Maverick Wild. Stacey Kayne
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fingers fisted around the reins in his hand as hatred welled up inside him. He and Tuck used to feel cheated, their own mama having died the day they were born. He’d since realized they’d been the lucky ones. The first day he’d met Cora Mae, she’d brought an ache into his chest he’d never felt before.
After returning from the chapel, the old man had been shocked to discover a seven-year-old daughter among his new wife’s possessions. Chance had never seen anything like her, not a single orange ringlet out of place and skin so white it glowed.
Perched on a settee amid stacks of trunks and other parcels in the grand foyer, she’d reminded him of the fancy porcelain dolls on the high shelves at the general store. All frilly and fragile—something he wasn’t allowed to play with. Just like those delicate dolls, Cora Mae’s pink lips didn’t smile or frown, just stayed frozen in place as though painted on. He and Tuck had fixed that.
Despite his stepmother’s efforts to keep her daughter locked away from the world, that ol’ hickory got more use than the staircase during their frequent moonlight rides and walks to the creek. He’d become real partial to Cora Mae’s smiles and wild giggles. If he’d had his way, she’d be riding out with them.
“I know what you’re thinking,” Tucker said from beside him.
“Doesn’t feel right, leaving her here,” Chance admitted.
“Nine years old is too young. And she’s a girl. We’ll be lucky if they don’t chase us off.”
Star tugged at his hold on the reins, anxious for the ride her saddle promised.
“Besides,” said Tucker, “she belongs to Winifred.”
“I don’t belong to anyone,” a soft voice whispered from the shadows. Cora Mae stepped into the moonlight, her orange hair flaring up in the pale light like a wick touched by a flame. Two thick braids draped over a pair of their old denim overalls—her usual sneak-out attire. Her dark eyes went from Tucker, to him, to their horses and back again.
“Where are you going?”
Chance couldn’t seem to find his voice.
“We’re meeting up with our father’s unit,” Tucker informed her.
Her wide gaze locked with his. “Chance?”
He liked how she did that, recognized him from his brother with nothing but a glance. His own father couldn’t tell him from his twin and was never home long enough to have reason to. He was going to miss her something awful. Knowing there’d be no one to check on her after one of her mother’s temper tantrums felt like a kick in the gut.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“I was until now,” she said, her voice escalating. “You can’t leave me!”
“Shhh!” he and Tuck said together.
“Do you want us to get whooped again?” Tucker ground out. “We’re already torn up.”
Cora Mae clamped her lips tight, but that didn’t keep her lower lip from trembling. “You can’t go without me.”
Chance stared in horror as fat tears rolled from her eyes and leaked down her pale cheeks. He’d never seen Cora Mae cry—though she often had reason. He dropped his gaze to his boots, not wanting to see it now.
“Damnation,” Tucker muttered. “I can’t handle no more crying females. You’re the one who’s always yammering on with her through all hours of the night.” He nudged Chance’s arm. “You explain it to her.” He mounted his horse and started toward the woods.
It was just like Tucker to stick him with the hard stuff!
“Chance.” Cora Mae took a step toward him. “Please. Don’t leave me here.”
“If we were going anywhere else, I’d—”
“I’m not afraid to go.”
He knew she wasn’t. When she was away from her mother, Cora Mae had a fearlessness to be marveled at. They hadn’t accepted having a girl along for their late-night adventures without putting her through her paces. Cora Mae didn’t back down from a dare and had tackled every challenge he and Tuck had put before her. She’d turned out to be more fun to have around than a new puppy. But this was different. They were going to war.
“We’re not taking a ride down to the creek, Cora Mae. The soldiers would never let you stay.”
Sniffling, she wiped at her damp cheeks. “What am I to do without you?”
He hated this. What was he supposed to tell her? That it would be all right? He wouldn’t wish her mother on a Yank! He wanted to do more, to be able to protect her. But he couldn’t. Leastways, not yet. “We’ll come for you,” he said at last. “When the fighting’s over.”
Sullen brown eyes held his gaze. She tilted her head, the way she did when she was trying to make up her mind. “Promise?”
“Soon as we can,” he said with a nod.
Tucker whistled softly, and Chance took a step back.
“I got to go.”
“Wait.” She grabbed his sleeve as he lifted his boot to the stirrup. “Take this.” She pulled a ribbon from one of her braids, setting free a mass of orange ripples. Shoving the wide strip of satin through a buttonhole on his shirt pocket, she began working it into a pink bow that would have Tucker laughing clear to the next county.
“Cora Mae, I can’t—”
“So you won’t forget,” she said, the catch in her voice stopping his protest.
Heck, even if she weren’t his stepsister, he couldn’t forget a girl with bright orange hair and the biggest brown eyes he’d ever seen. “That’s not likely.”
She stepped back and drew a jagged breath. Her eyes shimmered with unshed tears he could tell she was trying hard to hold back. “Be careful.”
“You, too.” He swung into the saddle and started toward the thicket of trees before she had him covered in ribbons.
Not about to let Tucker catch him with a pink bow on his chest, Chance tugged the thing from his shirt. He rubbed the silken fabric between his fingers then shoved it deep into his pant pocket. Feeling Cora Mae’s gaze on him as surely as the cold breeze whispering across the back of his neck, he spurred Star into a gallop.
No wonder his father never looked back—he didn’t have to.
As Chance rode into the darkness of the woods, all he could see was the image of Cora Mae standing in moonlight, her somber brown eyes silently pleading for him to take her with him.
Chapter One
Wyoming Territory, 1883
One hand clutching her valise, the other flattened atop her ivory bonnet to prevent the biting wind from snatching it away, Cora Mae Tindale charged through the dusty, pitted road of Slippery Gulch. Horses and wagons clamored through the small strip separating the parallel rows of buildings. She leaped onto the crowded boardwalk. Folks swarmed like bees as the stagecoach driver continued to toss parcels and crates down from the stagecoach that had brought her this far.
Only twenty more miles.
Cora drew her carpetbag of dusty traveling clothes against her aching ribs and forged her way through. Her corset pinched beneath the straining fabric of the yellow gown her mother had starved her into just one agonizing month ago. Lord, what she’d give for a full breath. She hadn’t inherited her mother’s petite build, but the raving woman wouldn’t relent.
There was nothing to be done for it now. This was the nicest dress she’d managed to stuff into her trunk. She couldn’t arrive at the Morgan Ranch appearing a vagabond in need of charity.
Keeping