The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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slanted a glance at the woman he’d rescued first. “Lady, please tell me someone up there has some sense.”
“Don’t count on it.” She avoided his searching gaze and stretched her right hand toward Sarah. “And you may call me Miss O’Mara.”
John hid a grin as Sarah awkwardly assisted Miss O’Mara onto unsteady legs. For a wild moment the two clung to each other like a couple of drunken sailors on a pitched deck. The moment the woman regained her footing, they sprang apart.
Miss O’Mara shook the mud from her back, then tugged her dark skirts lower. They were too short, showing a good bit of her worn boots and sliver of ankle. Together with her innocent face, it was easy to mistake her for an adolescent at first glance. On closer inspection, it was obvious she was in her late teens or early twenties.
“You’d better stand firm,” the woman ordered, swiping the back of her hand over her mud-splattered face. “That’s Darcy and she’s the heaviest.”
Distracted by the enticing smudge on Miss O’Mara’s cheek, John didn’t see the third escapee release her hold. His inattention cost him. A sharp elbow hammered his head and a boot scraped along his cheek. Blindly lifting his arms, he groaned beneath the girl’s weight and managed to set her aside before another, much smaller, pair of boots descended into his vision.
A curly-haired child hugged the knotted sheets, her ankles crossed.
John reached out. “Let go. I’ve got you.”
The youngster shook her head, her dark curls almost black against the moonlight.
Miss O’Mara stomped forward, her fisted hands planted on her slim hips. “Hazel, we haven’t much time. Let go this instant.”
The girl frantically shook her head. John rolled his eyes. Logic and orders weren’t going to convince Hazel of safety.
Stepping back a pace, he caught the little girl’s frightened gaze. “Almost there, Hazel. I’ll catch you.”
The frightened child sniffled. “Promise?”
“Promise.”
John swiped his index finger in an x across his chest. The childish display of fealty captured Hazel’s attention.
After a moment’s hesitation, she tumbled free and he easily caught her slight form. The instant he set her safely on the ground, she giggled. “That was fun. Can I do it again?”
“No!” Moira and John shouted in unison.
The last girl descended the rope and waved him aside. “Don’t need your help, mister.”
Unlike the previous girls, she released her legs and worked her hands down the length until she was only a few feet above the ground. John crossed his arms and stepped back as she easily dropped the abbreviated distance.
Straightening from her crouch, the girl dusted her hands together. “Thanks for helping with Hazel. I’m Antonella. But everyone calls me Tony.”
The girl pumped his hand once and stomped off.
John searched the empty window. A red velvet curtain flapped gently in the breeze. “Is that all of you?”
Miss O’Mara gathered her charges. “That’s four. Darcy, Sarah, Tony and Hazel.”
Scratching his head, John studied the motley gathering. “What are your ages, girls?”
Darcy boldly elbowed forward. “I’m fifteen next month.”
“Thirteen,” Sarah replied.
“Twelve and a half,” Tony chimed in.
The littlest girl, Hazel, glanced up. “I’m ten.”
John caught Miss O’Mara’s gaze and lifted an eyebrow.
She pursed her lips. “My age is none of your concern.”
Over twenty, he surmised immediately. Over twenty was about the age when a single woman ceased advertising her age. Little did she know. He’d give anything to be in his early twenties once more, when he’d still felt invincible.
Hazel tugged on his pant leg. “Are we safe now?”
The hairs on the back of John’s neck stirred. Each building had a distinctive look from the front, but facing the alley, they blended together into one indistinguishable row. He counted the doors from the corner and his chest tightened.
“Hey,” a slurred voice called from the open window. “Get back here.”
The girls shrieked and spun away.
Summoned by the commotion, a bearded man stuck his head out the saloon door and spit into the mud. “What’s goin’ on?”
A clamor sounded from the far end of the alley.
Miss O’Mara ushered the girls deeper into the darkness without even a backward glance. John split his attention between the growing cacophony of voices and the escapees.
Indecision kept his feet immobile. The girls hadn’t asked for his help. He could leave without an ounce of guilt. Considering they were obviously up to mischief, he’d already done more than most men would have.
“Hey, mister.” The drunken man smacked his palms against the sill. “Stop them girls. They stole my money.”
Of course. John mentally slapped his forehead. He should have known. He’d nearly been taken by a similar bunch in Buffalo Gap. Hastily stuffing his hands into his pockets, he breathed a sigh of relief. His fingers closed around the cool metal of his money clip. At least they’d rewarded his assistance by leaving him with the contents of his pockets intact.
Desperate children forced into desperate measures.
But what punishment did they deserve? John clenched his jaw. It wasn’t for him to decide.
A flash of yellow caught his attention. Half immersed in the mire, a rag doll lay forgotten. He pinched its yellow yarn braid between two fingers and held it aloft in the moonlight.
Above him, the shouting man worked his way down the rope. The sheets held firm and a grudging admiration for Miss O’Mara filtered through John’s annoyance. She tied knots like a trail boss.
“Well, mister,” the man demanded, his breath a fog of alcohol fumes. “Where’d them little thieves go?”
What now? If his brothers were here, they’d shove John aside like a pesky obstacle. They’d take charge and assume he didn’t have anything to offer. Like a herd of stampeding cattle, they’d wrestle all of the decisions—right or wrong—out of his hands. When his brothers were around, he never had to bother with taking responsibility.
John squinted into the darkened alley.
The inebriated man shoved him. “You deaf? I asked you a question.”
John clenched his jaw. The sooner he put Miss O’Mara out of his thoughts, the sooner he could continue his journey. Heaven knew he hadn’t even proved himself worthy of caring for a herd of cattle. A motley group of pickpocket orphans and a beautiful woman with fiery red hair were problems well beyond his limited resources.
Miss O’Mara and her charges were knee-deep in calamity and sinking fast. Moira required someone with the time, focus and connections to unravel her difficulties. Someone with the resources to steer her charges toward a respectable path. A hero. She’d gotten him instead. Maybe she’d have better luck down the road.
The drunken man took off in the direction Miss O’Mara and her charges had escaped. John snatched the man’s arm and pointed the opposite way. “I’d check down there.”
* * *
Moira heard the cowboy’s betrayal and her heart lodged in her throat. She tugged on Hazel’s arm and quickened her pace. With each pounding step her lungs burned and her vision blurred. What did speed matter