Nights with the Outlaw. Lauri Robinson
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crop out of its spot behind the saddle. “Just get him between the two of us, then we’ll drive him home.”
As a team, they rousted the hog out of the underbrush, and once it was trapped between the horses, she tapped the pig’s rump with the leather tip of the crop. The hog attempted to jut sideways, but seeing Clint’s horse, quickly changed its mind. “Herding pigs is easy when there are two of you,” she said, “but with just one, it’s like chasing a bumblebee.”
He cracked a slight grin, and the humor sparking in his eyes made her breath catch.
Doreena kept tapping the pig, making it maintain a trot between the horses. She caught Clint looking at her more than once, and the way he’d quickly pull his gaze away had her insides quivering. She remained quiet, pondering the man a bit deeper, while the ride home went by without another mishap.
At the ranch, he dismounted and opened the gate as she guided the pig into its pen. She was swinging out of the saddle when three fast shots rang out. Air swooshed out of her lungs as she suddenly hit the ground covered by the protective weight of Clint’s body. Stunned by his unexpected actions, she fought to breathe as Clint, still on top of her, pointed his pistol in the direction of the shots.
Chapter Two
Doreena’s heart pounded. Not from the gunshots, but from the heat and unusual sensations Clint’s body created in hers. His weight held her flat on her back. Once her lungs caught some air, she took a moment to contemplate the situation and the unique vibrations happening to her insides before saying, “That would be Tristan, my brother.” Catching the attention of those blue-on-blue eyes, she continued, “He wants to be a gunslinger.”
“Oh.” Clint eased off her, glancing around the property. She followed his gaze. Pride and love for what he saw filled her. The house, the barn and sheds, as well as the pens and the land itself proved her father’s cattle business had done considerably well at one time. She’d worked alongside her parents for years building the ranch, and she wasn’t about to walk away from it without a fight. No matter what. Hope leaped inside her. Clint’s split-second reaction to the gunfire said he might be the one person who could help her.
She took hold of the hand he held out, and rose to her feet. “It’s not completely his fault for being as frolicsome as he is. Mama lost four babies before Tristan came along so she tended to spoil him.”
Clint tucked his gun back in its holster. “Being a gunslinger isn’t an easy job. Your brother would be better off tending to the pigs.”
Three more shots rang out. “I know,” she admitted. “I’ve told him that, many times. But he’s stubborn. Won’t listen to a thing I have to say. Besides, that too, is partly my fault. Ever since I mentioned hiring a gunslinger, he’s decided to become one.”
Eyeing her from head to toe, Clint asked, “You two live out here by yourselves?”
“No. I told you I have three hired hands. And Jeb’s married to Sarah. They live in that cabin next to the bunkhouse.” She’d already told him more than she normally would, but for some reason, she couldn’t stop now. “Sarah’s getting up in age, too. Pushing sixty. That’s part of the reason I thought about hiring someone else, a sentry of sorts. I have too many people to keep safe, besides the hogs.”
“You run this place?”
Doreena frowned. Her instincts had said he was different. “Of course I run this place. Didn’t you believe me before? I already told you, I have for years.” A touch of sadness had her gaze going to the grove of trees on the hill to the west. “Even before Pa died. He just wasn’t the same after Mama passed on. I guess I should be thankful he only lived a couple of years without her.”
She knew the moment he recognized the markers on the hill as headstones. His gaze returned to her. “Years? How old are you?” he asked.
“I’m twenty-four. Why? How old are you?”
“Well, I’m twenty-six.”
She could swear his cheeks, beneath a thin layer of whiskers, were tinged pink. Doreena shook her head, trying to get rid of thoughts about just how handsome this stranger was. She didn’t have time for such notions, nor did she have time to waste on someone who thought she—a woman—couldn’t handle running the ranch. “Good for you,” she said, turning for the barn. “I gotta get a ring in that pig’s nose before he digs out again.”
Clint fell in step beside her.
She eyed him warily.
“I’ll help,” he muttered.
She shrugged. “Suit yourself. You ever pierced a pig before?”
“Nope,” he said. “But I’d never been treed by one before, either. This must be my day of firsts.”
The humor and easiness of his voice had her relaxing and smiling again. Maybe her first instincts about him were right. It was impossible to tell with her insides jumping about. “I’ll teach you. It’s not hard, but it’s not pleasant, either.”
The task was done in no time, and Clint proved to be an apt learner. Doreena wiped her hands with the skirt of her work dress and then pointed toward the far side of the bunkhouse. “You can get cleaned up over there. Supper’ll be done in an hour. Once you’ve eaten, I’ll square up with you for helping.”
Clint tipped back his hat while his acute eyes roamed the homestead again. “How long are your hired hands going to be away?”
“A few days. Why?”
He shrugged. “I could hang around until they get back. Make sure that pig doesn’t get out again.”
Her heart nearly somersaulted right out of her chest. She had to roll her shoulders to keep it where it belonged. An unwavering honesty in his eyes said his offer was genuine. “I sure could use the help,” she admitted. “I’ll pay you the going rate, and you’ll have the bunkhouse all to yourself until Joe and Dobbs get back.”
He nodded, and she, feeling almost as happy as she had when the new Chester White had arrived, turned for the house.
Clint couldn’t draw his eyes away as Doreena walked across the worn ground between the big whitewashed house and the hog pen. She was remarkable. The way she wrangled that pig, along with the care she used while piercing its nose, said she had gumption. That alone made him want to help her.
He turned to make his way to the bunkhouse, and reality hit. What was he thinking? Stay around until her hired men got back? He had to find Martin and Henderson, see they got their due and then be on his way to California. To where the streets were lined with gold and women wore scanty dresses. That’s where a man could forget his past and start anew. Everyone knew that, including him. So why’d he have this odd desire to help a woman he found hugging a tree?
After cleaning up, and getting no closer to figuring out why he’d offered to stay, Clint stowed his gear under an empty bed in the one-room bunkhouse, and then made his way around the large home, to where shots continued to echo.
A scrawny kid, with a mop of blond hair had six bottles set up on stumps and was taking aim. All three of his quickly fired shots whizzed several feet over the bottles. An older man, leaning heavily on a cane, said something, but the kid started firing again, so Clint couldn’t hear what it was.
He made his way over to stand next to the older man. Balancing his weight on the cane, the man offered his hand. “Jeb Stockholm.”
“Clint Turnquist.”
“Doreena says you’re gonna hang around a few days and help out.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, without a qualm, which again was odd.
“Thanks. We sure could use the help. I messed up my knee a couple of weeks ago and haven’t been much good for anything lately.”
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