Wyoming Woman. Elizabeth Lane
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traveling suit so well-tailored and immaculate that she looked as if she had just been lifted out of a tissue-lined box before being flung onto the ground.
She was somebody’s rich, spoiled baby, that was for sure. The same kind of rich, spoiled baby who’d cost him four precious years of his life.
Her breasts were small and taut beneath the snug-fitting jacket. Their even rise and fall confirmed that she was breathing. A touch of his fingertip to her warm throat told Luke her pulse was strong and steady. His first impulse was to lift her head and try to get some water down her. But she could have fractured bones or even a broken neck, he cautioned himself. It would be best not to move her until she could tell him what was hurting. He would give her a few minutes to awaken on her own. Meanwhile, he needed to find out what had happened to the driver.
Luke glanced around and saw no sign of another person, nor could he spot any tracks leading away from the wreckage. He scanned the buggy and the area around it, then, rising to his feet, made a hasty search of the surrounding rocks and brush. Unless the driver had been snatched directly into heaven, there was only one conclusion to be made. The damn-fool woman had been driving the buggy herself.
For the space of a long breath, Luke stood gazing at the thick black clouds that were spilling over the Big Horn Mountains to the west. The afternoon breeze smelled of rain—a welcome sign. Here on the open range where sheep and cattle competed for every bite of grass, water was more precious than gold. But mountain storms could also trigger flash floods that sent mud and water boiling down washes just like this one, drowning unwary stock and burying anything that couldn’t be swept away.
As if echoing his thoughts, sheet lightning flashed above the peaks, followed by the rumbling boom of thunder. This wash was no place to be stuck in a storm, especially with an unconscious female on his hands. Injured or not, he needed to get her to safe ground.
He was turning back toward her when something caught his eye—a glittering flash of blue, lodged behind one half-buried front wheel. Drawn by curiosity, he dropped to a crouch and worked the object free. It was a small, beaded reticule, fashioned of the same fabric as the periwinkle-blue traveling suit. Luke glared down at it, where it lay clutched in his big, callused hands. The little piece of frippery had probably cost enough to feed a starving family for a month. And this pampered, pretty creature probably hadn’t given the money a second’s thought.
Only as he was about to toss it away in disgust did it occur to him that he should open the reticule and look inside. He might find something with a name or address on it—a letter, a calling card, even an embroidered handkerchief that might tell him her name or furnish some clue about who to contact, should she need more help than he could give her.
His fingers fumbled with the small, ornate clasp. Frustrated by its intricacy, Luke cursed under his breath. For two cents he would draw his knife and cut the damned thing open like a—
“Hold it right there, sheep man!”
The taut little voice raked Luke’s senses. “Drop the bag, raise your hands and turn around slowly. No tricks, or I’ll blow you to kingdom come!”
Luke’s rifle was on the horse and, in any case, he knew better than to make a rash move before sizing up the situation. Cursing himself for getting into this predicament, he dropped the reticule, raised his hands and slowly turned around.
The woman lay propped on one elbow. Her striking blue-green eyes blazed with raw fury. Her free hand gripped a tiny but evil-looking derringer that was pointed straight at Luke’s chest.
Chapter Two
R achel gripped the miniature one-shot pistol she’d taken from her pocket, willing her fingers not to tremble. Her temples were throbbing, and her left shoulder felt as if it had been kicked by a mule, but there was nothing missing from her memory. The recollection of swerving off the road to miss the sheep, then careening into the wash, was crystal-clear in her mind—as clear as the image of the bastard she’d just caught trying to rob her.
“Are you sure you know how to use that little toy, lady?” He spoke with a hint of southern drawl, his voice as deep and rich as blackstrap molasses.
“You don’t want to find out the hard way.” She glared up at him, feeling small and helpless despite the cold weight of the gun in her hand. The derringer was cocked and loaded, the man close enough to provide an easy target. But something in the lithe, easy way he stood, hands relaxed, dark eyes narrowed like a wolf’s, whispered danger. Fear crept upward into her throat—a fear that she masked with spitting fury.
“Are these your sheep?” she sputtered. She took his silence for a yes. “I could have been killed! Look at this buggy! It’s ruined, and the mule’s run off to heaven knows where! What were those fool animals doing in the road anyway? If I hadn’t swerved, I’d have crashed right into them!”
“The last I heard, there was no law against herding stock across a road,” he replied icily. “Sheep and cattle have the right-of-way in this country. If you were going too fast to make the turn, that’s nobody’s fault but your own. Now put that silly little gun away before somebody gets hurt.”
“So you can finish going through my things? Don’t waste your time. I don’t have enough money in that bag to be worth your trouble.”
His lip curled in a sneer of contempt, and Rachel sensed at once that she had said the wrong thing. The stranger’s fierce pride showed in the erect stance of his lean, muscular body, the set of his aquiline head and the unruly spill of blue-black hair over his brow. His face was more compelling than handsome, with features that could have been hewn from raw granite. His dark, hooded eyes were as sharp and alert as a hawk’s. He was a disturbing man, an unsettling man whose gaze sent an oddly sensual quiver through every nerve in her body. But Rachel’s instincts told her he was too proud to steal, especially from a woman.
All the same, she would be foolish to lower her guard. Gripping the derringer’s tiny stock, she glared up at him. From beyond the rim of the wash, she could hear the brassy jangle of sheep’s bells and the bleating of the ewes and lambs. “You’ve no right to be running sheep in this part of the state,” she said. “This is cattle country.”
A dangerous smile tugged at a corner of his mouth, underscored by the dance of lightning in the dark sky behind him. “This is open range. And only a cattleman’s woman would talk like that.”
Rachel had to raise her voice to be heard above the echoing thunder. “A cattleman’s daughter!” she snapped, throwing discretion to the winds. “My name is Rachel Tolliver. My father owns the biggest cattle ranch in this county. And if you so much as lay a finger on me—”
His laughter interrupted her—cold, bitter laughter that did nothing to settle her edginess. “I’m aware of who your father is, Miss Tolliver. I’ve even heard a few tales about his spoiled, redheaded hellion of a daughter. Believe me, I’d just as soon pick up a live rattlesnake as lay a finger or anything else on you. Now, if you don’t mind putting that gun away, my arms are getting tired.”
Rachel hesitated. She’d grown up hearing that sheep men were worse than bandits. Their wretched, woolly animals fouled the water holes and destroyed good range land by nipping off every blade of grass so short that there was nothing left for the cattle to eat. Sheepherders who worked for wages tended to be Mexicans or Spanish Basques—quaint little men who lived in their hutlike wagons and kept to themselves. But this tall, insolent stranger was clearly not of that stripe.
“What do you plan to do with me, Rachel Tolliver?” he taunted her. “Shoot me? Send me packing? Either way, you’ll be out here alone with a storm coming and your buggy wrecked in a wash. Like it or not, I’m the only help you’ve got. You’ve no choice except to trust me.”
“I’d just as soon trust a coyote as a sheep man!” Rachel retorted, but she was beginning to see that he was right. Like it or not, unless she wanted to walk twenty miles in the rain—
The rest of her thoughts took flight at the sound of a low growl behind her. She glanced back