A Marriage By Chance

“You’re not fair,” she said, her whisper harsh. “You know I can’t fight your strength.” Her eyes opened and the defiance was gone, tear-drenched lashes blinking as if she would conceal the emotion he’d brought to life. “I don’t have anything to compare this with,” she told him in a trembling voice, “but I’d say you’ve had a lot of experience at it.”

“At kissing?” he asked, tasting her flavor on his mouth. “A little, here and there. Not as much as most men, probably. I’m kinda fussy about women.”

“And you’ve decided I’m worth your attention?” She’d regained her composure now and her hands slid from his chest as he allowed his arms to lower, until his hands were at the small of her back. He held her in an easy embrace, and when she edged back, released her from his hold.

“I let you know the other night I was more than interested in you, Chloe. Having Tilly make such a blatant remark didn’t bother me nearly as much as it did you.” He stepped back from her, lifting her saddle easily with one hand. “You’re a good-lookin’ woman, and why you’re not already married is beyond me.”

“I’m not giving up my share of the ranch to anybody,” she said defiantly, her mouth taut as she vowed her independence. “Marriage would turn me into a mealymouthed creature fit only for having babies and keeping up a house.”

He laughed, unwilling to insult her, yet amused by the thought of Chloe being anything but what she was. “You’ll never be a mealymouthed woman, no matter what,” he said. “You’ve got too much spunk to let a man run roughshod over you.”

“Maybe so, but I’m smart enough to know I’d have a battle on my hands. I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on, once I signed a marriage certificate,” she said sharply. “The law says that a man owns the property, and pretty much the woman who comes along with it. I’m not handing over my inheritance in exchange for a wedding ring.”

“Well, I guess I’ve got my work cut out for me, don’t I?” He turned to the door, opening it and stepping across the threshold before she could form a reply. Better to keep her off guard, he decided.

Marriage hadn’t been in his plans, at least not for the next few years. But the idea of hauling a preacher out from town and putting a halter on Miss Chloe was starting to sound like a winner. Without half trying, she’d managed to get a grip on him that was becoming downright uncomfortable these days. Two kisses had only whet his appetite for another taste of her mouth, and she was spending more and more time at the back of his mind, keeping him on edge during the day and invading his dreams at night.

When he spoke again, he nonchalantly asked, “Which horse you planning on riding, Partner?”

“You’re not going to make a fuss about this?” she asked, hurrying to reach his side, the bridle and reins caught up in her hands.

“Not worth it,” he announced, as she halted before the stall where her tall, black mare was tied. “I need to be on my way, and short of tying you to a post, I don’t know of any way to persuade you to let me handle it on my own.”

“I wouldn’t try it if I were you,” she snapped, obviously fit for battle once more.

His hand sought out the currycomb hanging from the wall, and with a few strong, sweeping strokes, he cleaned the area where Chloe’s saddle would rest. “You got a blanket handy?” he asked, and watched as she snatched a heavy woolen square from a sawhorse. She snapped it sharply to remove the dust, then handed it to him. In moments it was in place and he swung her saddle atop the horse, looping the stirrup over the horn. His movements were quick, strong and practiced as he tightened the cinch and then backed the horse from its stall.

Chloe slid the bit in place, and the mare obligingly ducked her head as the bridle replaced her halter. J.T. followed her to where his stallion stood, tossing his head impatiently at the restriction of his reins tied to the handle of the barn door. The blood bay switched his tail, as if aware of the attention he drew. The mare passed him by and he whinnied, a shrill, sharp sound that drew little response from the black, but a quick grin from Chloe.

She mounted quickly, stepping up onto a block of wood apparently kept there for the purpose, and gathered her reins, turning the mare. Waiting as J.T. attempted to quiet his horse, her grin turned to a smile as the stallion defied his efforts. “Sure you don’t want to use him for breeding?” she asked. “He’s not going to be happy to lose a chance at my mares.”

“He’ll live through it,” J.T. snarled, grasping a handful of mane as he swung into his saddle. “Damned horse is spoiled rotten. I should have gotten rid of him a long time ago, traded him in for a good gelding.” He glanced up at Chloe’s stifled laughter.

“You’d never do that and you know it,” she said. “You’re a windbag, Flannery.”

“He’d behave better if he knew how close he is to getting sold,” J.T. growled, drawing up the reins, until the stallion’s nose was pressed close to his chest. “Let’s move out and let him run some of it off.”

“How many head am I missing?” she asked, turning her mare to join him as he allowed the stallion to break into a sharp trot.

He turned his dark gaze on her and Chloe thought for a moment that there was a definite resemblance between man and horse. Both were magnificent specimens, J.T. with his lean, long-legged, yet muscular body, the blood bay sporting black stockings that emphasized the sinewy, narrow lines of his legs and led to the heavy haunches that provided barely leashed power.

“A dozen or so, from what Shorty said,” J.T. answered shortly. He rode, she thought, like a centaur, as though he were a part of the splendid creature between his thighs. And now, his look was impatient as he lowered the brim of his hat with a jerk and nodded at her to take the lead.

They crossed the meadow, and he bent low to open a gate in the pasture fence, allowing her to ride through and waiting to close it behind himself. He caught up to her in moments, the stallion unwilling to be left bringing up the rear. “There’s only one shack, isn’t there?” he asked, and she nodded.

“Never needed more than one. Not with the size of herd I run. We don’t use it much, just during branding and roundup usually.”

They rode the length of the big pasture, and again he opened, then closed, a gate. Now the wide-open range of the northernmost part of the ranch was before them, only the farthest boundaries enclosed by barbed wire. It would be an easy thing, she decided, to clip the wire and run a dozen head of cattle through the opening. The task now was to find the gap in her fence line, and make quick repairs before more of the herd wandered off to Hale Winters’s neighboring ranch.

J.T. loosened his reins, allowing his horse to stretch long, dark legs in a gallop, and Chloe’s black mare followed suit, eager to spend some of her pent-up energy. The chill of spring made her thankful for the coat she wore, and she buttoned the top button with her free hand, tugging her hat lower to protect her from the wind. There was a simple joy in the rolling gallop of her mare, a pleasure that ignored the purpose of this ride.

And it seemed that J.T. shared her thoughts as he turned his head to offer her a look of satisfaction. His gaze narrowed on her face, and he slowed the pace of his mount, motioning with an uplifted hand for her to follow suit. They settled into a easy lope and he rode beside her in silence for a moment, his jaw set, as if he pondered over words he was hesitant to speak.

“We’d make a good team, Chloe. I’d make sure you held your portion of the ranch with no strings attached.” His words were rough-edged, his eyes penetrating, as he turned his gaze in her direction, referring apparently to the sparring they’d done in the tack room.

“We are a team, whether we like it or not, Flannery,” she answered coolly. “And I’ll hold my share of the ranch without your help.”

“I’ve never done this before,” he said, his jaw clenching. “I didn’t make myself clear, apparently.”

“If you’re talking about a wedding, you can forget it,” Chloe said, sudden realization making her aware of his line of thought. She pressed her heels against the mare’s sides, and the horse delivered a spurt of speed. “Besides,” she called, over her shoulder, “we’ve got more important things to be concerned about right now.”

J.T. caught up with her and passed her by, his stallion’s long legs stretching, nostrils flaring as he left the black mare behind. Chloe let her horse run, aware that she was certain to be viewing the bay’s wide haunches. If she wasn’t mistaken, she’d just turned down a backhanded proposal, and damn if it didn’t feel good to get the best of J. T. Flannery.

The wire had indeed been cut, and if the language coming from Tom’s mouth was anything to go by, it had not been an easy task to repair the damage. He and Corky had strained mightily to draw the ends together, winding each cut strand with pliers, their work hampered by the heavy, leather gloves they wore. And still they each bore small gashes, one leaving a dark stain on Tom’s shirt, another on Corky’s cheek still oozing blood.

“You didn’t hear anything?” J.T. asked for the second time, and was given an impatient glare by the older of the two cowhands.

“If I had, you think I wouldn’t have used my shotgun?” Tom asked, his anger obvious. “There wasn’t any reason to stand guard, far as I could see. We’d worked hard all day, and we slept inside the shack.”

Shod horses had crossed the boundary line, their riders cutting the fence and riding a half mile or so onto the Double B before the rustlers had made away with a portion of the herd bedded down by a southward winding, narrow creek. Wise enough to limit their take to a few head at a time, they’d evaded discovery. The tracks J.T. followed for less than a mile had cut across hard, rocky ground, leaving him little trail to follow, mixed in as they were with those of other cattle.

Corky offered a thick slab of beef, tucked between two slices of bread, and J.T. took it gladly. “You get something to eat?” he asked Chloe.

She sat against the wall of the shack, out of the wind, the sun full on her face. Her hat resting on one knee, she looked pensive, he decided, and he stalked over to sit with her.

“Want some of this?” he offered, and was treated to a long look that disdained his crude sandwich.

“I get sick of beef,” she said shortly. “And today, I’m totally fed up with everything attached to owning a cattle ranch.”

“I gave her a biscuit left from breakfast,” Corky said from his perch on a stump.

“Well, I guess you won’t starve then,” J.T. allowed, tucking into his makeshift meal. He wiped his mouth with his bandana and slanted a glance at her. “First time you’ve lost cattle to rustlers?”

“First and last, I hope,” she told him. “It makes me angry to have something stolen that I’ve worked so hard to tend to.”

“We’ll have to bring the herd in closer and keep a weather eye out,” he said, biting into his bread.

“Damn it, anyway. We shouldn’t have to be looking over our shoulder.” She glared at him as if it were somehow his responsibility that such a thing had come to pass. “If I had my way, I’d string the thieves up on the nearest tree,” she said bitterly.

“That’s been done before,” he said agreeably, “but we’ll have to catch them first. On top of that the constable would probably rather we let the law handle it.”

“My pa always said his gun was the law on this ranch.” Her gaze moved to the shotgun slung behind her saddle. “I think he may have had the right idea after all.”

J.T. chewed slowly, then swallowed. “You didn’t always agree with his theory?”

She shook her head. “No. I was all for law and order.” Her eyes flashed anger again and he recognized her frustration. “That was before it happened to me.”

“Yeah, that does make a difference in viewpoint,” he said obligingly. The last bite was gone, and he rose, a single, smooth movement that caught her eye. He offered his hand. “Come on, Chloe. Might as well head back home. There’s not much we can do here. I’ll send Willie and Shorty out this afternoon. Between the four of them, they should be able to round up the best part of the herd and head them toward the north pasture, closer to the house.”

“All right.” She took his hand and allowed him to tug her to her feet. He was beside her horse, tightening the cinch before she could tend to it herself, then circled to where his stallion was tied to a crude hitching rail.

She held the reins in her left hand, eyeing the stirrup that would require an awkward mount. And then he was behind her, and she was lifted, her waist gripped between wide hands as she grasped the pommel and slid her leg over the saddle. J.T. stood at her knee, tucking her boot into the stirrup.

“You need a shorter horse, ma’am,” he said, his grin reminding her of the words he’d spoken in town.

“I can mount without help if I have to,” she said defensively, and then softened. “There’s something about this mare that appeals to me. She’s a little bit ornery, but I know her well. Her mama died when she was born, and I raised her with a bottle till we could get another mare to accept her. Besides, Hogan trained her well for me. She’s a good cow pony.”

“A little bit ornery, huh?” J.T. mounted his stallion and his eyes surveyed the prancing mare and the woman who rode her. “I’d say you nailed that about right.”

Micah Dawson wore a silver star pinned to his pocket, a star that hadn’t been polished in a very long time, J.T. decided. But the man who’d pinned it there didn’t appear to hold much with fancy fixings.

“We’ve hung more than one rustler in Ripsaw Creek, back in the old days,” he said mildly, but the hard look he turned on J.T. was not that of a pushover. His gun looked to be well cared for, and his horse was sleek and well tended. The man who hoisted himself into the saddle knew what he was doing, if Flannery knew anything about men in general, and lawmen in particular.

“You find tracks?” Micah asked, his horse setting a quick pace as the two men headed from town toward the Double B.

“Not much to go on,” J.T. said. “They cut across rocky ground, and by the time I got to the other side of the patch there were all sorts of prints. Hale Winters runs his cattle pretty close to the boundary line, same as Chloe and her father have for years.”

“Wonder if Hale’s missing any stock?” Micah’s eyes scanned the horizon as they rode, his hat pulled low to shade his eyes from the afternoon sun. “You know this running around is makin’ me miss my supper, don’t you?” he asked, casting a glance at J.T. He cleared his throat and adjusted his seat in the saddle. “Heard that Tilly was back at the ranch. Suppose she’s fixin’ fried chicken tonight?”

J.T. grinned, and after a moment allowed it to turn into a chuckle. There wasn’t any grass growing under the lawman’s feet. “I take it you’ve had your feet plunked under Tilly’s table more than once,” he said. “And,” he added, “as a matter of fact, I saw her killing two chickens this morning.”

“She’s a fine woman,” Micah said. “I hope John Biddleton’s resting easy in his grave, knowing that Tilly’s lending a hand at the ranch.”

“You’ve known her a long time?”

“She lived hereabouts when she was first married. Whole family came in on a wagon train. And then after she got her a husband, she moved south a ways. Hated to hear she was a widow lady, but—” his eyes warmed as he met J.T.’s gaze “—I can’t say I’m sorry she headed back this away.”

To the north, a rider appeared on the horizon, lifting a hand in greeting, and Micah muttered beneath his breath. “That’s Hale Winters now,” he said. “Something’s goin’ on. I’ll lay money on it.”

Across the wide expanse of open country, the rider traveled at an angle, the paths of the three men converging as they neared the long lane leading to the Double B Ranch. “Hey, Micah.” Chloe’s neighbor was a big man, hearty and good-natured, but if his scowl was any indication, his mood was anything but cheerful this afternoon.

“You got a problem?” Micah asked, pulling his mount to a halt as Hale left the stubbled field to join the two men.

“Damn rustlers made away with nearly twenty of my best cattle, and it looks like they did it in broad daylight.” He pulled his horse to a halt, and snatched his hat from his head, slapping it against his thigh. Beneath it his hair had matted against his skull, and he ran long fingers through its length. “I about sweat up a storm, tryin’ to chase them down. Lost them in the foothills, and I suspect they’re holed up in a canyon. Would’ve been stupid to make a target outta myself, riding in there.”

Micah frowned. “How’d you figure out what happened?”

“My men had ’em all rounded up, ready to cull ’em out and start in branding. Then some fool fired a gun and started ’em milling around and they scattered, some headin’ for the river, and my boys split up six different ways, trying to get things back in order. By the time they got things settled down, somebody noticed the count was down.”

“How many head you got out there?” J.T. asked.

“Couple hundred in that bunch, give or take. We already brought in the calves and yearlings. My breeding stock’s dropped pretty near fifty calves already. What those crooks got was prime beef.”

“Hell, so much for fried chicken,” Micah grumbled. “We’d might as well go take a look up by the high country, see what we can find.” He turned to J.T. “You got a couple men to spare for the rest of the day?”

J.T. nodded. “We’ll ride on out to where Tom and Corky have been working. I’ll send them along with you. You can take a look there, but I doubt there’s much more to see than what I found.” He urged his stallion into motion. “I’ll go to the house and let Tilly know to hold supper till we get back.”

“It’ll be late,” Micah said glumly, turning his mount to follow Hale back toward the north.

“She won’t care. Go on ahead and I’ll catch up.” Without waiting for an answer, J.T. loosened the reins and his horse headed up the long lane that led to the ranch. He quickly caught up with Chloe and explained the situation.

“I want to go with you,” Chloe said, her jaw set, her mouth firm. She was making a stand, J.T. figured, and sighed inwardly. Damn fool woman needed to learn how to soften up and let him handle the rough stuff. But apparently, this wasn’t the day to convince her of that fact. Hands on hips, she watched from the porch as J.T. watered his horse at the trough.

“I won’t stop you, Chloe,” he said, only too aware of the picture she presented. That was about half his trouble these days, he admitted to himself. She fit her trousers to a tee, and every time he got a gander at that round bottom of hers, not to mention the narrow waist and the generous curves of her bosom, he found himself thinking deep, troublesome thoughts.

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