Oklahoma Wedding Bells. Carol Finch
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Sol assessed the two women. “Which one? The blonde or brunette?”
“Brunette. I’ve met more agreeable rattlesnakes.” He shook himself loose from his meandering thoughts, then noticed the fine quality of horseflesh Sol had brought with him to town. “Where do you keep gathering such good stock for your cover, Tremain? Last week you arrived with a dozen exceptional mares and geldings to sell, and you left with a pocketful of money.”
“My Cheyenne cousins trained these horses,” he confided. “I make sure they receive top dollar for these animals, which are well adapted to this terrain. I’m making double damn sure the tribe profits from this offensive encroachment on their property.”
Grant nodded somberly. “Another treaty discarded for the sake of white expansion. Sometimes I’m ashamed to be white.” He glanced curiously at Sol. “How many acres did the Cheyenne and Arapaho lose this time?”
“Over six hundred thousand.” Sol scowled resentfully when he thought of how the tribes had been forced to take their land allotments and relinquish the rest of their reservation to the government for settlement. “Not counting their land in Colorado and Kansas the government confiscated years ago.”
“And I’m stuck in the middle of this, just like you are,” Grant mumbled in frustration. “It’s hell trying to protect the tribes and their allotments before the white mob descends to claim the surplus land.”
The captain expelled an agitated breath. “I’m holding more than a dozen Sooners in the stockade because they sneaked in to set up camps along the creeks on the wrong side of the starting line, and refused to leave. With your help, I’ve flushed out nearly a hundred early birds, but I don’t have enough soldiers to patrol the area to keep those blasted Sooners honest.” He snorted and said, “Now there’s a contradiction in terms if I ever heard one.”
“I’ll continue to do what I can to help,” Sol promised. “I carry my special trader’s license to prove I can cross the territory as I please. If I see more illegal squatters, I’ll contact you. I can also question my tribe about the location of other whites illegally encroaching on their land.”
“Good,” Grant said. “I’ll run off as many as I can, and you do the same.”
“If I flash my marshal’s badge it won’t be easy to gain trust and gather evidence of fraud among these would-be settlers,” Sol reminded him. “But I can alert you to their location so you can take a patrol of soldiers to rout the squatters out.”
“I appreciate whatever help you can give, Marsh—I mean Tremain.”
Sol eyed him warningly. “The last thing I need is a careless slip of the tongue alerting folks that I’m in law enforcement.”
When half a dozen men leaning negligently against the supporting posts of the porch outside the Saddle Burr Saloon noticed their conversation, Sol reached into his vest pocket to retrieve his special trader’s license.
“We’re drawing attention,” he told the military commander quietly. “Look over my license thoroughly, then nod your head. I want those men to think you’re checking the authenticity of my credentials.”
Grant took the license and studied it closely. “They look like hired guns to me,” he murmured, his head bent in supposed concentration. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
“That’d be my guess,” Sol agreed. “I want to know what scheme is about to play out, who the gunmen are working for and why they chose this particular area to make the run.”
“We’ll have to confine our future conversations to out-of-the-way sites to avoid suspicion,” Grant said, returning the license with a clipped nod.
Sol tucked away the paper. “We’ll meet tonight at seven o’clock at Shallow Springs, south of the garrison. Find out what you can about those men without contacting them directly.”
Grant inclined his head in an authoritative manner for the benefit of the suspicious-looking group watching. Then he flicked his hand to shoo Sol on his way.
With a mock salute, Sol led his string of horses down the middle of the street—and drew the attention of the other crowd of men, who were fawning over the two women Grant had pointed out earlier.
From the corner of his eye, Sol surveyed the group outside the saloon, while pretending to assess the two women. Until the shapely blonde turned her head toward him, and sunlight gleamed on her thick, curly hair. The lustrous strands seemed a fascinating combination of sunbeams and moonbeams, and when she tilted her face up to him, Sol forgot all about the hired guns outside the saloon. Luminous eyes the color of forget-me-nots locked with his, and the jolt of awareness that sizzled through his body shocked the hell out of him.
According to Grant, this alluring blonde was the more tolerable companion. Holbrook insisted the stunning brunette was the devil’s sister, or at the very least a first cousin. Sol spared the fetching dark-haired woman a cursory glance, then his gaze settled on the blonde again as he halted his string of horses in the middle of the street.
“Anyone interested in prize horseflesh to make the land run?” he called loudly. “Only a half-dozen left today. Get one while you can!”
Four of the fawning admirers hurried over to examine the horses at close range. The other men continued to hover around the women like puppies on the trail of fresh milk—until the objects of their rapt attention pivoted toward Eugene’s Café of Fine Foods. Sol smiled appreciatively as he studied both women’s backsides, encased in formfitting breeches and shirts that accentuated their curvaceous physiques to advantage. As if they didn’t already stand out in a crowd because of their bewitching facial features, he mused.
Sol didn’t consider himself a connoisseur of women, and he had no time for lasting attachments. Still, he could easily understand why men salivated over the brunette and blonde—who looked to be about twenty-three, give or take a year. The brunette, he guessed, was a year or two younger.
“Keep my proposal in mind,” a tall, gangly sod buster called to the women before they disappeared inside the café.
Sol focused on the crowd gathering around him. Within five minutes, he had sold two horses. Then he continued on his way, and by the time he reached the opposite end of town, had made the last of his sales. The closer to the day of the run, the faster he depleted his supply of well-trained horses.
After stopping at the Silver Dollar Saloon to wet his whistle, he decided to return to the property where his cousin Red Hawk lived, so he could replace the horses he’d sold. When Sol reversed direction on the street, he noticed the two women emerging from the café. He decided that if he was in the market for a bride—which he doubted he’d ever be, since his duties left him roaming around as if he had wanderlust—he could flip a coin and be satisfied spending time with either of the attractive females.
Of course, he predicted both ladies were holding out for the best offer, to ensure the best financial security. He’d seen it happen before—and after—the other two land runs. Women were as opportunistic as men were, he reflected cynically. Everyone, good and bad alike, had a hidden agenda.
Damn, Tremain, he mused. You’ve spent too many years associating with murderers, swindlers and thieves. He needed to socialize with a better class of people before his skepticism swallowed him alive.
Unfortunately, he wasn’t well received by new acquaintances after he mentioned his mixed heritage, so he didn’t bring it up often these days. He wondered if the blonde and brunette would consider him poor marriage material if he disclosed his background to them.
Not that he cared what they thought. He had more important things to do besides ogling attractive females wearing trim-fitting clothing that defined the lush shape of their hips and the enticing curves of their legs. He’d be in the area only long enough to complete his assignment, before moving on to the next one in Indian Territory.
His thoughts disintegrated when a fresh batch of