The Cattleman Meets His Match. Sherri Shackelford
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She yanked away. She wasn’t giving up. Not yet. The fingers kept a brutal grip.
“Miss O’Mara,” the cowboy spoke near her ear. “Let me carry Hazel. We’ll make better time.”
“No. You betrayed us.”
Moira stumbled and the cowboy steadied her with a hand cupping her elbow.
“I didn’t. Look around if you don’t believe me.”
At his calm reassurance, she slowed and glanced behind them. The alley was empty. No one pursued them.
While her exhausted brain grappled with the realization, the cowboy knelt. With childish faith, Hazel clambered onto his back. The little girl wrapped her legs around his waist and buried her face in his neck, effectively forcing Moira to follow. They ran another two blocks, her hand clasped in his solid grasp, before he halted.
The cowboy jerked his head toward a closed door. “In there.”
Frightened and weak with hunger, Moira instinctively reacted to the innate authority in his tone. She tore open the door and guided the others inside.
The pungent aroma of animals assailed her senses. Her eyes gradually adjusted to the dim light and she noted Dutch doors lining either side of a cavernous center corridor. The cowboy had led them into the livery.
Horses stamped and snorted at the disturbance. The girls whispered together and Moira quickly shushed them. Their footsteps sounded like a stampede and their raspy, labored breathing chafed her taut nerves. She crept across the hay-strewn floor behind the cowboy, her index finger pressed against her lips for silence.
The cowboy gently lowered Hazel and propped an empty wooden saddle rack before the exit. Walking the aisle, he peered into each stall in turn, pausing before the third. He swung his arm in an arc, motioning them forward.
While the girls scurried inside the empty stall and huddled in the far corner, Moira bent and clutched the stitch in her side. In an effort to calm her rapid breathing, she dragged a deep breath into her tight lungs. The stall wasn’t much of a hiding place, but at least they weren’t out in the open anymore.
The cowboy returned a moment later with an enormous hay bale and tossed it onto the ground. He came back twice more in quick succession. Understanding his intent, Moira yanked on the bale wire, grimacing as it dug into her palms. Each bundle must weigh a hundred pounds, yet the cowboy showed no signs of strain.
He returned again with a stack of burlap feed sacks draped over his arm. “Cover yourselves with these and don’t make a sound. If he searches the building, don’t move, don’t talk, don’t even breathe.”
“Wait,” Moira called in a soft voice. “Why are you doing this?”
He hesitated and she sensed a war raging within him.
During their escape from the brothel, she’d noted his lean, muscular build and caught a glimpse of his square jaw. In the milky light of the stable, she made out the dark hair curling from beneath his hat and the raspy-looking whiskers darkening his jaw. He had an aristocratic face with deep-set eyes, a patrician nose, and lips that qualified as works of art.
He was, without a doubt, the most handsome man she’d ever laid eyes on. If only she had her sketch pad. He’d make a superb subject. Like a hero in a penny awful rescuing the damsel in distress, he had the sort of face that inspired romantic dreams.
Moira mentally shook the wayward thoughts from her head. Dreaming of a happily ever after was like building a house on a shifting sandbar. She’d seen too many people caught by the enticing trap, starting with her own mother. Over the years she’d guarded her heart well, and she wasn’t about to weaken her resolve for a chiseled jaw.
A muscle worked in John’s cheek. “Keep your head down. I may have to cause a distraction. Whatever you hear, stay out of sight unless I tell you to run.”
His voice was rough and uneven and the look in his eyes did nothing to reassure her. Moira had effectively trapped them in a corner.
She swallowed around the lump in her throat. She’d entrusted their lives to a stranger, albeit a handsome stranger. “What’s your name?”
“John. John Elder.”
Oddly comforted by the harmless name, she nodded. At least he hadn’t replied with something like Deadly Dan or Killer Miller.
Searching for an innocuous rejoinder, she blurted, “I’m Moira.”
He lifted the corner of his mouth in a half grin that sent her heart tripping. “Nice to meet you, Miss O’Mara.”
Her cheeks burned beneath his reference to her earlier insistence on his use of her formal name. She might have been a touch rude, but there weren’t exactly rules of etiquette for a brothel escape.
She cleared her throat. “You never answered my question. Why are you helping us?”
He stared into the distance. “Because it suits me for now.”
“What happens when it doesn’t suit you?”
“I guess we’ll find out when that happens.”
Her stomach dipped. For a moment she’d thought he was different. That he was actually helping them out of the kindness of his heart, out of Christian charity. Turned out he was like everyone else. He obviously had an ulterior motive. Maybe they were an amusement, maybe he was bored, maybe he’d flipped an imaginary coin and their predicament had come up tails. His motivation didn’t really matter.
Whatever the reason, he’d cease helping once they ceased serving whatever purpose he’d assigned them. People only cared when they needed something.
With a last appeal for silence, John stepped into the corridor and slid the door closed behind him.
Finally grasping the gravity of the situation, the girls remained unnaturally quiet. Moira flopped into position. Blood thumped rhythmically in her ears. She rubbed her damp hands against her thighs, then tugged her too-short skirts over her ankles. The dress was a castoff from the foster family she and her brother, Tommy, had lived with before Tommy ran away. Mrs. Gifford had recycled the expensive lace at the hem for her own purpose and left Moira with her ankles showing.
The cowboy probably thought... Moira fisted her hands. Why waste her energy worrying about what Mr. Elder thought of her clothing when they were still in peril? She’d heard Fool’s End was dangerous, but every one-horse town she’d passed through had been dangerous.
She should have heeded the warnings this time.
Normally she’d never go out after dark, but she’d waited two hours for Mr. Grey, only to be told that he didn’t know anything about her brother Tommy.
Tears pricked behind her eyes. Another dead end, another disappointment. After four years, she was certain this time she’d finally catch up with him. A maid from the Gifford house who remembered her fondly had discovered the charred bits of a telegram in the fireplace of Mr. Gifford’s study. Piecing together what few words she could read, Moira had made out the names “Mr. Grey” and “Fool’s End.” The sender’s name had been clear as well: Mr. Thomas O’Mara.
A name and a location weren’t much to go on, but it was all she had. Tommy must have forgiven her for the trouble she’d caused if he’d contacted her. She’d stolen Mr. Gifford’s watch, and in her cowardice, she’d let her brother take the blame. He’d run away that same evening and she hadn’t seen him since. There was no doubt in her mind the telegram had been for her. She doubted Mr. Gifford burned his own correspondence.
She’d considered posting a letter to Mr. Grey but then quickly dismissed the thought. Letters were impersonal and mail service unreliable. Instead, she’d set off almost immediately. Yet her arrival today had been too late. Tommy was nowhere to be found.
Mr. Grey had denied knowing anything about Tommy or the telegram, but something in his denial didn’t sit right with her. On her way back to the hotel, not two blocks