Nights with the Outlaw. Lauri Robinson
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through?”
“Yep.”
“So, where you from?”
He shrugged.
“Where you headed?”
“Why do you want to know?”
She looked around. A few rolling hills, clusters of trees, and blue sky decorated with thick, floating clouds was about all there was. Her roaming gaze ended on him. “No reason. Just thought as long as we’re stuck here, we might as well converse.”
He sat quiet for several minutes, until boredom and the underlying sense of her disappointment made it impossible to remain silent. “You from around here?” he asked.
“Yes. My ranch is just over those hills. About three or four miles.”
“Your ranch?”
“For now anyway.” Her sigh was weighted. “I inherited it when my parents died, and until my younger brother turns eighteen, it’s mine.” She peered around the tree to make eye contact. “Nebraska doesn’t recognize women’s rights. Susan B. Anthony and Elizabeth Cady Stanton have been in Lincoln advocating on behalf of women. I’ve gone both times. But even with their help, every amendment introduced into legislation has failed.” Her thickly lashed eyes turned back to the landscape. “Of course most of the bills directly relate to a woman’s right to vote. I’m interested in other rights—particularly land ownership.”
A distressed expression covered her face, and Clint had an irrational thought. He wished the tree wasn’t separating them. It was hard to tell what a person was thinking without studying them directly.
“I’ve consulted a lawyer, but without a significant law change, I’ll have to turn the ranch over to Tristan on his birthday in two months.”
Clint didn’t respond. Not only was it none of his business, old habits were hard to overcome. The word lawyer made him twitch. The mention of anything close to a lawman kicked every outlaw’s nerves into a gallop.
“It’s silly really. If Papa had left a will, there wouldn’t be a problem.” She leaned her head against the tree trunk. “Actually, if Sheriff Drake didn’t have it in for me, even that wouldn’t matter.”
First a lawyer, now a sheriff. Clint’s nerve endings buzzed like flies on a windowsill. “How long you think that critter’s gonna sleep?”
Peeking around the tree with a smile that made her eyes sparkle, she answered, “I can’t say for sure, but it’s usually no longer than half an hour or so.”
The invite to tease her couldn’t be ignored. “Usually? You get treed a lot?”
She stifled a giggle by pinching her lips together. “No. But hogs in general don’t sleep that long when napping. I just got him last week. He rutted his way out of the pen the first night, and I’ve been searching for him ever since. Once I get him home, I’ll put a ring in his nose to stop it from happening again.”
Clint didn’t have a response. Besides being endearing, Doreena Buckman had grit.
“He’s my make-it-or-break it. That’s one of the biggest Chester Whites you’ll ever see.”
Sleeping, the pig looked bigger than it had rutting the ground around the tree. “I’d say.”
“Did you know it’s cheaper to ship one pound of live hog than it is three pounds of grain?”
He shook his head.
“Well, it is. And bacon is the mainstay of the Western coffer.” She pointed to the land. “My father ran cattle, but after he died the cattle business went sour for us. So I studied up on hogs.” Her gaze was utterly serious. “My first sow farrowed forty-five pigs in her first three litters. Thirty-nine of them made it to market. Can’t do that with cows.”
The smugness in her voice made him smile. “No ma’am, I guess you can’t.”
Her pert lips puckered. “Last month, I found my best boar dead in his pen. Stabbed.”
His nerve endings pricked again. “Who stabbed it?”
“Don’t know, but I have my suspicions.”
Clint wanted to know more, but held his silence. The hog had stirred, was rolling its round body onto the four legs that didn’t look large enough to hold its weight, and Doreena Buckman had put a finger in front of her lips.
After sniffing the torn-up ground, as well as the air, the pig trotted off as if it knew exactly where it was going. Clint watched, wondering how far away the critter had to be before it would be safe to climb down, but also a touch disappointed their time in the tree was over.
“Well, Mr. Turnquist, thanks for the visit. It made the time go by faster.” Her shrill whistle had Clint tightening his hold on the tree branch.
When the black-and-white paint arrived at the tree, she lowered herself from the branch onto the horse’s back fluidly, as if she did it every day.
Clint looked at Runner. The horse tossed his head.
“Here, climb on.” She held her hand up.
His ears burned at having a woman help him off the branch, but after considering his options, Clint took her hand, and used her horse’s rump as a staircase to the ground.
“You need help catching your horse?” she asked.
I better not. Clint glared at Runner as he grabbed his hat. “No, but thanks.” He kicked at the dirt, uncovering his six-shooter.
“You looking for a job?”
A shiver had Clint pausing to look at her as he bent to pick up his gun.
Doreena felt the blush all the way to her toes. The tenderness in his blue eyes had her insides acting all silly. She stiffened her spine, drawing up a touch of confidence. “I could use some help catching the hog.”
His gaze went back to the gun as he cracked it open.
“I have three hired men,” she explained. “But two of them left this morning to drive a hundred head of hogs to the rail station in Lincoln, and Jeb’s too old to chase down a feral pig.”
He wiped the gun with his bandanna.
She took his silence as an answer. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. I normally don’t blurt out my problems to complete strangers. It’s just been one of those days.” With a nod of her head, she kneed Scout. An odd bout of melancholy had her twisting around in the saddle. “Have a good life, Mr. Turnquist.”
He gave an offhanded nod, and she turned to follow the pig. Minutes later, the sound of hoofbeats following behind her made a smile tug at her lips and had her heart thudding in her chest. Why she’d asked for the man’s help was a confusing jumble in her mind, as was why she’d told him about the ranch. Clint Turnquist was a handsome man, with those kind blue eyes and sandy-shaded hair, but she’d never been fooled by a man’s looks. After all, who truly knew what the devil looked like?
The buckskin sidled up next to Scout. “We’ll help catch your pig.”
“I’m obliged,” she responded, hoping her tone disguised the excitement buzzing inside her. “Where’d you say you’re from?”
“I didn’t.”
And you aren’t going to, she reckoned. It didn’t matter, not out here. Drifters often roamed through her acreage on their way to parts unknown. Usually, she’d offer a meal before sending them on their way. Once in a while she’d offered one a chance to earn enough provisions to see him to his next stop. Her instincts were good, and she trusted them. Clint Turnquist was no different than a dozen others she’d encountered.
Liar, her mind refuted.
Doreena couldn’t protest, and that muddled her usual straightforward logic. The anticipation running in her veins