne, and my people are offering their well-trained herds of horses for sale to the invading whites. We might as well make money off this outrageous theft of our land. Not to mention another peace treaty broken by the white government.”

Sol shut his mouth so fast he nearly bit off the end of his tongue. Why had he blurted that out? He waited for Josie’s and Muriel’s reactions to his mixed heritage, and told himself he didn’t care what they thought.

To his surprise, neither woman recoiled in repulsion, just stared at him for a few moments before nodding in acceptance of his announcement.

“That explains it,” Josie said eventually.

“Explains what?” Sol demanded, a little too defensively.

She grinned at him, which made him nervous, because he couldn’t figure her out … and it aggravated him that he wanted to be able to.

“That’s why you dislike me,” she continued, still smiling. “You resent my intrusion on Cheyenne-Arapaho land, and you’re also taking your dislike out on my horse.”

Sol snorted. “I find fault with that stallion because he is a disaster waiting to happen. Do yourself a favor and buy one of my horses. You’ll be safe instead of risking your neck on that unpredictable misfit.”

“You two will have to continue your debate elsewhere,” Grant interjected. “You are on the wrong side of the boundary line and I have a meeting to attend.” He glanced at Muriel. “Can you and your friend return to camp without an escort?”

“We’ll be fine,” she assured him crisply. “I already told you that in most instances we are perfectly capable of taking care of ourselves.”

“But you should ignore the gunshots you’ll hear coming from camp when we return,” Josie suggested flippantly. “I plan to shoot the men who fired their pistols, spooked our horses and sent them racing out of control. I expect Muriel will stab those inconsiderate hooligans with her knife a few times for good measure, too.”

Grant glanced at Sol after the women trotted off, with Rooster still tossing his head. “She’s kidding, right?”

How was he supposed to know? Sol couldn’t figure Josie out. “Your guess is as good as mine.” He frowned when he noticed Grant was watching Muriel intently. “I thought you didn’t like the brunette.”

The commander swung his head toward Sol. “I don’t. Personally, I think she delights in all that male attention, despite her claim that she isn’t interested in accepting a marriage proposal before the race for land.”

“Why do you care one way or the other?”

“Didn’t say I did,” Grant muttered defensively.

Sol let the matter drop, since the man appeared to be highly sensitive about the brunette, regardless of his insistence to the contrary.

“Did you find out anything about the gunslingers we spotted in town?” he asked as he led the way to their secluded rendezvous site near Shallow Springs.

Grant nodded soberly. “The gunmen met up with a Texas rancher named Carlton Bradley at the Oasis, a local brothel. Later, I saw Bradley chatting with several hopeful settlers at one of the tent communities while I was making my rounds.”

“Which camp?” Sol questioned as he walked Outlaw into a copse of willows near the rippling springs.

“I think he’s camped just north of the one where Josie and Muriel are staying.”

Sol nodded pensively. “I need to find out what Bradley and his small army are up to. Robbery, maybe. He might be trying to familiarize himself with the settlers’ routines. There are a lot of people about, carrying their life savings to make improvements on the land—if they manage to stake a claim without getting killed during the race.”

“I talked to Sam Colby, the city marshal, this afternoon,” Grant commented. “He mentioned that robberies were occurring with alarming regularity. Bradley and his thugs might be stealing all the money they can get their hands on before hightailing it back to Texas.”

“The same sort of things happened in the two previous land runs,” Sol reported, then frowned curiously. “What does this Bradley character look like?”

“He’s about your height, with reddish-brown hair, a false smile, gray eyes and a square face.” Grant rattled the description off. “I think he is as fond of females as he is of money. I see him flirting constantly with married and single women alike.”

“Maybe we should sic Josie on him,” Sol said drily. “I just met that firebrand, but I think she could put Bradley in his place in nothing flat.”

“We’ll send Muriel with her. She has tried to put me in my place on several occasions,” the commander mumbled. “And I don’t fling insulting innuendos the way Bradley reportedly does.”

“If you come across anyone else that arouses your suspicion, let me know.” Sol glanced back at his colleague as he reined Outlaw away from the springs. “By the way, my cousin spotted two squatters tucked in a ravine about eight miles northwest of the fort. Both men were heavily armed with pistols and rifles.”

“I’ll take out a patrol to confront them tonight,” Grant promised. “After we overtake them, they can camp out in the stockade with the rest of their conniving kind.”

“Good place for the bastards. You may have to expand the size of the stockade before this damn race for land takes place,” Sol muttered before he rode off.

The moment Josie and Muriel reached the tent community, four would-be fiancés approached, eagerly offering to unsaddle their horses. One of the men thrust a tattered jacket at Muriel to repair. The eager suitor followed her like a puppy when she hiked off to fetch her sewing kit.

“If you don’t mind, I need my privacy,” Josie told the three who lagged behind.

The men bobbed their heads and backed away, much to her relief. She was not in the mood to be polite or listen to more flattery. She just wanted peace and quiet while she brushed down Rooster and staked out Bess, Muriel’s mare, to graze.

Privacy was difficult to obtain these days, though. The area was jumping with people who anticipated the day of the run. More competition, Josie thought, disgruntled, as she groomed the stallion. She smiled, noting this was the only time he stood still. He liked the personal attention.

When weariness settled over her, depressing thoughts closed in. Josie wondered what she would do if she couldn’t find a piece of property with a good water source and natural protection from inclement weather. What if she failed to stake a claim at all?

She’d heard in town that at least twenty-five thousand people were expected to make the wild run for free land. She knew some of them were settlers that had been unsuccessful in staking claims during the first two such events.

What if she and Muriel ended up with nothing?

Rooster pricked his ears and shifted sideways suddenly. Josie snapped to attention when she heard rustling in the underbrush. Now what? she thought in annoyance.

To her dismay, a scruffy cowboy, who looked part Spanish, staggered from the bushes. His shaggy black hair scraped the collar of his dingy shirt. His wide-set black eyes were at half-mast. He had a six-shooter strapped to each hip and he carried a near-empty whiskey bottle in one hand. Josie swore the hombre must have ingested most of the liquor, then used several drops as cologne, because offensive smells oozed from every pore.

“Well, well, well,” the stocky cowboy drawled. “If it ain’t Button-Eye Malloy all alone for once. I’ve had you in my sights for a week, honey.”

“The answer is no,” she said, out of patience with all men everywhere. “I’m not interested in marrying you. Go away.”

“Marry?” He snickered, exposing a mouthful of jagged teeth. “Hell, honey, I don’t wanna wed you. Just bed you.” He discarded the bottle and advanced toward her.

Josie had found herself in similar situations on several occasions. Drunks with lust on their minds were more dangerous than overeager suitors. “Stay away from me or you’ll be sorry,” she warned, scooping up a fallen branch to use as an improvised club.

The unkempt hooligan just kept coming. Josie stepped around Rooster, using the horse as a shield. To her frustration, the ruffian swatted the stallion’s rump. The flighty horse bolted sideways, knocking Josie flat on her back. She let out a yelp and tried to regain her feet before the ruffian sprawled atop her, but he overpowered her and trapped her beneath him.

She was reminded instantly of having Tremain fall on her, but this was not the same. She had felt a fierce physical attraction to the ruggedly handsome horse trader. She felt nothing but disgust and repulsion for this lusty drunkard.

He clamped a beefy hand around her leg, jerking it sideways to make room for himself between her thighs. Josie tried to whack him over the head with the tree branch, but he blocked the blow with his elbow.

“Get off me!” she yelled at the top of her lungs.

“Not till you give me a kiss,” he growled. His shaggy head moved steadily toward hers.

Furious, Josie bucked beneath him and turned her face away. He grabbed a hank of her hair and yanked hard. She screeched in pain and outrage, and clobbered him on the shoulder with her makeshift club. Unfortunately, the blow only served to make him vindictive.

“You wanna play rough, do you, bitch?” he sneered. “Your choice—”

To Josie’s surprise, her attacker suddenly levitated off the ground, flew through the air, then landed again with a grunt and a thud. She glanced up to see Solomon Tremain looming over her, looking like Satan arriving from the gates of hell. His eyes were narrowed slits of green flame and his facial expression was as hard as a tombstone. His menacing growl would have scared the living daylights out of anyone sober enough to realize Tremain was not a man to challenge if you valued your life.

“Get yer own woman,” the drunkard spat as he climbed onto all fours. “I found her first!”

“Might be the last thing you ever do,” Tremain snarled ferociously. Then he swooped down on her attacker.

Panting for breath, Josie braced herself on her elbows and watched the horse trader clutch the front of the hooligan’s shirt. He hauled him roughly to his feet and knocked the stuffing out of the brute, who hit the ground again—hard. The brain-scrambling blow caused his dark eyes to roll around like a pair of dice.

She watched in satisfaction as the ruffian shook his head to gather his wits, then gasped in alarm when he made a grab for one of the pistols on his hips.

“Watch out!” she called to her rescuer.

She wasted her breath. Tremain had lightning-quick reflexes and had already sprung into action. He shoved his boot heel against the man’s wrist, dislodging the weapon and making him howl in pain. Tremain confiscated both pistols, then stepped on the hooligan’s neck to discourage him from trying to gain his feet.

For a horse trader, Tremain was downright impressive when it came to hand-to-hand combat. Josie wondered if it was his Cheyenne training that prepared him to react so quickly and effectively. Probably, she decided. She could use a few lessons in self-defense from him. Clearly, she wasn’t as good at fending off attackers as she’d thought.

“Do you have something you’d like to say to the lady?” Tremain asked in a low, vicious tone as he towered over the downed man like a seething thundercloud of doom.

“No, and you can go to hell,” the man choked out.

“Already been there. Now it’s your turn to see what it’s like.”

Josie pushed herself into a sitting position to massage her aching back, which had slammed into the ground one too many times in the past two hours.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Tremain asked, without taking his fierce glare—or his booted foot—off her tormentor.

“I’ve been better,” she admitted. “But thanks for asking.” She rolled to her hands and knees, favoring the wrist she’d hurt earlier that evening, and then rose slowly to her feet.

Her rescuer grabbed the drunkard and hoisted him off the ground. The man swayed as Tremain shook him, as if to clear his whiskey-saturated senses. Josie knew it wouldn’t help. She had pounded her attacker with her makeshift club, but he had consumed a pint of whiskey, and the blows hadn’t fazed him.

“Come with me,” the horse trader demanded sharply. “You need to sober up, and a bath wouldn’t hurt, either.”

With satisfaction, Josie watched Tremain shove her assailant into the creek. The hombre landed with a splash and came up cursing the air black-and-blue.

When Josie heard more thrashing in the underbrush, she whirled around. Her yelps had drawn attention, apparently. A dozen men, weapons at the ready, appeared.

“You okay, Miz Malloy?” Orson Barnes, the leader of the group, asked worriedly.

“I am now,” she assured the rescue brigade.

The settlers glared at the drunkard, who had slogged ashore and stood there dripping wet, glowering at Tremain.

“There was no call to rough me up,” he muttered, then gingerly examined his bloody lips. “I was just having a little fun.”

“Well, I wasn’t!” Josie huffed indignantly. “If my fiancé hadn’t shown up when he did, I would have been mauled.”

For the life of her, she didn’t know why she blurted that out. Maybe because she had been mulling over the prospect during her ride back to camp. She had planned to see what Muriel thought of the idea, but they hadn’t gotten around to the topic before they arrived and found themselves swarmed by four eager-to-please suitors.

For certain, Josie had shocked this latest group of men speechless. Whiskered jaws dropped. Eyes popped. Weapons sagged in the men’s hands. In synchronized motion, the would-be settlers’ stunned gazes swung to Tremain, who stared at her with that poker-faced expression he wore so well.

“Your fiancé?” the crowd crowed in unison.

“That’s right,” she confirmed, as she turned her back on them and walked up to Tremain. “My fiancé.”

She cast him a please-don’t-deny-it stare, then slipped her hand into his before she pivoted to face the baffled men. She noted that Muriel had arrived on the scene, along with another dozen men. The recent arrivals looked as shocked by the announcement as the first group.

Muriel didn’t appear the least bit surprised, however. She stifled a grin of wry amusement and hung back from the congregation of men.

“That true, horse trader?” someone called from the middle of the crowd. “You proposed and she accepted your offer over everybody else’s?”

Josie held her breath, wondering if Tremain planned to humiliate her in front of their captive audience, or play along with her impulsive announcement.

“Didn’t she just say so?” he asked, his deep, resonant voice carrying over the crowd.

She nearly swooned in relief, but tried her damnedest not to let her reaction show. Her relief turned to amusement when the men quickly switched their attention to Muriel, who flung up both hands and said, “Don’t look at me as a potential wife. I accepted Commander Holbrook’s proposal an hour ago, while we were riding.” She flashed a beaming smile. “Josie and I are planning a double wedding after the land run.”

Beside Josie, Tremain leaned down as if to whisper sweet nothings in her ear. “Are you proposing to me? Isn’t that unconventional in white society?”

“Where is it written that a woman can’t propose?” she challenged quietly.

“Nowhere I know. It’s what I’d expect from a misfit like you … so I accept.”

He draped his arm over her shoulder, drawing her closer. Ordinarily, she was inclined to step away when a man crowded her. She’d learned early on not to accept displays of affection, because suitors always wanted more than she intended to give. Oddly enough, however, she didn’t object to Tremain’s feigned interest. She felt safe and protected after her run-in with the foul-smelling drunkard, who would have molested her if Tremain hadn’t shown up when he did.

“Does Holbrook know he recently became engaged?” Tremain murmured against the side of her neck, causing goose bumps to pebble her skin.

“I don’t know,” she replied, her voice a little on the unsteady side. “Muriel and I didn’t have a chance to discuss anything privately. Four men approached the minute we dismounted in camp.”

“You know this is going to cost you, don’t you?” Tremain whispered devilishly. “Muriel, too, I suspect.”

“How much, Tremain?” Josie asked, when she saw the wicked gleam in his sea-green eyes and the ornery grin twitching his lips. “I’m saving my funds for improvements on my homestead, if I manage to stake one.”

“We’ll work something out, trust me.”

She flashed a smile for the benefit of the attentive males watching their every move. Then she said in a low voice, “Just so you know, I don’t trust any man’s intentions….”

Her voice trailed off when Tremain’s raven head came slowly and deliberately toward hers, as if giving notice that he was going to kiss her in front of God and everyone watching. Not only that, but he was staking his claim on her. Josie waited, unsure if she wanted to know how he tasted, to know if he kissed the same way he fought—roughly and forcefully.

“You’re a smart woman not to trust a man’s motives,” he murmured, his lips a hairbreadth from hers. “I myself don’t trust anyone’s motives, yours included. Just so you know …”

Then he kissed her, satisfying her curiosity—and stirring something wild and hungry deep inside her. She hadn’t expected tenderness from a man who had reminded her of the flapping buzzard of doom a quarter of an hour earlier. Yet tenderness was what she received from Solomon Tremain. Though he was amazingly gentle, molten fire simmered beneath the surface. It seeped into her blood, bringing it to a quick boil, triggering white-hot sensations she hadn’t wanted—or expected—to feel.

She didn’t realize she had curled her arm around his neck to inch closer until she was there, enjoying the feel of his powerful body meshed familiarly against hers. She found herself wanting something she couldn’t explain, and until this very moment hadn’t realized existed.

Josie was sorry to admit she was dazed, dumbfounded and aroused by the gentler side of Solomon Tremain. Desire thrummed through her, raising her temperature another ten degrees. When he lifted his head and let loose a dimpled smile, it knocked her for another loop … until he looked over her head at the crowd of men and grinned in cocky male triumph.

“And you are going to pay for that, Tremain,” she warned as she tossed him a smile for appearance’s sake.

“Then we will have to owe each other, won’t we, blue eyes?” he murmured huskily.

He dropped a featherlight kiss on her lips, then stepped away to quick-march her assailant to camp. The rescue squad fell in behind him, leaving the two friends alone together.

“Well,” Muriel said. “I hope this scheme of yours doesn’t blow up in our faces.” She stared curiously at Josie. “What did Tremain say when you proposed to him?”

“I didn’t actually propose.” Josie shifted awkwardly from one foot to the other and avoided her direct stare. “It just sort of popped out of my mouth that he was my fiancé, after my ordeal with the drunkard.”

Muriel gasped in amazement. “You gave him no warning? Just blurted it out in front of everyone?”

Josie nodded her tousled head. “You and I discussed the possibility this morning. Tonight seemed the perfect time to set the plan in motion,” she reasoned. “The news will buzz around camp this evening and tomorrow we can enjoy some peace and quiet. For once.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t have yielded to the same reckless impulse,” Muriel said worriedly. “Now I have to ride out to the garrison at night to confer with Holbrook … and face possible rejection. The captain might not play along the way Mr. Tremain did.”

“You could send Tremain to propose for you,” Josie suggested.

Her friend’s shoulders slumped in relief and she bobbed her head. “I hope he’ll agree to speak in my stead, because I’d rather not face Holbrook. I hope your pretend fiancé can square it with mine.” There was a long pause as she stared anxiously at Josie in the gathering twilight. “Do you think we might have acted too irrationally with this scheme of desperation?”

“Most likely,” Josie admitted. “But what’s done is done. Hopefully, we have resolved the problem of so many unwanted proposals.”

Her friend inhaled a bracing breath, squared her shoulders, then spun on her heel. “I’ll go ask Tremain to be the bearer of surprising news.”

“It’ll probably cost you,” Josie called after her. “It’s what you should expect when you bargain with a wily horse trader.”

Sol escorted Josie’s assailant into camp, intending to tie him up, retrieve Outlaw and gather the horses he had stopped by to sell at the settlement. Damn good thing he had arrived when he did, he mused as he glared at his unkempt prisoner. Sol recognized the man as one of the six gunmen he’d seen loitering around the Saddle Burr Saloon earlier in the day.

“What’s your name?” he demanded sharply.

“None of your business,” the shaggy-haired hooligan said with a scowl.

“I’m making it my business,” Sol snapped. “You tried to molest my fiancée, and we both take offense to that.”

Fiancée? Damn, that sounded odd. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected to have one of those—ever. He knew absolutely nothing about dealing with females, especially one as high-spirited and quick-witted as Josephine Malloy.

“If that hellion is yer fiancée you shoulda kept closer tabs on her,” the attacker snorted.

Sol scoffed. How many desperadoes who blamed him for their shortcomings had he encountered over the years? More than he cared to count. The bastards never wanted to own up to their sins and transgressions.

“You go near Josephine again and I’ll shoot you a couple of times,” he growled threateningly. “If you try to retaliate against her for fighting back, I’ll slit your throat. If you touch her, you’re a dead man. Do you understand me?” He stared at the hombre with fierce intensity. “And make no mistake, you won’t be the first man I’ve killed, and you won’t be the last. Now … what’s your name?”

The defiant ruffian thrust out his stubbled chin and clamped his swollen lips shut.

Sol untied one of the horses he had for sale, then stabbed his forefinger at the prisoner, silently ordering him to climb aboard bareback. Scowling, the man mounted up, then swore foully when Sol coiled a rope around his neck, tied it to his wrists, then hooked it around the mount’s neck and belly.

“We have our own ways of dealing with men who mistreat women,” said a voice behind them.

Sol half turned to see the frizzy-haired, self-appointed leader of the rescue brigade, which had formed a semicircle behind him. “This man is headed for the stockade at the garrison,” Sol declared authoritatively. “This area is under martial law, and vigilante justice is prohibited here and everywhere else.” Damn, he sounded like a lawman, he realized. Sol told himself to watch what he said and how he said it in the near future.

The stocky man, whose face was covered with so much brown hair that he reminded Sol of a buffalo, lumbered forward to extend his hand. “Orson Barnes is my name. I guess you have a right to do as you see fit with this molester of women. And congratulations on your betrothal to Miz Malloy,” he added begrudgingly. “You are the envy of all the single men in camp. I’m surprised she changed her mind, though. When I proposed to her this morning she said she wasn’t ready to settle down anytime soon.”

Sol smiled faintly as he looked past Orson and noted that he was receiving plenty of annoyed glances from Josephine’s jilted suitors. The competition for a woman’s affection in these mostly male tent communities was fierce, he reminded himself. “I must’ve caught her at a weak moment.”

“Didn’t know she had any weak moments.”

Sol doubted she did, either.

“That’s a lot of woman you got there, Mr….?” Orson waited for Sol to fill in the blank.

“Tremain. I’m a horse trader.” He inclined his head toward his prisoner. “Do you happen to know this hombre by name?”

“Harlan Kane,” Orson replied. “He shares a tent with three other scruffy men on the north side of camp.”

“Do you know their names?” Sol questioned.

“Bernie Hobart, Wendell Latimer and Ramon Alvarez.” He rattled them off.

“You’d do well to mind your own business, too,” Harlan muttered threateningly at Orson, who shrugged, undaunted. “My friends might pay you a visit when you least expect it.”

Sol narrowed his gaze at his prisoner. No doubt threats of violence were this gang’s specialty.

“You want me to keep an eye on Miz Malloy until you get back from the fort, Tremain?” Orson volunteered as the crowd of men behind him dispersed.

“Good idea. Thanks,” he said as he mounted Outlaw. “I won’t be back tonight, so tell my fiancée to sleep with her pistol under her pillow and one eye open.”

When the man lumbered off to become Josie’s temporary protector, Sol headed west. He halted Outlaw when he saw Muriel scurrying toward him, waving her arms to flag him down.

“May I have a private word with you, Mr. Tremain?” she asked anxiously, panting to catch her breath.

“Sol,” he corrected. “Give me a minute to secure my prisoner.”

Smiling to himself, Sol dismounted. He had a pretty good idea what Muriel wanted. He had to hand it to these two spirited women; there was nothing passive about either of them. They didn’t sit and wait for the world to come to them, but grabbed the proverbial bull by the horns.

Sol predicted that any man who got tangled up with them would never experience a dull moment.

But hell, he wouldn’t know what a dull moment felt like, even if it walked up and slapped him in the face, Sol mused. He existed in a rough-and-tumble world where flying bullets, slashing knives and hellish weather conditions prevailed. Becoming engaged—even to a lively spitfire like Josephine—couldn’t be that bad … could it?

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